Liz sighed, ran fingers through her hair as she checked the time on her dashboard. It was almost midnight.
'It's just that I usually don't ring my guests' rooms after ten o'clock,' he said when she took too long to answer. 'I can send you to voice mail and the red light will come on her phone.'
'That's fine.'
While she waited for the connection, she tried to formulate what to say. Was she simply being paranoid? Overly observant? Obsessive?
At the beep she gave her name and cell-phone number, then simply said she had some information. Lame, she knew, but safe. And maybe in the morning when the outer bands of Hurricane Isaac started battering the area, Liz would think the identical fishing cooler was nothing but a mere coincidence.
There were only a few cars left in the lot and as Liz pulled onto Pensacola Beach Boulevard she recognized the faded red Impala. She had promised her dad she'd check on the surfer kid, Danny. She'd talk to him tomorrow. It was late. No sense in tapping on his car window tonight and scaring the poor kid to death.
TUESDAY, AUGUST 25
CHAPTER 46
The pounding came from someplace other than inside Platt's head. Of that he was certain, though the back of his head throbbed. He opened his eyes and took a few seconds to remember where he was.
Hotel room. The Hilton. Too many free mai tais. Rum gave him a killer headache every time.
He pushed himself off the sofa and that's when he remembered Maggie. The thought spun him around to look back at the bedroom. Awake, he realized the pounding came from the front door of the suite, not the bedroom.
Platt grabbed his shirt from a nearby chair but didn't bother with his shoes. It was probably just hotel staff. He noticed the telephone's flashing red button. He didn't remember the phone ringing but he could have missed it.
By the time he opened the door he had his shirt on but not buttoned. The black man in a green polo shirt looked puzzled.
'Yes?' Platt asked.
The man stared at him, backed up and checked the number beside the doorframe, then looked over Platt's shoulder to get a glimpse inside. Not much success. He was shorter than Platt.
'I'm looking for Maggie O'Dell.'
'Are you from the hotel?'
'Ah, no. Homeland Security.'
'Door-to-door check?'
'Excuse me?'
'Do we need to leave?'
'Is Maggie here?'
'Charlie?' Maggie called from behind Platt.
With a glance over his shoulder, Platt saw her come out of the bathroom. Her hair was wet and she wore one of the hotel's white robes. The fresh scent of soap wafted through the entry and as distracting as it was, Platt couldn't take his eyes off Charlie, whose eyes had widened. His jaw hung open. It was classic.
'I'm sorry,' Platt said. 'You're Charlie Wurth. When you said Homeland Security, I thought you were here to tell us that we had to leave. I'm Benjamin Platt.'
He held his hand out and waited while Wurth processed the information, still trying to figure out what he was seeing. Platt spotted the paper bag in Wurth's right hand. He could smell the pastry as Wurth moved it to his left hand in order to shake.
'Come on in, Charlie. Keep Ben company while I put on some clothes,' Maggie told him. 'I overslept.' Then to Platt and with a smile, she said, 'I actually slept.'
'I'll bet,' Platt heard Wurth say, but under his breath.
Maggie was already headed through the bedroom door and Platt swore he saw a bit of a skip in her step.
CHAPTER 47
The sky looked as dark and murky as Scott felt. He'd taken a long shower because for some reason he could smell decomposing flesh almost as if the scent had been smeared on his skin. He put on crisply pressed trousers and shirt. No tie today. He ate breakfast with Trish. She'd prepared blueberry pancakes and sausage. She was in a good mood. Go figure.
As soon as he got in his Lexus he could smell it again. There was no mistaking the scent of decomposing flesh.
At the first intersection he pulled to the side of the road, got out, and started searching the vehicle. A splash of gasoline and a smudge of oil dirtied the plastic he'd laid in back before transporting the generator, but there was nothing else. He kept his vehicles as spotless as the funeral home.
He tried to ignore the smell. Get his mind off it. He turned up the local radio station.
'Isaac's coming, folks. The Weather Channel's Jim Cantore was reporting from our own Pensacola Beach this morning. The eye of the storm is about a hundred miles away. Winds at 160 miles per hour. That's a cat 5, and this thing is in warm open water with nothing to slow it down. In fact, it's picked up speed and is moving at fourteen miles per hour instead of ten. That means it'll be sooner than later. We'll be seeing the outer bands about noon and this monster will be making landfall sometime tonight.
'City commissioners for Escambia and Santa Rosa counties have declared a state of emergency and shelters across both counties will start opening this morning. I'll be giving you their locations in just a minute. Folks, we're getting a big piece of this storm, and it's looking more and more like we'll be in the northeast quadrant. That means it'll be bad. Really bad.'
Scott shut it off. Hell, at least he'd be ready. He was exhausted but he was back in control.
Earlier he'd received yet another phone call from Uncle Mel's family. Now they wanted to wait until after the storm.
'Is that okay? Will he be okay?' they had asked, but Scott could tell Uncle Mel was no longer their priority. There was a storm to survive. Funny, he thought, how the dead are forgotten when the business of living distracts us.
At least they weren't forgotten by Joe Black. Again, there were no signs of a vehicle but Scott could tell from the alarm system that Joe was still inside. Where the hell did he park? There was an apartment parking lot on the other side of the trees, but he'd have to walk through the brush and tall grass that separated the two properties. And when did he start dumping his coolers in Scott's shed? Liz seemed just a little too interested. Is that where he had first started smelling decomposing flesh? Had Liz smelled it last night?
Scott walked through the back door and the scent was even stronger. He caught himself cringing. What had Joe left for him today?
'Hey, buddy.' Joe came down the hall from the walk-in refrigerator.
Scott noticed empty hands and no splatters. He restrained a sigh of relief. Instead he glanced into the embalming room. Clean. So what was he smelling?
'I probably won't see you until after the storm,' Joe told him, slinging a backpack over his shoulder.
'Making a run for it?'
Joe laughed. 'You might say that. I have one more pickup and then I want to get my boat out of harm's way.'
