Free The Bone Hunters by Robert J. Mrazek Page A

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    â€œYou be right about that,” answered Macaulay, “he be something all right.”
    Two hours later, Macaulay was stumbling back along the lane to his cottage, his face peppered by the wind-driven beach sand. Before passing out on his bed, he had one final thought. Sooner or later a man hit bottom, he realized. He might have finally made it.
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    â€œWake up, Boss. You gotta wake up.”
    The voice finally penetrated. He opened his eyes to see Carlos hovering over the bed and shaking his shoulder. It was dark outside and he could smell rain coming.
    â€œTom she be need to see you at the office, Boss,” said Carlos. “It be important.”
    Tom Hurdnut was the owner of the air charter service.
    â€œWhat time is it?” asked Macaulay.
    â€œJess pass four.”
    So the sky was only storm dark. He had slept most of the day.
    Macaulay climbed off the bed, ran water in the basin, and quickly washed his face. He glanced in the mirror long enough to see that he was a mess, his thick salt-and-pepper hair matted on one side, his dull eyes completely bloodshot. He smelled of stale rum.
    Together they walked over to the corporateheadquarters of Hurdnut Air Charter Services, which consisted of two second-story rooms over a large wooden boathouse at the edge of the harbor.
    The rain began coming as they arrived. Climbing the stairs, Macaulay looked across at the mooring of their Grumman Goose seaplane. Even in the most sheltered part of the harbor, the plane was bobbing back and forth like a hobby horse.
    Tom Hurdnut was on the phone at his desk when they stepped into the office. Across the room, Frank Jessup stood nervously in his starched white pilot’s uniform in front of the windows facing the beach. Macaulay could hear voices on the radio transceiver in the other room. There was a stammer of scrambled static noise and someone at sea began sending a mayday signal.
    Hurdnut shook his head and hung up the phone.
    â€œSo here it is,” he said, running his hand through his thinning gray hair. “Two tourists . . . a young American couple . . . went camping last week on one of the uninhabited islands out past Columbus Cay. Frank flew them out there. Two days ago, the wife was bitten by a yellow-jaw tommygoff.”
    â€œA what?” asked Macaulay as he poured himself coffee from the chipped enamel pot.
    â€œCrazy name,” said Hurdnut. “It’s the most dangerous snake down here . . . also called the fer-de-lance . . . and unlike most snakes, it’s aggressive and its venom is deadly. The husband couldn’t get his handheld radio to work until about an hour ago. He said his wife has gone into a coma. I just got off with the doctor at the clinic. He said she needs a dose of antidote soon or she won’t make it.”
    â€œWhat about the Belize Coast Guard and their vaunted search-and-rescue boats?” said Jessup, his tone angry. “We can’t fly the Goose in this.”
    â€œI called their forward operating base at Calabash Cay. They’re clocking fifteen-foot seas in the Atlantic, and the island is twenty miles out,” said Hurdnut. “All they have available is one of their Boston Whalers. It wouldn’t make it in time.”
    Macaulay listened to the growing intensity of the rain drumming on the roof. Through the rear window, he watched a huge palm frond separate itself from one of the trees along the beach and sail across the lagoon.
    â€œWell, Frank, you’re right,” said Macaulay. “It’s fair to say that the flight would be a bit hairy.”
    â€œHairy?” shouted Jessup. “You can’t make me fly in this . . . it’s a suicide run . . . the Goose can’t even take off in these seas. I have a family. I won’t do it.”
    Apart from the sound of the rain and wind, there was