in a soft cast that made it look like he was wearing an oven mitt.
In the last two days Liz had napped for only a few hours at a time, rotating in barracks set up for them at NAS. The hurricane had lost some of its steam, winds dropping to 135 miles per hour as it made landfall. Its path had slipped to the east, sparing Pensacola the brunt of the storm. By the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Wind Scale, a cat 4 meant 'devastating damage' but not 'catastrophic damage' like a cat 5.
Liz and her aircrew had rescued dozens of people from their flooded homes. Some still refused to leave, insisting they needed to stay and protect what belongings remained from looters. One man argued with Liz, refusing to leave his roof unless she allowed him to take four suitcases he had stuffed with valuables. By the end of the first day, Wilson no longer complained about sharing cabin space with an assortment of cats and dogs that accompanied their injured owners. And after having a madman almost shoot her, everything else seemed tame. But she'd bagged too many hours and now she was grounded.
Liz got up, pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. She glanced out the window, looking down over the street. Electrical wires still dangled from branches. Debris piles lined one side of the cul-de-sac where neighbors continued to drag and toss pieces of huge live oak trees, several of them uprooted. And in the middle of the street was the Coney Island Canteen. Lawn chairs were gathered around the mobile unit while her dad and Trish cooked dinner for their neighbors. He'd mentioned to Liz earlier that they were grilling steaks, burgers, hot dogs--even lamb chops-- salvaging what they could from everyone's freezers. County officials were estimating the power being out for at least a week.
Liz could see him wiping the sweat from his forehead as he stood over the grill. She still couldn't shake that image of him holding his bloodied hand, the front of his jumpsuit soaked with blood. His face so pale. He'd spent the hurricane in the hospital, calling Trish to pick him up as soon as the main roads were cleared. From what Liz understood, Trish hadn't left his side.
Trish had refused to talk about Scott. All Liz knew was that he had spent the hurricane locked inside the funeral home's walk-in refrigerator. Liz had heard that Joe Black had left several corpses with Scott, and now he and the funeral home were under investigation.
As soon as Liz left her bedroom, the warm air hit her. She was damp with sweat by the time she joined her dad in the street.
'You didn't sleep very long, darling.'
'I'm hungry.'
'Well, sit yourself down. You came to the right place.'
The aroma of grilled meat and the spices her dad used overpowered the gasoline fumes from generators and chain saws. The sun was almost down. It would be pitch-dark in a couple of hours. Several neighbors were bringing out lanterns and setting them up for their evening meal in the street. The one advantage after a hurricane was that there were no mosquitoes, no bugs of any kind. But also no birds.
'Liz, you're just in time,' Trish said. 'Why don't you set up some plates and cups.'
'She needs to rest,' her dad said, surprising both of his daughters. Usually he let Trish boss Liz around. It was easier than getting in the middle. 'Ask Wendy to help.'
Trish stared at him for a minute before finally taking his advice.
'Have you heard anything from your FBI friend?' her dad asked.
'Just for a few minutes this morning when I was still at NAS. Otherwise, cell-phone towers are down.'
'She's one brave girl.' He pulled an ice-cold bottle of beer from the cooler at his feet and handed it to Liz. 'And so are you.'
CHAPTER 67
JACKSONVILLE, FLORIDA
Maggie stopped her rental car at the security booth. She handed over her badge and waited while the guard picked up the phone. She lifted her arm to adjust the rearview mirror and a pain shot through her elbow. Actually her entire body hurt. Who knew jumping from a helicopter could be so physically strenuous?
The guard passed back her badge.
'First building to your right. The others are waiting.'
Maggie had gotten up early to catch footage of the storm damage. Charlie Wurth had told her earlier that Pensacola was lucky. At the last minute the storm had suddenly weakened and veered to the right. It made landfall as a category 4, but that was better than they expected. Watching the news reports, Maggie certainly didn't think Pensacola was lucky. The storm had still ripped apart roofs, blown out windows, and flooded homes. Electricity was out for more than a hundred thousand customers and not expected to be up and running for at least a week.
She had talked to Liz Bailey earlier, too, relieved to hear that Walter and Charlotte were okay. She was especially glad to hear that Walter would retain full use of his left hand, but it would take months of rehab. And despite sounding totally exhausted, Liz seemed to be handling the aftermath of the storm.
A military cargo plane flew low over Maggie's car, preparing to land. As she parked in front of the building she could feel the vibration. She eased out of the car and was grateful there was only a set of five steps. Ridiculous. She thought she was in good shape. She didn't like being reminded of dangling from that cable. Without effort she could conjure up the terror. She could hear the wind swirling around her and feel the rain pelting her face.
She needed some sleep, that's all. Last night she had dreamed of severed hands coming up out of the water and clinging to her. Okay, she needed dreamless sleep. Maybe another of Platt's massages. That brought a smile.
Inside the door, she had to show her badge again. A small woman in uniform led her down a hallway and into a conference room. Benjamin Platt was in uniform. She didn't recognize the other two men.
Platt did the introductions.
'Agent Maggie O'Dell, this is Captain Carl Ganz and Dr. Samuel McCleary.'
Dr. McCleary decided to open defensively. 'Joseph Norris has been a respected part of this program for almost ten years.'
Maggie could see Platt bristle.
'Then you understand, Dr. McCleary,' she began, 'that means you may have contaminated tissue and bone from as long ago as ten years.'
'All of our tissue is tested.'
'But only for certain diseases,' Platt said.
'No one could have predicted what happened at NAS in Pensacola,' McCleary insisted, shaking his head. 'That was one mistake. One out of thousands. And we've traced the grafts and bone paste Captain Ganz used. We think it all came from one donor.' He pointed to a document already set among a pile on the table. 'One donor who may have been dead longer than twelve hours.'
'Actually, it was more like twenty-one hours,' Platt said.
'We don't know that for certain.'
'He was dead long enough for his bowels to burst and Clostridium sordellii to start spreading to his tissue.'
'You have no proof of that,' McCleary said.
'What about the donors Joe Black obtained without certification?' Maggie asked.
'Joseph Norris,' McCleary corrected her, 'followed procedure as far as I am able to judge.'
'There's a funeral home in Pensacola,' Maggie told him, 'that has two bodies. The Escambia County sheriff says both are homeless men who disappeared just days before the hurricane. The funeral director insists Joe Black brought them there and cut one of them up to be sold and used for educational conferences.'
This time McCleary was speechless.
'Joe Black was making a nice living on the side,' she continued. 'Diener by day, body broker during the weekends and on his days off. He admits to using soldiers' amputated parts when he came up short on an order. He already confessed that he used a few of your donors' bodies. The surgical conferences paid big bucks and he couldn't keep up with the demand.'
'You'll need to check our entire supply,' Ganz said to McCleary. 'Norris also admits to making substitutions,
