Page 18 of Wild Tempest
"Thank you.”
Parker escorted us through the double doors, and we followed him back to the recovery unit. Half a dozen patients recuperated in beds, divided by curtains.
JD and I approached the man.
The monitor beside the bed displayed vitals—blood pressure, oxygen saturation. The craggy beats of his heart blipped on the screen.
With droopy eyes, he squinted at us.
His skin was as red as a boiled lobster and peeling from sun exposure. The staff had slathered him with ointment.
Dr. Parker made introductions. "This is Deputy Wild and Deputy Donovan with Coconut County. They have some questions for you, if you're up to it?”
The man nodded.
"I'll be brief," I said to him. "Can you tell me your name?”
"Owen,” he said in a scratchy voice.
"Can you tell me what you were doing to get yourself shot?”
"I was shot?” he said in all sincerity.
I smiled. "That's how you got here. Somebody shot you and left you for dead in the ocean. You got lucky those fishermen pulled you out of the water.”
Owen thought about it for a moment. “Oh, yeah.”
He was late 40s, early 50s, with a face lined by years of toil in the blistering sun. He had a narrow jaw, droopy blue eyes, and a bulbous nose. Skinny, but muscular. An anchor tattoo on his forearm had faded from exposure. His medium-length brown hair had hints of gray in it.
"Do you remember who shot you?”
His face tightened as he struggled to recall the details. "My best friend.”
"Doesn't sound like such a good friend to me.”
Owen frowned.
"What's this so-called friend’s name?”
"Paul. I don't think he meant to do it. He wasn't acting himself. Nobody was.”
"Where were you when you were shot?”
He hesitated for a long moment. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Of course.”
"Aboard the Almaz Morya,” he said in a dramatic voice.
I shared a look with Jack, then asked Owen, "Are you sure about that?”
"As sure as you’re standing here.”
"You're telling me you were aboard the Morya recently?”
"That's what I'm telling you.”
"Where is it?”
