Bobby Akart - Devil Storm

“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.”

Hank nodded. His mind raced as he tried to recall every interaction he’d had with Patrick. He thought about the first time they’d met. How Patrick had tried to solicit his business. The few conversations they’d had together when Patrick had showed up at Driftwood Key’s gate and was recovering from his beating.

Then he sighed. It was over, and Mike was in good hands. Yet he hoped when Mike woke up, he could shed some light on why Patrick had snapped. Hank wouldn’t have to wait until late in the evening to learn what had happened to his brother and who Patrick really was.

“Okay, I see how it is. You two are one helluva welcome-back committee,” said Mike as he awoke from a twelve-hour sleep. He’d removed his oxygen mask long enough to speak before replacing it over his nose and mouth.

Hank and Jessica had pulled their chairs together so they could fall asleep with their heads propped up against one another’s.

“What?” said Hank, who was the first to stir. He saw that his brother had awakened, so he nudged Jessica with his elbow.

She reacted quickly and shot out of her chair to join her husband’s side. Her trained eye glanced over at his heart and respiratory monitors to confirm everything was within safe readings. Her face exploded with excitement as the tears of joy streamed down her face.

Mike gingerly raised his arm to his face to remove the mask altogether. He felt around his cheeks and mouth, which were sore from the beating he and Patrick had exchanged with one another.

“Everything freakin’ hurts. Don’t these assholes believe in pain meds?”

Jessica gently kissed her husband on his swollen lips and allowed the tears to roll off her cheeks onto his. “Shut up,” she lovingly whispered. “I’ll see if Dr. Alvarez is still here.”

“I’m kidding,” said Mike. “It hurts, but I don’t care ’bout the pain. It means I’m alive.”

“Hey, Mike,” said Hank, who positioned himself on the other side of the bed. He leaned against the shiny stainless railings of the Hill-Rom bed. “You gave us a pretty good scare.”

“Patrick?” he asked, his eyes darting between his wife and brother.

“Dead. GSW, among other things.”

Mike closed his eyes and nodded. “Good.”

“Hey, are you sure you don’t want me to get the doctor?” asked Hank.

Mike shook his head side to side. He looked up to Hank. “He fooled us all. He’s the killer, I think.”

“Wait. What did you say?” asked Jessica.

“I think he was the serial killer. He called me Detective Mikey. Real sarcastic and smug-like.”

Mike paused to take several deep breaths.

Jessica glanced up at the heart-rate monitor and saw his pulse quicken. She squeezed his hand and whispered to him, “There’s plenty of time for this later. Let me get—”

Mike squeezed her hand back and cut her off. “I’m okay,” he said reassuringly. Then he continued. “I asked him why he attacked Phoebe and me. He said, ‘You would’ve never caught me.’ And something about it being too easy.”

Hank interrupted. “That makes you think he might’ve been the serial killer?”

Mike glanced at Jessica and nodded. “He said, ‘I’m Patricia.’ I asked him what he meant, and the sonofabitch died.”

“Good,” said Hank. “I mean, it was good that he died.”

“Are you sure, Mike?” asked Jessica. “He said I’m Patricia?”

Mike furrowed his brow and nodded. He eased the oxygen mask back on and took several deep breaths before removing it again.

“I think this guy cross-dressed to conceal his true identity. I have no idea what brought him to killing people, who knows. I’ve always believed every killer is insane, regardless of motive.”

Jessica was about to ask another question when Dr. Alvarez poked her head through the curtains. “I heard three voices. Lo and behold, the stubborn old cuss is awake and all chatty Cathy. No surprise there, I s’pose.”

Mike raised his hand and playfully gave Dr. Alvarez the middle finger. The two had known one another since high school. There had been many times when Mike needed medical information on a criminal suspect who was in the hospital’s care. Dr. Alvarez accommodated him when she could.

She flipped him off in response. “Back at ya. Say, hang on while I go fetch my toolbox out of the truck to fix up that chest wound of yours.”

Mike’s eyes grew wide because he knew she meant it.

Wednesday, November 6

Overseas Highway

South of Homestead, Florida

Two National Guardsmen restrained Peter and Jimmy with plastic flex-cuffs. Their arms were pulled behind their back with a little more force than was required. It wasn’t necessary to encounter a malicious law enforcement officer of any kind for zip-tie plastic handcuffs to be put on too tightly or to do real damage to the person being restrained. Many of those restrained experienced nerve damage due to improper use. In the case of Peter and Jimmy, whose bodies had been traumatized by the blast, among other things in Peter’s case, long-term damage could easily be done to shoulders and arms.

Both guys complained to anyone who’d listen, but it didn’t result in their pain being relieved. For hours, they sat against the wheels of a troop transport. They were watched from a distance by an uninterested young woman who seemed annoyed at being given the task. It gave the guys a chance to speak before they were taken away.

“Jimmy, we both know this is a load of crap, but we gotta keep our heads cool. This is obviously part of a bigger issue that’s pissed off either the governor or the president. And, knowing the governor, I doubt this is his idea. These troops came from Georgia or Alabama.”

Jimmy sighed as he continued to wiggle and pull at the flex-cuffs. His were tighter than Peter’s, perhaps because of his obvious association with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Department.

“I didn’t want any part of this,” he began to explain to Peter. Earlier, while they were outside earshot of their captors, Jimmy had brought Peter up to speed on Driftwood Key and his father. At this point, he was unaware of what had happened with Patrick the night before. “My aunt is on some kind of power trip. Maybe she thinks she’s doing the right thing by her people. I don’t know. Anyway, Mr. Hank had to offer me up to become a deputy.”

“Lindsey thinks she can form her own country? Seriously?”

“Man, I don’t know what’s in her head. I do know that some of the real deputies handpicked the temporary guys like me to watch the checkpoints. They’re really close to one another, you know. I hear talk. They’re a little too gung-ho-marine for me.”

“I get it,” added Peter. “Peon power, right?” Peon power was a term his grandfather had used years ago to refer to someone who ordinarily had little authority within government or an organization. Then, suddenly, they were elevated to a position of power and wielded it mercilessly.