but his prosthetics slide off the Manta’s foot pedals. If you’re exhausted or injured and he needs to take over—what then?”
“Give him one shift, Kenney, that’s all I’m asking.”
“One shift; but only if you answer me honestly. Buchwald—are you tapping that?”
David grinned. “How’d you know?”
“The way you were eyeballing her, with the emphasis on the balling .” Kenney Sills shook his head. “You live to buck authority and she’s a control freak. Where do you think that ship’s headed? Ah, screw it … there’s a million square miles of sea for these monsters to hide in, we could be at this a year and still not catch a whiff. Go on, find yourself an empty stateroom and get some shut-eye. But if this boat starts rockin’ in calm seas I’m kicking down your door and putting you on trawl duty.”
7
Peace Island Hospital
Friday Harbor, San Juan Island
Terry Tanaka-Taylor waited for the cab driver to remove her suitcase from the trunk of his taxi before handing him a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks. Ma’am, are you all right?”
She waved, managing her way slowly up the handicapped ramp, wheeling her suitcase behind her.
Parkinson’s Disease. Michael J. Fox had called it the gift that keeps on taking. Eighty percent of the neurons in Terry’s brain responsible for secreting dopamine had shutdown before her first telltale symptom had appeared years ago, and now the degenerative disease was progressing. Resting tremors, slow movements that fell under the term Bradykinesia; postural challenges that affected her balance … worst of all the damn rigidity. The muscles on the right side of her body felt like they were coated in lead, especially where her quadriceps inserted into her hip, forcing her to shuffle and lean forward when she walked. A friend with advanced PD had once joked that Frankenstein suffered from Parkinson’s, and now Terry found herself struggling to stay upright on leg muscles that felt like they were adhered to the ground.
If Parkinson’s was a forest fire, then stress acted like gasoline, exacerbating her symptoms. The last six months things were as bad as she could remember. Her son had attempted suicide. The institute was shut down, its attractions gone. A fresh batch of lawsuits were being filed against her family and their business … and now Jonas was laid up in the hospital, having nearly perished in a helicopter crash.
And once more, these damn sharks were to blame.
Terry entered the hospital lobby, only to be swarmed upon by the media.
* * *
Considering the extent of the damage to the Coast Guard helicopter, Jonas Taylor’s injuries had been minor—a concussion, bruised ribs, and a fractured left radius bone close to his wrist. Sitting up in bed, he held his arm out as an orthopedic tech wrapped florescent-orange gauze from his left hand up to his elbow, the wet material quickly setting into a cast.
Dr. David Thomas Ford entered his “celebrity” patient’s private room, having just given a statement to the horde of reporters and news crews gathering in the lobby. An emergency room and hyperbaric physician, the former medical director of the Free Hispanic Mission had moved his family from Columbia, South Carolina, to the San Juan Islands because of his addiction to SCUBA diving. Dr. Ford’s office walls featured photos of his dives with schools of hammerhead sharks, bull sharks, and his experience hitching a ride on the back of a whale shark. Like the other islanders, he was not happy with the recent ban on water activities, forced by the relocation of the Megalodon siblings.
Leaning on his patient’s bed, Dr. Ford shined the ophthalmoscope’s light into Jonas’s left eye, examining the interior structures of his retina. “The blurriness should clear in a day. If it doesn’t, I’ll set you up with our ophthalmologist.”
“The eye’s fine; breathing’s the challenge. Last time I bruised my ribs was
“Give him one shift, Kenney, that’s all I’m asking.”
“One shift; but only if you answer me honestly. Buchwald—are you tapping that?”
David grinned. “How’d you know?”
“The way you were eyeballing her, with the emphasis on the balling .” Kenney Sills shook his head. “You live to buck authority and she’s a control freak. Where do you think that ship’s headed? Ah, screw it … there’s a million square miles of sea for these monsters to hide in, we could be at this a year and still not catch a whiff. Go on, find yourself an empty stateroom and get some shut-eye. But if this boat starts rockin’ in calm seas I’m kicking down your door and putting you on trawl duty.”
7
Peace Island Hospital
Friday Harbor, San Juan Island
Terry Tanaka-Taylor waited for the cab driver to remove her suitcase from the trunk of his taxi before handing him a twenty dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
“Thanks. Ma’am, are you all right?”
She waved, managing her way slowly up the handicapped ramp, wheeling her suitcase behind her.
Parkinson’s Disease. Michael J. Fox had called it the gift that keeps on taking. Eighty percent of the neurons in Terry’s brain responsible for secreting dopamine had shutdown before her first telltale symptom had appeared years ago, and now the degenerative disease was progressing. Resting tremors, slow movements that fell under the term Bradykinesia; postural challenges that affected her balance … worst of all the damn rigidity. The muscles on the right side of her body felt like they were coated in lead, especially where her quadriceps inserted into her hip, forcing her to shuffle and lean forward when she walked. A friend with advanced PD had once joked that Frankenstein suffered from Parkinson’s, and now Terry found herself struggling to stay upright on leg muscles that felt like they were adhered to the ground.
If Parkinson’s was a forest fire, then stress acted like gasoline, exacerbating her symptoms. The last six months things were as bad as she could remember. Her son had attempted suicide. The institute was shut down, its attractions gone. A fresh batch of lawsuits were being filed against her family and their business … and now Jonas was laid up in the hospital, having nearly perished in a helicopter crash.
And once more, these damn sharks were to blame.
Terry entered the hospital lobby, only to be swarmed upon by the media.
* * *
Considering the extent of the damage to the Coast Guard helicopter, Jonas Taylor’s injuries had been minor—a concussion, bruised ribs, and a fractured left radius bone close to his wrist. Sitting up in bed, he held his arm out as an orthopedic tech wrapped florescent-orange gauze from his left hand up to his elbow, the wet material quickly setting into a cast.
Dr. David Thomas Ford entered his “celebrity” patient’s private room, having just given a statement to the horde of reporters and news crews gathering in the lobby. An emergency room and hyperbaric physician, the former medical director of the Free Hispanic Mission had moved his family from Columbia, South Carolina, to the San Juan Islands because of his addiction to SCUBA diving. Dr. Ford’s office walls featured photos of his dives with schools of hammerhead sharks, bull sharks, and his experience hitching a ride on the back of a whale shark. Like the other islanders, he was not happy with the recent ban on water activities, forced by the relocation of the Megalodon siblings.
Leaning on his patient’s bed, Dr. Ford shined the ophthalmoscope’s light into Jonas’s left eye, examining the interior structures of his retina. “The blurriness should clear in a day. If it doesn’t, I’ll set you up with our ophthalmologist.”
“The eye’s fine; breathing’s the challenge. Last time I bruised my ribs was
Similar Books
