The Water Keeper(45)

The Indian River took us south out of Stuart to the beginning of Florida’s ultrawealthy who live along Jupiter Island. Little more than a spit of land, Jupiter Island is an elevated sandbank that separates and buffers the Atlantic from the IC. Those who live there look out their front doors onto the Atlantic and out their back doors onto the IC. It’s home to actors, TV moguls, entertainers, and professional athletes.

We idled south under the shadow of the huge banyan trees that sprouted along the waterline—each carrying countless HD security cameras. The water brought us into Jupiter proper where I rented a slip at the Jupiter Yacht Club. With Ellie’s help, we Ubered to the Jupiter Medical Center.

When I told him where we were going, Clay didn’t give me much argument. His breathing was shallow and his face ashen. Without medical intervention, he didn’t have long. The Uber driver wasn’t crazy about Gunner getting in his car, but Ellie saved the day. “He’s a service dog.” The driver relented.

We walked in the doors of Jupiter Medical as Clay doubled over, coughing. I spoke to the receptionist. “Ma’am, this is Mr. Barclay T. Pettybone.” A question in my voice.

She typed some letters into her keyboard and stared down her nose at a monitor. A few seconds later, she spoke into a radio and then stood and rolled a wheelchair from a corner. Clay didn’t need an invitation. She pointed at Gunner. “Service dog?”

I spoke before anyone could mess it up. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pursed her lips. “Thought so.”

Catching his breath, Clay waved his hand across the hospital. “You do this?”

“Not directly.”

“Who did?” he asked between coughs.

I held up my phone.

He nodded. “I like them.” He placed his hand on mine. “Promise me something?”

“Okay.”

“You won’t leave me.” He made sure I was focused on him. “Alive or dead.”

When I hesitated, he squeezed my hand. Not harsh. Just firm. “Mr. Murphy?” His grip softened. “Please, sir.”

“One condition.”

He raised both eyebrows while trying not to cough.

“You quit calling me Mister.”

The nurse began pushing his chair down the hall where Gunner followed at his hip. Clay put his hand on the wheel, stopping her, then pulled backward, turning to face me. “Taking a man out of prison is one thing.” He coughed. “Taking prison out of the man . . . is another thing entirely.”

I turned to Summer and took her by the hand. Ellie stood listening. “I need to tell you something.”

Summer waited expectantly. Eyes wide. Hopeful. Hand warm and trembling.

There was no easy way to say this. So I just said it. “There’s a body in the morgue here.”

The words rattled around her mind. When they settled, her bottom lip started to quiver and her spine straightened.

I spoke slowly. “She fits the description of Angel. I need to—”

She grabbed my arm. “Not without me.”

I whispered, “This is never fun.”

“If she’s mine . . .” She trailed off.

If the body was Angel, then Summer would need the closure. But it’d be hell. “This . . . can change you forever.”

She shook her head once, bit her lip, and collapsed onto a bench behind her.

Gathering herself, she took several breaths, wiped her face, and then stood and nodded. I held her hand as we walked through two buildings and rode the elevator down to the basement. Ellie followed silently behind. Her defiant posture had weakened slightly, and her face showed she understood what was really going on here and what might be about to happen.

The temperature in the basement was icebox cold. Summer wrapped her arms around herself. I spoke to the guy sitting at the desk.

He interrupted abruptly. “You family?”

I didn’t want to give away too much. “I won’t know until I see her.”

“Cops call you?”

I shook my head.

“Then you can’t—”

I didn’t have time to argue. I pulled out my wallet, flipped it open, and laid my credentials on the countertop.

He nodded, raised both eyebrows, and wrapped a bracelet around my wrist. I pointed to Summer. “She’s with me.”

The guy wrapped a bracelet around Summer’s wrist. I turned to Ellie and pointed to the waiting area. “You mind?”

She sat without protest.

The attendant pushed open the door and led us down a hall to a room where the temperature was colder still and the smell reminded me of dissection lab in high school. He opened the door, and we walked in to find six bodies covered in blue sheets on tables. Summer sucked in a deep breath and covered her heart with one hand. The bumps beneath the sheets suggested three men and three women. He pointed to the far left.

Summer walked to the table slowly. Unsteady. Her hands shaking. Torment rippled across her face. As we stood over the body, Summer began making a low, almost inaudible moan. The man placed his hand on the sheet and slowly pulled it back, revealing the face.

Summer crumpled, tried to suck in a breath of air but sat, unable to finish it. For over a minute, no air and no sound emitted from her lungs. As veins bulged on both temples and tears and snot poured from her eyes and nose, Summer let out some fraction of the pain buried in her womb. The cry lasted a long time. It echoed off the walls, the stainless steel tables, the tile floor, and the ceramic sinks.