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| 內容簡介： |
Special Agent Maggie O''Dell has seen a lot in her career,
and amidst the killers, psychos and criminals she has hunted, she''s
delved deep into the darkest, most shockingly evil recesses of the
human mind. But when a cool box filled with body parts washes up on
the shore of Florida''s Pensacola Beach, even Maggie isn''t prepared
for what she is about to get into. While across the state, people
brace themselves against the onslaught of a hurricane advancing
across the Gulf of Mexico, Maggie begins the laborious process of
tracking down the cooler''s origins. Tracing the butchered corpse
back to a missing persons case weeks earlier, Maggie uncovers the
gruesome network of an underground cadaver trade. Little does she
know that things are about the take an even darker turn...
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| 關於作者： |
Alex Kava is a New York Times and international bestselling
author of ten novels, most of which feature FBI profiler, Maggie
O''Dell. A former PR Director, Alex quit her job in 1996 to dedicate
herself to writing and getting published. Alex lives in Nebraska
and Pensacola, Florida, where Damaged is set. Find out more about
Alex and the Maggie O''Dell series at www.alexkava.com
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SATURDAY, August 22
Chapter 1
Pensacola Bay
Pensacola, Florida
Elizabeth Bailey didn''t like what she saw. Even now,after their
H-65 helicopter came down into a hover less than two hundred
feetabove the rolling Gulf, the object in the water still looked
like a containerand certainly not a capsized boat. There were no
thrashing arms or legs. Nobobbing heads. No one needing to be
rescued, as far as she could see. YetLieutenant Commander Wilson,
their aircrew pilot, insisted they check it out.What he really
meant was that Liz would check it out.
A Coast Guard veteran at only twenty-seven years old, AST3 Liz
Bailey knew she had chalked up more rescues in two days over
NewOrleans after Hurricane Katrina than Wilson had in his entire
two-year career.Liz had dropped onto rickety apartment balconies,
scraped her knees on wind-batteredroofs, and waded through
debris-filled water that smelled of raw sewage.
She dared not mention any of this. It didn''t matter how many
search and rescues she''d performed, because at the moment she was
thenewbie at Air Station Mobile, and she''d need to prove herself
all over again.To add insult to injury, within her first week
someone had decorated thewomen''s locker room by plastering
downloaded photos of her from a 2005 issue ofPeople magazine. Her
superiors insisted that the feature article would be good PR for
the Coast Guard, especially when other military and government
agencieswere taking a beating over their response to Katrina. But
in an organizationwhere attention to individual and ego could
jeopardize team missions, herunwanted notoriety threatened to be
the kiss of death for her career. Fouryears later, it still
followed her around like a curse.
By comparison, what Wilson was asking probably seemedtame. So
what if the floating container might be a fisherman''s cooler washed
overboard? What was the harm in checking it out? Except that
rescue swimmers were trained to risk their lives in order to save
otherlives, not to retrieve inanimate objects. In fact, there was
an unwritten ruleabout it. After several swimmers who were asked to
haul up bales of drugstested positive for drug use, apparently from
their intimate contact in thewater, it was decided the risk to the
rescue team was too great. Wilson musthave missed that memo.
Besides, rescue swimmers could also elect not to deploy.In other
words, she could tell Lieutenant Commander
less-than-a-thousand-flight-hoursWilson that "hell no," she wasn''t
jumping into the rough waters forsome fisherman''s discarded catch
of the day.
Wilson turned in his seat to look at her. From the tiltof his
square chin he reminded her of a boxer daring a punch. The glint in
hiseyes pinned her down, his helmet''s visor slid up for greater
impact. He didn''tneed to say out loud what his body language said
for him: "So, Bailey, areyou a prima donna or are you a team
player?"
Liz wasn''t stupid. She knew that as one of less than adozen women
rescue swimmers, she was a rare breed. She was used to having
toconstantly prove herself. She recognized the stakes in the water
as well asthose in the helicopter. These were the men she''d have to
trust to pull herback up when she dangled by a cable seventy feet
below, out in the open, overangry seas, sometimes spinning in the
wind.
Liz had learned early on that she was expected to performa number
of complicated balancing acts. While it was necessary to be
fiercelyindependent and capable of working alone, she also
understood what thevulnerabilities were. Her life was ultimately in
the hands of the crew above.Today and next week and the week after
next, it would be these guys. And untilthey felt like she had truly
proven herself, she would continue to be "therescue swimmer"
instead of "our rescue swimmer."
Liz kept her hesitation to herself, avoided Wilson''s eyes, and
pretended to be more interested in checking out the water below.
Shesimply listened. Inside her helmet, via the ICS internal
communicationsystem, Wilson started relaying their strategy,
telling his copilot,Lieutenant Junior Grade Tommy Ellis, and their
flight mechanic, AST3 PeteKesnick, to prepare for a direct
deployment using the RS rescue swimmer andthe basket. He was
already reducing their position from two hundred feet toeighty
feet.
"Might just be an empty fishing cooler,"Kesnick said.
Liz watched him out of the corner of her eyes. Kesnick didn''tlike
this, either. The senior member of the aircrew, Kesnick had a
tannedweathered face with crinkle lines at his eyes and mouth that
never changed,never telegraphed whether he was angry or
pleased.
"Or it might be cocaine," Ellis countered."They found fifty kilos
washed ashore someplace in Texas."
"McFaddin Beach," Wilson filled in."Sealed and wrapped in thick
plastic. Someone missed a drop-off orpanicked and tossed it. Could
be what we have here."
"Then shouldn''t we radio it in and leave it for acutter to pick
up?" Kesnick said as he glanced at Liz. She could tell hewas trying
to let her know that he''d back her if she elected not to
deploy.
Wilson noticed the glance. "It''s up to you, Bailey.What do you
want to do?"
She still didn''t meet his eyes, didn''t want to give himthe
satisfaction of seeing even a hint of her reluctance.
"We should use the medevac board instead of thebasket," she said.
"It''ll be easier to slide it under the containerand strap it
down."
Knowing he was surprised by her response, she simplyremoved her
flight helmet, cutting off communication. If Ellis or Kesnick had
something to say about her, she dared them to say it after her
attempt atnonchalance.
She fingered strands of her hair back under her surf capand
strapped on her lightweight Seda helmet. She attached the gunner''s
belt to her harness, positioned the quick strop over her shoulders,
made sure to keep the friction slide close to the hoist hook.
Finished, she moved to the door ofthe helicopter, squatted in
position, and waited for Kesnick''s signal.
She couldn''t avoid looking at him. They had done thisroutine at
least half a dozen times since she started at the air station. She
suspected that Pete Kesnick treated her no differently than he had
beentreating rescue swimmers for the last fifteen years of his
career as a Coastieflight mechanic and hoist operator. Even now, he
didn''t second-guess her,though his steel-blue eyes studied her a
second longer than usual before heflipped down his visor.
He tapped her on the chest, the signal for"ready"-two gloved
fingers practically at her collarbone. Probablynot the same tap he
used with male rescue swimmers. Liz didn''t mind. It was a small
thing, done out of respect more than anything else.
She released the gunner''s belt, gave Kesnick a thumbs-upto tell
him she was ready. She maintained control over the quick strop as
hehoisted her clear of the deck. Then he stopped. Liz readjusted
herself as thecable pulled tight. She turned and gave Kesnick
another thumbs-up and descendedinto the rolling waters.
Without a survivor in the water Liz quickly assessed
thesituation. The container was huge. By Liz''s estimates, at least
forty incheslong and twenty inches wide and deep. She recognized
the battered whitestainless steel as a commercial-grade marine
cooler. A frayed tie-down floatedfrom its handle bracket. Frayed,
not cut. So maybe its owner hadn''t intended toditch it, after all.
She grabbed the tie-down, which was made of bright
yellow-and-bluestrands twisted into a half-inch-thick rope, and
looped it through her harnessto keep the cooler from bobbing away
in the rotor wash of the helicopter.
She signaled Kesnick: her left arm raised, her right armcrossing
over her head and touching her left elbow. She was ready for them
todeploy the medevac board.
The bobbing container fought against her, pushing andpulling with
each wave, not able to go any farther than the rope attached to
herbelt allowed. It took two attempts but within fifteen minutes
Liz had thefishing cooler attached to the medevac board. She
cinched the restraints tight,hooked it to the cable, and raised her
arm again, giving a thumbs-up.
No records broken, but by the time Kesnick hoisted herback into
the helicopter, she could tell her crew was pleased. Not
impressed,but pleased. It was a small step.
Lieutenant Commander Wilson still looked impatient. Lizbarely
caught her breath, but yanked off her Seda helmet, exchanging it
for herflight helmet with the communications gear inside. She
caught Wilson in the middle of instructing Kesnick to open the
latch.
"Shouldn''t we wait?" Kesnick tried being thediplomat.
"It''s not locked. Just take a peek."
Liz slid out of the way and to the side of the cabin,unbuckling
the rest of her gear. She didn''t want any part of this. As far
asshe was concerned, her job was finished.
Kesnick paused and at first she thought he would refuse.He moved
to her side and pushed back his visor, avoiding her eyes. The
child-safetylatch slid back without effort but he had to use the
palm of his hand to shovethe snap lock free. Liz saw him draw in a
deep breath before he flung open thelid.
The first thing Liz noticed was the fish-measuring rulermolded
into the lid. It seemed an odd thing to notice but later it would
stickin her mind. A fetid smell escaped but it wasn''t rotten fish.
More like openinga Dumpster.
Inside she could see what looked like thick plastic wrapencasing
several oblong objects, one large and four smaller. Not the
squarebundles that might be cocaine.
"Well?" Wilson asked, trying to glance over his shoulder.
Kesnick poked at one of the smaller bundles with a glovedfinger.
It flipped over. The plastic was more transparent on this side
andsuddenly the content was unmistakable.
His eyes met Liz''s and now the ever calm, poker-facedKesnick
looked panicked.
"I think it''s a foot," he said.
"What?"
"I think it''s a goddamn human foot."
From the Hardcover edition.
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