Michael Palmer - Natural Causes

He was standing a few feet away, arms folded, grinning kindly. He was in his late twenties, Rosa guessed, with a fine, handsome face and wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a woolen seaman's cap and a dark windbreaker. His car was parked twenty or so feet behind hers, its hazard lights flashing.

"Sorry if I frightened you," he said. "I just stopped to see if you needed a hand."

Rosa took a calming breath, assured herself that her heart was still beating, and retrieved the manual.

"Oh, my," she said, patting her chest. "You did startle me, yes. But I thank you for stopping. It's very kind of you. As a matter of fact, if I change this tire myself, it will be a first for me."

"I'd be happy to do it for you."

The man came forward and pulled out the jack and spare. He walked with a fairly marked limp, caused by his left leg, which seemed not to bend at the knee at all. She hoped the problem was nothing permanent.

"An old college football injury," he said, setting the jack in place. "I often wish I could have that moment back."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to be staring."

"You weren't, really. It's just that I notice things. Except that I didn't notice that linebacker. If I had dodged to the left instead of to the right, who knows where my life might have gone? You heading into Gloucester?"

"As a matter of fact, I am. Are you from there?"

"Temporarily. I'm a biologist with the Department of Marine Fisheries. We're doing a lobster project up here."

"How interesting. I'm a scientist with the government, too. An epidemiologist at the Centers for Disease Control."

"Atlanta's a nice place," he said. "Although a little hot for my taste. One hint in changing a tire is always to loosen the lugs before you jack up the car. It makes everything much easier and safer. Where're you headed in Gloucester?"

"A place called Fezler Marine."

"Never heard of it."

The man took off his cap and wiped his brow with the back of his hand. His hair was the color of the sun. He had all the physical attributes of a movie star or a model, Rosa noted. Yet here he was, a highly educated scientist. She was impressed.

"It's on Breen Street," she added.

"Never heard of that either," he said, jiggling the spare into place and spinning the lugs back on. "Maybe I should pay more attention to where I'm living."

"I suspect you have more important things on your mind. I'd like to pay you for helping me. I'm very-"

"Nonsense. I could use a cup of coffee, though, if you'd like."

"I'm sorry. I would very much like to learn about your work. But I really must get going. I'm terribly late."

"Hey, no problem. My name's Darryl. It's been a pleasure."

"Rosa," she said. "Thank you so much."

The man smiled warmly, shook her hand, and then hobbled back to his car and drove off. Rosa glanced at her watch. Fifteen minutes was all it had taken.

"Dios hace las cosas," she said as she slid back behind the wheel, and headed into Gloucester. God provides.

Two sets of service station directions and two missed turns later, Rosa found Breen Street. It was tucked among a tangle of narrow waterfront byways that were paved, but were probably still laid out exactly as they were when the Revolutionary War began. Fezler's Marine Railway and Automotive was a huge, decaying, shingled barn, flanked by two equally dilapidated wooden warehouses. The whole area seemed like a tinderbox-a conflagration just waiting to happen. Rosa drove nearly two blocks away before she found a street wide enough for parking.

Both of the large street-side doors, and a smaller entrance just around the corner of the building, were closed. Rosa knocked once, waited, knocked again, waited, and finally entered, shutting the door behind her. It was as if she had taken a step back in time.

The inside of Fezler's Marine Railway was as cluttered and dimly lit as it was spacious. Tools, some fairly modern, many antique, filled the barnside walls. Lines and chains and hauling blocks of various sizes hung everywhere. The atmosphere was heavy with the pungent odor of oil, grease, and gasoline. To one side of the shop was a large rolltop desk, cluttered with invoices, magazines, and catalogs. Above the rolltop was the same calendar Rosa had seen in Elsie Richardson's bedroom. From somewhere on the far side of the shop, classical music was playing. Almost certainly Mozart, Rosa thought.

"Hello?" she called out.

No one responded. There was an enclosed loft on the water side, accessed by an open staircase that climbed up one wall. Rosa glanced upward at the moment someone closed the door at the top of the stairs.

"Hello," she called again. "Is anyone here?"

"In the back," a gravelly voice hollered.

Rosa followed the voice toward the music and the water. The huge doors at the rear of the building were open to the harbor. A set of steel rails rose up from the water, cut through an opening in a narrow platform, and leveled off on the floor of the shop. Two feet above the tracks hung a large marine engine. It was suspended perhaps thirty feet from the ceiling by a complicated series of pulleys and lines. Standing beside the engine, working on it, was a woman. She was not impressively tall, but she was physically imposing in almost every other respect. Big was the only word that came to Rosa's mind. Not fat. Not even heavy-although she most certainly was that. Just big. Her broad shoulders and back splayed the straps of her grease-stained bib overalls. The sleeves of her black T-shirt were stretched to the limit by her arms. Her hair, beneath a Mobil cap, was tied back in a short ponytail.

"Welcome," she said. She glanced up at Rosa just long enough to size her up and then returned her attention to the engine.

"I'm looking for Martha Fezler," Rosa said.

"You found her." She loosened several bolts and dropped them into a coffee can half filled with an acrid-smelling liquid. "Fezler's famous degreaser," she explained. "Gasoline, boric acid, and just the right amount of saliva." She looked up at Rosa again, smiled mischievously, and winked. "The boom box is over there by the stairs. Feel free to turn it down if you want me to hear what you have to say."

Rosa did as the woman requested. When she returned, Martha Fezler had taken hold of a heavy, oil-stained line and was hoisting the massive engine up over her head.

"How heavy is that?" Rosa asked.

"Without the reverse gear? Oh, two-fifty, three hundred maybe."

"I'm very impressed."

"No need to be. With the block and fall setup I have here, I could lift two of these at once if I ever really wanted to or had to… At least I think I could."

She wrapped the greasy line just a single time around a cleat on the wall and tucked a loop under to secure it. Rosa could not believe what she was witnessing.

"Just that one loop will hold it up there?" Rosa asked as the woman reached overhead and loosened the oil pan.

"Will if no one messes with it," Martha said. "And since I work alone here, no one does."

Her moonish face was unlined and open. And although her manner was brusque and her voice like sandpaper, there was an appealing quality to her. Rosa introduced herself.

"Miss Fezler, I need your help," she said.

"It's Martha. And unless you've got car or boat trouble, I don't see how I can-"

"Martha, I need to find your brother Warren. It's very, very urgent."

Martha lowered her hands and wiped them with a towel that seemed incapable of absorbing any more grease. For just a moment, Rosa thought she was going to deny having a brother and demand that she leave. Then, just as quickly, the woman's expression changed.

"Maybe we ought to go sit down," she said. "Would you like some coffee?"

The small, metal-top table overlooked the placid harbor from a spot just to one side of the rails. Seated across from Martha Fezler, Rosa traced her involvement in the DIC cases from her arrival at the Medical Center of Boston, through her discovery of Constanza Hidalgo's diary, and finally to Ken Mulholland, and their efforts to pin down the source of the virus CRV113.