Peter looked down at his hunting clothes that he’d worn since he left Virginia. “Wait! You’ve got it all wrong.”
“Shut up!” a real soldier ordered as he shoved the barrel of his M16 in Peter’s face. “Flat on the ground. Facedown. Now!”
Another guardsman approached and pointed his rifle toward Jimmy’s chest. The guys slowly turned around. Apparently, it wasn’t quick enough for the angry guardsmen. Both men used the butt end of their rifles to drive Peter and Jimmy onto the pavement.
“You can’t do this!” shouted Jimmy. The guardsmen kicked both of their legs until they were spread apart.
“Frisk them!” shouted a voice from the darkness. A hulking figure emerged from a small crowd that had gathered to watch the National Guard members manhandle Peter and Jimmy.
“Hey! Take it easy!” shouted Peter. He began to wrestle with the two guardsmen who were shaking him down.
“Sarge, he’s got a weapon!”
“Cuff him!” shouted the sergeant. “The other guy, too. Take them back to the base.”
“You can’t arrest us!” shouted Peter before adding, “We didn’t do anything!”
“That’ll be for a military tribunal to decide, pal,” the sergeant hissed as Jimmy and Peter were pulled onto their feet.
“What are you charging us with?” Jimmy asked.
The sergeant responded by firing back with one nebulous charge after another. “Insurrection. Treason. Sedition. Destruction of public property. Violations of the president’s martial law order. That’s just for starters, asshole!”
“You can go—” Jimmy began before Peter cut him off. He knew his friend was rarely one to use curse words, but in the right moment, Jimmy was certainly capable. It would just make matters worse.
“Okay! Fine!” Peter shouted to drown out Jimmy’s voice. “We want lawyers.”
The sergeant and his fellow guardsmen laughed uproariously. “Sure. Due process, too. Right? How about a trial by jury? Maybe three hot meals and a cushy bunk?” This drew more laughter from the guardsmen. After it died down, the sergeant moved close to the guys until his face was mere inches from theirs. He leaned in and allowed his onion breath to accentuate his words.
“You ain’t got nothin’ comin’. You hear me. In fact, you’re lucky we don’t throw your handcuffed asses in the creek.” He paused and then grinned. “Take ’em to the holding cell. Wait’ll these two see what’s in store for them.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Wednesday, November 6
Driftwood Key
With Mike wrapped in blankets to prevent him from going into shock, Jessica quickly prepared him for transport. She didn’t have a long spine board on her WET team boat, so she borrowed one of Jimmy surfboards to create a stretcher for Mike. She strapped him down with ratchet tie straps and, with Hank’s assistance, loaded him up for the fifty-minute ride.
They’d briefly debated taking him by truck to the only hospital in the lower keys capable of treating him. It was located in Key West approximately forty miles away. Jessica told Hank about the clogged roads full of stalled vehicles and wanderers, as she called them. Wanderers were locals and stranded tourists alike who aimlessly walked the highway in search of food, assistance, or something to steal.
Mike was stable now that his chest wound had been sealed and his other injuries had been properly treated. He was still unconscious, but Jessica wasn’t concerned with that. As a medical professional, while a state of unconsciousness might concern some, she understood it was the body’s way of forcing itself to rest.
Opting to travel by water, the guys got Mike settled on board her boat while she looked in on Phoebe. She checked her wounds and rebandaged them. Phoebe assured her that she’d be fine, so Jessica stopped insisting she ride with them to the hospital.
The Lower Keys Medical Center was located on Stock Island just before the Overseas Highway enters Key West. Jess traveled in the dark, relying upon her instruments and familiarity with the island chain’s coastal waters. She slowed her boat as she entered the shallow waters between Raccoon Key and Stock Island.
The suburban hospital was sandwiched between the College of the Florida Keys and the Key West Golf Club. Once they were tied off, she radioed the emergency room, and they dispatched an ambulance to meet her at the boat dock adjacent to the college’s power plant. After a two-minute ride, Mike was in the emergency room, being attended to by doctors and their medical team.
It was morning when the doctor emerged from Mike’s room to discuss his condition with Jessica and Hank.
“Jessica, before I tell you about Mike, I want to commend your work,” began Dr. Andrea Alvarez. She wrapped her stethoscope around her neck and gladly accepted a bottle of water from one of the ER support staff. “You and I both know there are a lot of wannabe pirates around here who love to get into bar fights. Occasionally, as you know, they get stuck. They don’t always make it. What you did to save your husband’s life was remarkable.”
“The words save his life are all I needed to hear,” said Jessica, whose face beamed, not from the compliment given by Dr. Alvarez but from hearing those three simple words.
“Yes, Detective Mike Albright is a tough old bird, and he’s stubborn, too. I threatened him with a healthy dose of propofol if he didn’t stay put. The damned fool tried to get out of bed and nearly pulled out his IV line as well as everything else he’s hooked up to.” Propofol was a commonly used, short-acting medication that induces sleepiness and relaxation in patients.
“I use a baseball bat to knock him out,” said Jessica. “It’s easier and works like a charm.”
The women laughed, but Hank still stared toward Mike’s room with a concerned look on his face. “Can we see him?” he asked.
Dr. Alvarez replied, “Yes, although Mike will be out for a while. I’m pretty sure he’ll be excited to see the two of you.”
“Thanks, Doc,” mumbled Hank, whose worried look was apparent. Jessica wrapped her arms around her brother-in-law and hugged him as Dr. Alvarez walked away.
“He’ll be fine, Hank. It’ll take a whole lot more than a beatdown to take my husband.”
Hank grimaced and forced a smile. “I know. You’re right. Mr. Indestructible. Or so he thinks.”
Jessica led him down the corridor toward the ER recovery rooms. She slowly pulled the curtain back so as not to disturb Mike’s sleep. The two of them settled into chairs in the corner of the room and spoke in hushed tones.
“This whole thing sucks,” began Hank. “My kids are out there somewhere. My brother got attacked by this maniac I let into our home. I knew better, as did Mike and Sonny. The only difference was I don’t know how to say no.”
“We can’t take in every stray dog,” added Jessica, not intending to pile on but simply as a reminder they were living through unusual times.
“I don’t understand, Jess. I’ve known Patrick for years. Not well, but casually as in a fellow islander kind of way. He’s a banker, for Pete’s sake.”
“He had a screw loose, obviously,” she added. Jessica sat back in her chair and crossed her legs. She squeezed Hank’s shoulder to signal to him he should not carry the burden of what had happened. He continued to anyway.
“He could’ve killed Phoebe and Mike. What the hell was he thinking? Kill us all and cozy up in one of the rooms?”
Jessica shrugged. “That’s possible. Hank, there’s a lot of weird shit going on around here. People are desperate, and they seem to have lost their moral compass, if they even had one to begin with. You know how it is in the Keys. We’ve got an awful lot of people here who ran away from one thing or another. Petty thieves. Wife beaters. Drug addicts. Homeless. Our little paradise is prime feeding ground for criminals who can prey upon drunk tourists or people wanting to live the Margaritaville dream.”