Authors: H. Terrell Griffin
B006JIBKIS EBOK (25 page)
I slowly became aware of the beating of rotor blades. I was back in Viet Nam, riding a medevac from my last firefight. I had a bullet in my leg and another in my gut, but the medic had given me morphine, and I was floating on a soft cloud. Sweat was running into my eyes, and I lifted my hand to wipe it away. The hand wouldn’t move.
Consciousness was returning, and I felt cold metal around both wrists. I opened my eyes and saw a young man in a Coast Guard flight suit bending over me with a stethoscope. “Lie still,” he said, over the beat of the rotor. “We’re on the way to Bay Front.”
Bay Front Medical Center was the level I trauma center for this part of the Florida coast. I asked, “Not Saigon?”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Yeah. For a moment there, I thought I was on a medevac in Nam. What’s going on?”
“We have you restrained until we can sort things out. The sheriff has your buddy.”
“My buddy?”
“The other guy on Egmont.”
I dozed off, gently rocked into slumber by the rhythm of the rotors.
When I awoke again, I was in a hospital room. Logan was standing beside my bed, looking down at me with a frown.
“Tell me it’s not that bad,” I said. “Do I need a lawyer?”
“Nah, but you’ll need some crutches for awhile.”
“Ankle busted?”
“All to hell, but the doc said you’d get full use of it back. Gonna take awhile.”
I was aware that I was no longer restrained by handcuffs. “What happened?”
“The Coasties brought you here to Bay Front, and Bill Lester drove up to vouch for you. They operated on your ankle, sewed up your shoulder, and put you in this delightful room with me to watch over you.”
“Where are the pretty nurses?”
“There ain’t any. It was me or some ancient battle ax who thinks you’re kinda cute.”
“Geez. What about Rundel? Did you know he was on Egmont?”
“Yeah. Dead as a doornail.”
“What?” I asked. “He was trying to con the ranger when I passed out.”
“The only guy left alive was some moke Rundel picked up in Miami to steal a boat. Rundel had a bunch of palm fronds sticking out of his neck.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Yeah, the guy from Miami was telling the Coasties he was Rundel. Dumb ass didn’t know there was a warrant out for Rundel. He tried to con the Ranger who found you, but he wasn’t having any of that. He held you both at gunpoint until the Coasties got there. They put you on a stretcher on the back of the Ranger’s ATV and took you to the beach so the chopper could pick you up.”
“What happened to the guy from Miami?”
“There was a Marine Patrol boat nearby, and he came right over. He saw your boat and the go-fast, checked the registration, and found that the go-fast was stolen. Yours came back fine. They held the other guy for the sheriff and sent you here.
“I guess they weren’t taking any chances, because you still had cuffs on when they got you here. They called Bill Lester after checking your driver’s license, and Bill called me.”
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost midnight.”
“What day?”
“Wednesday. You’ve been out for about eight hours since the shooting.”
“I missed the literary meeting.” I said.
“That you did, but you’ve given the ladies enough to gossip about for weeks. They won’t even miss you.”
Two days later, Logan drove me home, across the Sunshine Skyway, Manatee Avenue and Longboat Pass bridges. Home to Longboat Key. Because my shoulder was still healing, I could not use crutches, and found myself plunked unceremoniously into a wheel chair. Logan wheeled me to the pool at my condo complex, and there I found a large group of friends, drinking, laughing, and holding a banner that said, “Welcome Home, Matt.” The Key was coming back to life, moving on without Connie Sanborne, a little sadder for the experience, but still exuberant with the essential joy of life on a small island resting in the sun. Life was good.
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