work there or maybe own the place.”
“ No, wish I was an owner. I just go there sometimes. So, yeah, you did see me inside. I know I saw you.”
She looked over his dark van, a look of uncertainty coloring her features. She was pretty, he thought, in a Southern suburban prissy girl way.
“ Come on. I've got the ride and the time and something to help with your pain.”
“ No way. You sound dangerous. Besides, you're too old for me.” “Whoa, that hurt. But maybe a little experience and danger… maybe that's what you need about now. Forget that loser. I promise, I'll be nothing but a gentleman-until you get to know me, of course.”
She hesitated, trying to ponder exactly what that implied. “A gentleman until I get to know you, hmmm… Well, it is a long way, and my folks'd kill me if they knew I was out here alone. I thought that jerk was going to come crawling, but that didn't happen.”
“ Where do you live?”
“ The Heights.”
“ Coincidence, so do I. Come on. I won't bite.”
“ You don't sound like you're from around here, and my mother always says never to talk to strangers.”
“ Your mother's right, and so are you. No, I'm from up North. Just moved here to get work.”
“ Where abouts up North?”
“ New Jersey.”
“ What's your name?”
“ Phillip”-he was not lying-”what's yours?”
“ Not sure I should tell you,” she teased. “Listen, Phillip, you got any weed or anything that might cheer a girl up?”
He nodded and smiled. “You're not one of those undercover narcs now are you, baby?”
She laughed at this.
“ Sure thing,” he assured her. “Plenty enough for both of us. Plenty.”
She didn't answer, her mind contemplating him and his offer. She hesitated but placed a hand on the door handle and then cranked it down, opening the door and cursorily checking the cab from the door to be certain everything was normal. She glanced into the dark void of the empty rear. She could not make out anything there but a toolbox and some discarded boxes. “No backseats?” she asked.
“ I have to keep the back for my work, you know-supplies and stuff,” he said.
“ Supplies of what?”
“ Just stuff I have to cart around.” He gave a thought to the concealed. 38 below his seat and the sh@egon in the rear. These were for emergency use only.
“ What, like tools? You a mechanic, a carpenter, an electrician, what?”
“ Yeah, an electrician,” he lied.
“ You work with your hands, then.” She gave him a coy smile and he returned it.
“ What's your name?” he asked again.
“ Winona.”
Mimicking her Georgia accent, he replied, “That's a right pretty name, Wiii-no-naaa.”
“ Why thank you, Mr. Phillips.” Calling him “mister” reinforced her earlier remark that she found him too old for her liking, but she was interested in getting high.
She got into the van, inspected the door for anything strange, making certain she could open it before she closed it. “With all the weird shit going around in the world today, you can't be too careful.” She relaxed, accepting the ride by getting into the front seat and instantly putting out a hand, asking, “So… what've you got to smoke or pop?”
“ Sure… sure…” He fumbled with a joint, lit it, and dropped it into her lap. While she fought to retrieve the burning thing, her high-pitched voice telegraphing her distress, he suddenly plunged a needle into her forearm, saying, “Meet Mr. Demoral, Winona.”
At the same instant, her boyfriend's car raced by again, the burning rubber indicating his anger. He'd gone around the block and watched to see how easy a pick up she'd be. At the same instant her boyfriend sped by, Winona raised the mace she'd been clutching to Phillip's eyes, burning him only a little before he tore it away.
He pulled the door closed and drove off. At a safe distance away from the club as the Demoral began to work its magic, he stopped the van and dragged her back into the rear, handcuffing her into position.
She pleaded with him not to rape her. He promised that he would not do anything of the kind. “I told you I was a gentleman, a gentleman. I'm only interested in your mind, Winona.”
He'd remained true to his word as the saw now bit into her scalp. He liked to start at the top and work his way to each side at the ears, run to the base of each ear and then return to the midpoint between the eyes at the eyebrow line. Dr. Grant knew it was the neatest, most efficient way to handle the job with the least amount of bone shrapnel and blood. He didn't particularly care to have blood everywhere.
Jacksonville, Florida 4:25 A.M., same night
The helicopter descended over the gleaming Jacksonville cityscape, its surrounding waters reflecting the buildings, many lit with colorful pink and pale purple lights, turning the skyline into a 'Wizard of Oz setting. The pilot pointed at the police strobe lights below and said that he would put the chopper down as close to the scene as possible. That meant landing atop a small, weedy little plateau of pitted earth along the riverbank, a dusty sandlot for parking near the Venetia Warf. The dirt-and-sand parking lot looked at odds with the surrounding sheen of concrete high-rises, huge bridges and blacktop everywhere else.
While the new sun played hide-and-seek with the morning clouds, the pilot brought them down. Once the skids had settled and the chopper sat firm, Jessica took her medical bag and rushed out, crouching below the blades. J.T. followed. They then waved off the pilot and made their way to the waiting party of two uniformed people and one man in a gray suit.
“ Dr. Coran, so glad you could come.” Lorena Combs shook Jessica's hand. “I'm Sheriff Lorena Combs, Duval County.” Combs had a gazelle like grace about her, and a firm grip as she next shook J.T.'s outstretched hand. She then introduced the Quantico team to George Sheay, the heavyset chief of police in Jacksonville. The FBI's agent in charge, Henry Cutter, a tall man with a misshapen nose, stepped forward and introduced himself as well, telling them, “You can count on our full involvement and all the help we can offer, Dr. Coran, Dr. Thorpe. Sorry to take you away from home and family.”
J.T. was a bachelor, and Jessica shrugged Cutter's remark off, even as she gave thought to Richard Sharpe, who'd called from Korea during a stopover on his way to consult on the Beijing extradition case. “Where's the corpse?” Jessica asked.
Combs indicated the way and escorted Jessica to where the body still lay on the boat. With the onset of morning, traffic on the bridge nearby had increased and motorists were hearing about the victim over radio waves as they passed the wharves. The helicopter landing had also alerted people that something odd was going on at the wharf. A nearby sightseeing tour group chugged off on a river excursion, passengers pointing to the activity at the death boat. Jessica saw that they were surrounded by small businesses catering to weekend fishermen and tourists, but that the body was on a boat along one of the wharves filled with expensive yachts. Amid the yachts squatted the rusty old shrimping vessel. On the other side of a chain-link fence, a second wharf was lined with professional fishing boats and shrimp boats. “Community of yachtsmen are pissed off because the shrimp boat dared to dock in their little territory,” Combs mentioned.
While equipped with motors for maneuverability and chase, some of the relatively small shrimp boats also maintained backup sails. Though most of the rigging, Jessica realized as she approached, was actually nets strung about the boats-in serious need of disentanglement. Most of the shrimpers had already set out for an area where they could go from the St. John's River to the ocean. Those remaining were chugging and sputtering badly while at idle; some were under repair, while the one in question, squatted among a bevy of beautiful yachts, dead silent. This boat was littered with almost as much yellow police caution tape as rigging and netting.
An elderly, thin-faced man used a sea cap in his hand to punctuate his shouting at stationary police guards on the dock beside his boat. “What in God's creation is taking so long? I shoulda just threw the body back into the St. John's when it come up!”
