Hank spoke over his shoulder to Jimmy, Sonny’s son.
“Let your mom know what’s going on. Tell her to get her first aid supplies and meet us at bungalow three. Then get back to the gate and keep an eye out.”
Jimmy turned and began running toward the trail, the beam of his flashlight dancing wildly among the palm trees. He stumbled momentarily and then regained his footing as he hustled into the canopy of palm fronds.
Hank and Sonny lifted the battered man off the crushed-shell bridge connecting the inn to Marathon. “Stay with us, Patrick. We’re gonna get you some help.”
“He needs a hospital, Mr. Hank,” insisted Sonny. “He’s bleeding everywhere.”
“I know, Sonny, but we gotta get him stabilized first. When Jessica returns with Mike, we’ll figure out where to take him.”
Patrick lifted his head as the mention of Detective Mike Albright’s name registered with him in his semi-coherent state of mind. He could feel himself slipping in and out of consciousness as the two men dragged him along the trail. He was fading fast, and his empty stomach began to retch at the taste of blood in his mouth.
Hank and Sonny stopped to allow Patrick to drop to his knees and vomit. Instead, his stomach twisted and flexed because it was empty. All that Patrick managed to do was spit out the blood that had accumulated in his mouth.
“Come on.” Hank encouraged Patrick to stand again. Jimmy’s flashlight was seen darting toward them along the trail. When he arrived, he was short of breath but relayed a message from Phoebe.
“Mom’s getting everything ready. She really needs Jessica’s help, though. I don’t think she—”
Hank cut the young man off. “She’ll do fine. Now, Jimmy, hurry back and lock down the gate. Then I want you to go to the main house and try to raise Mike and Jess on the radio. Tell them to get back here. Hurry!”
Jimmy took off toward the gate, and the guys continued to help Patrick down the trail toward the beachfront guest bungalows. As they got closer, they could hear the low rumble of the portable generator that was dedicated to this particular bungalow.
During mandatory hurricane evacuations, this was one of six freestanding bungalows that could operate on a generator in the event of a power loss. The others drew from the solar array that had been having difficulty charging the batteries necessary for the hydroponic systems and greenhouses. The day prior, Hank and Phoebe had given up on trying to keep the inn’s freezers operating.
Phoebe rushed off the small covered porch of the bungalow and met them as they emerged from the trail. The porch lights allowed her to recognize the injured man.
“Patrick? Is that you?”
He didn’t respond, as he couldn’t remember that he’d met her a few times at his bank branch. The Frees’ checking and savings accounts had been with the Island State Bank for years. They never had a need to borrow money, so as depositors, their only contact with the branch manager was a friendly hello now and then.
Phoebe had a small flashlight that she used to walk around Driftwood Key after dark. The inn tried to keep its exterior lighting to a minimum, as it tended to draw turtles toward the main house at night. Sea turtles nest from early May through the end of October in Florida. State and local laws were enacted to ensure all indoor and outdoor lights visible from the beach were shielded so as not to confuse hatchlings. After they were hatched, lights might draw them away from the task at hand—crawling toward the Gulf to start their new lives.
She swept her flashlight across Patrick’s face to examine the damage. She then illuminated his body with the beam of light. She shook her head in disbelief. Every part of his clothing was soaked in blood. His face was battered, and his eyes were nearly swollen shut.
While she waited for Hank and Sonny to bring Patrick to the bungalow, she’d prepared the room by spreading an extra coverlet on top of the bed. From Jimmy’s description of the beaten man, she suspected they’d be cutting the clothes off him so she could assess his condition, so she had laid out a complimentary bathrobe provided for their guests.
Phoebe didn’t have any medical training, but she’d learned enough about basic first aid over the years from Hank and his family. She applied common sense to her decisions as she got to work.
The three of them helped Patrick lie comfortably on the bed. Phoebe turned to Sonny. “There are some blankets stacked in the laundry building. I’m gonna have to undress him, and we need to keep him warm. This robe won’t be enough.”
“On my way,” he said as he exited the bungalow quickly.
Hank had already started removing Patrick’s clothing, which consisted of sweatpants and a long-sleeved tee shirt. The dress he’d been wearing when he met his assailants had been torn off in the first brutal attack.
“Sorry, Patrick. Now isn’t the time to worry about our dignity.” He pulled the sweatpants off and immediately saw his bruised legs. Phoebe hurriedly covered his lower body with a thick blanket that was rarely used in the normally warm climate.
“Help me with his shirt,” Phoebe politely instructed her boss. The two worked together to raise Patrick’s arms and pull the tee shirt over his head. More bruising was evident as well as cuts and abrasions. Patrick groaned in pain as his arms stretched his rib muscles.
Phoebe wasted no time in cleaning the blood off his body. She used warm water and clean washcloths to wipe him clean but used sterile gauze near any lacerations. She focused on his upper body first, making mental notes of any contusions or open wounds. She then made her way to his lower body, using a hand towel from the bathroom to cover his genitals. As she cleaned him, he began to lose consciousness.
“We’ve gotta keep him awake, Mr. Hank. We need to keep him hydrated, and I don’t know whether Jessica has those IV bags. Will you wipe his forehead with a cool, damp cloth and see if you can get him to sip water out of a straw?”
She pointed to the nightstand, where she’d already set up a shallow bowl full of water and two washcloths. There was also a child’s cup that was provided to guests with children who stayed at the inn on rare occasion.
Hank eagerly helped out, following Phoebe’s instructions and talking softly to Patrick to calm his nerves. At first, he’d looked confused as his eyes darted around the bungalow, trying to make sense of where he was. He had been more coherent on the bridge when he was discovered than he was now, a direct result of his continued blood loss.
Phoebe set about bandaging his wounds to stop the bleeding. Sonny returned with the blankets and helped her keep pressure on the worst bleeders. Patrick took a couple of sips of water, but he was fading in and out of consciousness, partly from the loss of blood and partly due to exhaustion. He had been allowed very little sleep by his captors, who had abused him mentally and physically until they were finally done with him.
Phoebe checked his pulse and blood pressure. All of Patrick’s readings were low but not life-threatening. Satisfied she’d done all she could without Jessica’s expertise, Phoebe washed Patrick’s blood off her arms and hands.
Drained from the flurry of activity, she sent Sonny to bring her a change of clothes, and then she dutifully took up a chair next to her patient.
CHAPTER FOUR
Thursday, October 31
Near Amelia Court House, Virginia
Peter rode away from the nightmarish encounter as fast as his battered and buckshot-riddled body would take him. He’d lost track of how long he’d been riding, but the pain in his chest and stomach reminded him that he needed to tend to his wounds.