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  “Peters, get over here. Look, this guy was kept alive with the top of his head off for at least a month, and with some sort of device attached. We need to call your superiors at Antigua. Something very strange has been going on here.”

  “It's no good, we have no phone service, and the radio antenna was wrecked with the storm. I can probably repair it, but it will take me a couple of hours.”

  Frank itched to keep working, but decided he better stop cutting. Still, he wanted a look at the back. “Come help me roll him over,” he called. Peters sidled up, and ran as soon as the feat was accomplished. There was some sort of a wire connector coming out of the small of the man's back. Like an old thirty-prong computer printer cable connection. He wiggled it with a finger. It was solidly mounted to the lumbar vertebrae. “What the hell is that?” he muttered. He was definitely going to get the locals to let him at least watch this one.

  “Get working on that antenna, Peters. Let me take the Rover up to the north end. Jacobs has a satellite phone, if he is still there. I'll see if we can borrow it.”

  “Oh, he'll be there. Too stubborn to evacuate, same as you.” Peters surrendered the keys.

  ◆◆◆

  Frank drove the few kilometers north to Jacobs' cottage as quickly as he dared, dodging the debris. A far cry from his own modern house, which was built on the bomb-shelter principle, this was a traditional wooden beach hut, with thick plywood screwed over the windows for the storm, instead of Frank's motor-driven category-four-certified shutters. Jacobs was there all right, busily engaged in removing the plywood over his seaward window. Frank honked loudly to get his attention, then got out of the Rover. It would not do to sneak up on Jacobs. Like as not he would be carrying a revolver to 'protect against looters'. He walked over.

  “Mornin', William.”

  “Ah, Frank, come balance this plywood while I get out the screws. Be about ten times easier.”

  Frank obligingly helped him remove the remaining plywood sheets from the sides of the house. William Jacobs had been living on Barbuda for about twenty of his eighty years, and was the stereotype of the American ex-pat in the tropics, with his leathery skin, straw hat, and flowered shirt. They were on amicable terms, despite Frank's use of sunscreen, which Jacobs considered an abomination.

  “Is your sat phone working? I need to call over to Antigua about a body Peters found on the beach.”

  “Battery's dead. No power for the past couple of days.”

  “The constabulary has a generator, we could charge it there.”

  “Okay, I'll grab it and ride over with you.”

  By now the rain was pretty much over, and it was easier to see the mess created by the hurricane. Mostly tree limbs and leaves strewn everywhere, but down along the coast there were many beach houses which had clearly not been up to it, with parts of roofs peeled off or porches ruined. One house was at about a thirty degree angle, the foundation washed partly away on one side.

  “Morons,” Jacobs muttered, “gotta be prepared if you want to live in the Caribbean. Also, DRIVE ON THE LEFT!” he shouted.

  Frank moved over. Not that he was worried much about traffic.

  ◆◆◆

  When they arrived at the constabulary, Peters was still up on the roof. Frank shouted up to him, “Any luck?”

  “Probably take another hour or more. Still trying to sort out the mess.”

  “Come on down. I have Jacobs and his phone. Just plugged it in.”

  Peters tried the main constabulary number in Antigua. After three tries just went to an out-of-service message, he shook his head and headed back up to the roof.

  Frank had a thought. “Mind if I call my daughter?” he asked Jacobs. “She may be worried.”

  “Go ahead, if you can get through. I'm going out for a smoke.”

  Frank dialed Mitzi's number in New York. After what seemed a very long time, it started to ring and she picked up.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “Hi Mitzi, it's Dad. Wanted to let you know I was okay.”

  “That's good to know. Why would you not be okay?”

  “Well, with the hurricane passing over my house and all.”

  “Oh, I guess that means you are on your island. And there was a hurricane. I hadn't heard.”

  Frank was not surprised. He spoke with his daughter about once a month, usually when she called to tell him about one of her cases. She had followed in his footsteps, and was a forensic pathologist with the New York FBI office. Which was really why he had called. Mitzi was well down the spectrum towards Asperger's syndrome, and although she loved her dad in her way, it was not exactly a fuzzy relationship.

  “Listen, we found a body I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Really? Go on, then.” He could almost hear her perking up. He described what he had observed in detail.

  “So, you think he had this hardware, then died or was killed and someone removed all the hardware and dumped him. Then the storm broke him loose from the anchor or whatever, and deposited him on shore. That really is interesting. Any ideas on what it was all about?”

  “None.”

  “Interesting that they left the spinal hardware. I'll bet the cranial set up was unique, or at least expensive. Let me know when you know more. Gotta go.” She hung up.

  ◆◆◆

  Peters came down from the roof. “That should about do it. Let's give it a try.”

  He fired up the radio set, and started transmitting. ”St John's, this is Codrington, come in.” No response. He repeated a half dozen times, with no response.

  “They must be down over there. I'll try again in an hour.” He stood up and turned away, but the radio crackled to life. “Codrington, this is St John's. What is your situation?”

  Peters sat back down at the mike. “Peters here. We’ve a body over here that is pretty unusual. We need to get transport to take it over there.”

  “Unusual, how? We've got at least fifty dead over here, another seventy-five or so missing.”

  “This victim was not killed in the storm, more like washed up with the storm. The whole top of the head is cut off. Quite grisly. We have an American medical examiner over here, he had a look, thinks it quite fishy.”

  “What is this American's name?”

  “Frank Lenz. Lives midway down the coast. Normally works for the state of Minnesota, I believe.”

  “Let me check with the Chief Inspector about getting someone to come collect the body. Expect a message in two hours. Be at your transmitter at eleven o’clock sharp. In the meantime, keep it quiet. No need to start any rumors.”

  “Sounds good. No one else really around, anyhow.” He signed off.

  William was anxious to get home, so Peters drove him and Frank back to their cottages. Frank said he was going to get cleaned up a little, then come back over to the constabulary. His curiosity was in high gear.

  ◆◆◆

  Over on Antigua, Edward Simmons was on the roof making a call on his secure satellite phone. This was not one supplied by the police force. He placed a call to the Compound.

  Santiago, Simmons' contact at the Compound, was a fixer. He took the report, then in turn called upstairs to el jefe, who listened to the story silently, and when it was finished said simply, “Clean it up. Now. Include Simmons. Be thorough.” Santiago smiled. He loved his job.

  ◆◆◆

  The Compound was on Isla Sofia, a small privately held island in the Caribbean, about forty miles west of a point midway between Antigua and Barbuda. Santiago sent one man to St John's. He was an unimaginative but very dependable fellow who simply met Simmons in the alley around the corner from the Constabulary, ostensibly to give him a message from Santiago. The message was straight-forward, and consisted of a quickly broken neck. His launch made it back to the Compound before lunch.

  ◆◆◆

  Santiago himself went to Barbuda. As he boarded the boat, which was painted to look exactly like the Antigua police patrol boats, he made a men
tal list. Body. Constable. American. Each had its own potential for complications. He had radioed Peters at eleven, and told him he would be arriving at the dock at 11:45.

  Peters met them at the dock. Santiago stuck out his hand. “Dr. Melendez, assistant coroner. These are my assistants, James and Sebastian.” Peters shook his hand. He could see that there was also a pilot who stayed on the boat. The rest of them piled into the Rover to ride the five hundred meters to the constabulary, bringing along a large duffel bag.

  Codrington was nearly deserted, but they passed a couple of people on the street, who waved and greeted Peters. Santiago was not happy. The number of loose ends on this job could become unwieldy.

  “How are things on the island as a whole?”

  “Not too bad. Ran over to check on the two resorts while I was waiting on you. All the guests had been evacuated, of course. No one hurt, but the west face of the Flamingo is really beat up, and the cellar is flooded. Both of their generators are functioning, and the staff is starting to clean up. Old Geoffrey, who manages the Caribbean Jewel, was in fine fettle, strutting and swearing like a martinet.”

  So much for just making it look like Peters was lost in the storm, Santiago thought, he had been seen by far too many people to sell that. Well, well, first things first. Back at the garage, Santiago looked over the body quickly, and his men pulled a black body bag out of the duffel and manhandled the slimy corpse in. They loaded it into the Rover, cursing as brown fluid poured down the front of their pants.

  “Say, Peters, did you take any photos?”

  “Oh, yes, er, well Frank, I mean Dr. Lenz, did. The camera is in the back of the car.” He rummaged around and pulled it out. Santiago took out the memory card and put it in his pocket.

  “How did the island roads fare?”

  “Not too bad, overall, but there is a big chunk washed away just south of here. Dr. Lenz nearly drove into it and killed us earlier this morning. Would've, if he hadn't been driving on the wrong side.”

  They went back to the dock and the assistants carried the body onto the boat. No one was around to see. First bit of luck this whole day.

  “Can you take me over to see this Dr. Lenz?” Santiago asked. “I would be interested to hear his observations.”

  They drove south down the coastal road. “Does this Dr. Lenz have a nice place?” Santiago asked.

  “Gorgeous. Big cement house painted bright blue, nicest house on this stretch. About another kilometer.”

  Good to know, thought Santiago.

  As they went around the next bend, Santiago could see that the road had really taken a beating.

  “See, there is where the road is partly washed out.” Peters pointed. It looked like a forty foot drop off the bluff.

  “You really should put up some warning triangles,” Santiago remarked.

  Peters blushed slightly. He should have done that hours ago. “Right. I'll just do that.”

  As they came to a stop, Santiago reached his hand behind Peters, and with a sudden powerful motion flung his head into the windscreen, cracking the glass. He gripped the hair of the limp man, and cracked his head several more times into the glass. Peters was now bleeding profusely. Santiago pried open his eyelids, noting with satisfaction that the pupil of the left eye was dilated. He got out and went around to Peters' side of the Rover, reached in through the window, and put it in gear, turning the steering wheel to the right. It started to move slowly towards the washout. Hurry up, Santiago thought. He watched for a few seconds then went around behind the Rover and pushed, sending it over the edge. It landed very convincingly nose down. No airbag deployed. This Rover must be at least fifteen years old, Santiago thought.

  Santiago pulled a compact radio out of his pocket, and gave some instructions to his men. He jogged down the sand to the sea, and swam out fifty yards, where his “assistants” picked him up in a black rubber boat. They motored down the coast until Frank's house came into view, then switched to paddles for the last bit, beaching out of sight behind a small dune. Santiago crept up the beach and around towards the back of the house.

  Frank was just drying off from his cold-water shower when Santiago came in silently through the back door. Frank had used the manual crank to raise all the hurricane shutters when he got home, and opened all of the windows and doors to let the wind blow through. Santiago simply walked up behind him, reached around and thrust a thin blade up under the left rib cage. It took Frank about three minutes to die. He could feel the pain, and could imagine his pericardium filling with blood, making his heart's contractions become slowly more and more useless. He wasn't really surprised, somehow. Excellent knife placement, he thought. There'll hardly be any blood to clean up. Nothing beats professional handiwork.

  The men put his body in the rubber boat and set to work on the house. They busied themselves tidying up the place, washing and putting away dishes, sweeping the floor, putting away all the clothes that were strewn about. A well-used suitcase was in a closet, which they packed with clothes, toiletries, and underwear. They found Frank's passport in a fireproof box in the bedside dresser. Santiago closed the storm shutters and locked the door behind them. They took the suitcase with them as they pulled the boat back down the beach, sweeping the sand behind them with palm fronds. The phony police boat was now just out past the surf, and they loaded everything in and headed for the Compound.

  Halfway there, in the middle of the Caribbean, they spent an hour dismembering Frank and the other body, putting the pieces into a dozen wide-mesh bags with rocks, which they then dumped overboard at intervals on the remainder of the journey. As should have been done in the first place. Santiago was annoyed. He would have done it right if he hadn't been on the mainland that day. It was surprisingly difficult to get good help.

  Back at the Compound, Santiago went to see Blaylock, the computer geek. He tossed the passport on his desk. “I need it to look like this guy went back to the States before the hurricane.”

  Blaylock looked up. “When is he actually going back?”

  Santiago shook his head. “He's not. We just don't want an investigation here.”

  Blaylock picked up the passport. “What do we know about this guy? I can show him on passenger manifests and through passport control, but what makes you think people back home in – “he looked at the passport, “ – Minneapolis will believe he was there if no one saw him?” He shook his head. “Give me some time to check it out. Come back in an hour.”

  Santiago left. Blaylock sighed and turned to his computer.

  An hour later, Santiago was back.

  “Okay,” Blaylock started, “We've had some luck. Looks like he lives alone, no relatives in town. I got into his home and cell records, definitely a loner. Been on Barbuda for the past three months, only made a couple of calls off island, most recently a couple of weeks before the storm to another guy who works at the Minnesota State Medical Examiner’s Office, same as our guy. From his Netflix account it looks like he watches TV all night, every night. Orders a lot of pizzas. I hacked into American Airlines and inserted him onto the passenger manifest from Antigua to Miami four days ago, with connections to Minneapolis arriving at 11:50 p.m. His passport shows up as cleared in Miami, but if anyone checks the security tapes, he won’t be there. Nothing I can do about that. Here are the boarding passes.” He handed Santiago a Ziplock bag.

  Santiago thought a minute. “What kind of pizza does he like?”

  Blaylock started typing. “Ham and pineapple. In June, he ordered pizza from Dominos eleven times, all ham and pineapple.”

  “Okay, can you insert a ham and pineapple pizza the day after his arrival at noon?”

  “Piece of cake,” Blaylock replied.

  Santiago picked up the passport. “What about the passport stamp?”

  “The U.S. doesn't stamp citizens coming home. It’s all in the computer chip.”

  Santiago gave the passport, boarding passes, wallet and suitcase to one of his men, and sent him in the launch t
o Antigua to catch the next flight to Miami. He then called upstairs to el jefe.

  “Cleaned up,” he reported simply.

  Chapter 2

  Monday, October 3

  Minneapolis

  Alice looked up as Jeff tapped on her door frame, his white lab coat filthy, as usual. “Still not here?” she asked. Jeff shook his head. Alice glanced at the clock. 8:31. She had been supervising the Medical Examiner's office for nearly twenty years, and in all that time, Frank Lenz had never been more than ten minutes late without calling, and THAT had only happened once or twice. She tried his home phone and cell yet again. Still nothing. Finally, she called Frank's job-share partner, Hal Jensen, on his cell.

  “Hi Hal, it's Alice.”

  “Alice, terrible to hear from you. I'm supposed to be off for three months.”

  “Frank didn't show up this morning, and he’s not answering his phones. I wondered if you knew anything.”

  “Nope, last I talked to him was about a month ago. He said he would be back in town the end of last week. Maybe I should go check on him. I have a key to his house.”

  Hal grumbled to himself on the way over to Frank's bungalow overlooking the Mississippi. I should have known Frank would screw me on this. I should have taken the first three months off, he thought. He had been planning on spending the next three months fishing and, well, fishing. So much for a job share.

  No one answered when he knocked, so he let himself in. The house felt empty. Stale. He went into the kitchen. There were some Domino's boxes in the trash, with a couple of old slices of pizza. Hard as boards, must have been at least a week old. His bed was un-made, and there was a towel on the bathroom floor. Bone dry. Frank's wallet was on the bathroom counter, along with his passport and an American Airlines boarding pass, Miami to Minneapolis from two weeks previously. Curious, he thought. Not like Frank to be anywhere without his wallet. OCD that way. He called Alice on his cell and described the situation.