The first time Delroy had sat up with the dead with his father a few years later, he’d been frightened out of his mind, thinking the corpse of his great-uncle Darmon would sit up at any moment, maybe even come crawling out of the casket like a mummy in one of those old monster movies. His father had noticed Delroy’s discomfort at once.
Reluctantly, Delroy had explained his fears. Quietly and patiently, as was his way except when frightening nonbelievers with visions of hell and eternal damnation in that roaring lion’s voice of his, Josiah Harte had explained how in the old days the unprepared body would sit up. He had described in detail how the reaction was caused by rigor mortis setting in and tightening muscles due to the dead body’s inability to process sugar. Sometimes, his father had said, trapped air was even expelled from the corpse’s lungs, but the person was not actually alive, as uneducated and superstitious people thought.
Even though his father had been kind and understanding and informative, and even though Delroy was nearly fifty years older, he suddenly felt like that small eight-year-old boy sitting in near dark with only candles for light. He forced himself to breathe again.
Using his remote control, he muted the television and pushed up from the chair. His heart beat frantically as he made himself approach the much flatter body bag. Hand shaking, he pressed his palm against the body bag.
The bag sank beneath Delroy’s hand, giving way immediately and not stopping till his palm reached the table.
“No.” He didn’t even recognize his own voice at first.
Quickly, struggling with all the emotions that were suddenly cascading within him, Delroy slid his hand down the length of the body bag. It was empty. At least, it was empty of a corpse. However, there was something inside the bag.
Before he could stop himself, Delroy reached for the zipper and tugged it down, freeing the zipper’s teeth so the bag could fall open.
Empty. The realization filled the chaplain with a mind-numbing cold that the refrigerated room couldn’t even begin to compete with.
With the bag open, Delroy saw the clothing lying inside. The lump he’d felt had been Dwight’s favorite shoes, a pair of Birkenstocks that his wife had given him a few Christmases ago.
Stunned, his mind reeling and snatching at possible reasons for this unbelievable turn of events, Delroy left the empty body bag and crossed the room. He pulled the door open and stepped into the main hallway of the medical department.
Cary Boone, in his mid-thirties and one of the ship’s best surgeons, stood in the hallway with a puzzled look on his face and a PDA in his hand. Tall and powerful with short dark hair, and right now a heavy five o’clock shadow, Boone was one of the regulars in Delroy’s pickup basketball group when Wasp was in her homeport.
“Chaplain Harte,” Boone greeted him distractedly.
“Dr. Boone,” Delroy replied. Navy doctors were called “doctor” until they reached the rank of commander. “Do you know if anyone moved Chief Mellencamp’s body?”
Boone looked irritated. “Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know. But Dwight—” Delroy halted himself. “The chief’s body is missing.”
“I thought you were in there with him.” Boone covered ground rapidly, opening hatches along the hallway and peering inside.
“I thought I was, too, but just now, when I checked the bag, the chief’s body was missing.”
“I’ll ask around.” Boone tried another door. “Have you seen Nurse Taylor?”
Jenna Taylor was a favorite among the crew and the doctors. She was a vivacious young redhead from Ohio and one of the most levelheaded, kind, and considerate people that Delroy knew.
“No,” Delroy answered.
“I swear that she was right here,” Boone said distractedly. “I was going over these files with her, in preparation for the wounded we expect to take on from the border skirmish, and Jenna was talking to me from one of these rooms. She stepped in here to get something.”
“She’s been working this morning?” Delroy asked.
“Yes.”
“Then maybe she’ll know where the chief’s body is.” Despite the calm, rational exterior he held carefully in place, Delroy felt frantic. No one would take Dwight’s body. There was no reason. But the body had disappeared and he had no explanation for that. He joined Boone in his search, both of them calling out Jenna’s name.
A pile of scrubs lay inside the second room Delroy checked. He froze, not believing what he was seeing. “Cary.” His voice was a harsh desert croak that barely freed itself from his lips.
“What?”
“Come look at this. Tell me I’m not going crazy.” Slowly, Delroy squatted, hearing his knees pop and crack, because basketball hadn’t been the kindest of sports to his body.
Boone joined Delroy in the open hatch. “What?” the navy doctor asked.
Delroy pointed at the blue scrubs lying on the floor inside the supply room. Right on top was a name badge with Jenna Taylor’s name and rank on it.
“She left her clothes here?” Boone asked.
“The chief’s clothes were still inside the body bag,” Delroy said in a low voice.
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“No,” Delroy admitted. “It doesn’t.”
Running feet slapped against the steel floor. A young midshipman in scrubs rounded the corner at the end of the hallway. “Dr. Boone,” he gasped.
“What is it?” Boone replied.
For an insane moment, Delroy thought the young man was going to say that the chief’s body had been found, or that Jenna Taylor—as impossible as it sounded—had been caught streaking through the medical department or had even made it out onto the flight deck.
Stress did strange things to people, and the coming hours and probably days of dealing with wounded troops and the battle that raged along the Turkish-Syrian border promised plenty of wear and tear on the nerves.
“They’ve
