Nuclear Winter First Strike by Bobby Akart (best fiction books of all time .txt) 📗

It was early this morning, and I’ve been around long enough to know that lobsters are more active at night, so I thought it was weird.

“We floated there for a minute, watching them gnaw away at something until I noticed something metallic flash up ahead. I kicked my fins a little and moved toward it. It looked like a broken piece of dead coral stuck out of another cluster of lobsters. Only, the reflection of the light striking something shiny made me wanna take a closer look.

“I reached down to grab the coral branch off the bottom. When I pulled it up, the hand came with it. Then an arm floated by me with a watch around it. I started to panic. I broke the surface and gasped for air, and that’s when she started screaming. The hand floated toward her, and she twisted her body in the water, kicking her fins really fast to get away. I guess the turbulence stirred up the bottom enough until more body parts were dislodged.

“Another arm. A foot. An ear. We freaked out and swam away as fast as we could until she rescued us.” He pointed at Jessica.

The girl began to cry again, and the young man welled up in tears. Mike decided to give them a break, so he stood to speak with Jessica.

“Did you call it in, too?”

“Yeah. They’re sending forensics. Also, we have another one of our units out at the scene to preserve it and, um, gather up evidence.”

“Great. I wanna go out there. First, did you happen to bag what these two found.”

“I did,” she replied with a smile. “Just like the boss taught me.”

Mike chuckled as he followed Jessica to her boat. She jumped over the side and opened up a large ice cooler underneath the rear seat. On one side were several water bottles. On the other were several body parts secured in Ziploc baggies, identified by location and time. A bluish-white stretch of arm, or at least what remained after the crustaceans had fed off it, was lying on top of the ice. It had been drained of blood.

He joined her side and studied the hand, foot and ear. “There is some decomposition here. If this is related to our serial killer, it happened sooner. Forensics will tell us that. Also, look at the arm. How it was severed. Do you see here? On the side just above the elbow? It’s not a clean cut. This arm was brutally hacked off.”

“With what?”

“An axe maybe? Hell, there is a whole field of science on the various cutting tools to dismember a body. All I know is the wounds are different from the two victims we’ve already examined.”

Jessica asked, “If this person was murdered before the other two, as the decomposition suggests, it could be unrelated.”

“Or the killer is getting better at what he does,” said Mike, his voice trailing off. Mike stood and shielded his eyes from the sun to look out across Tarpon Basin.

“You wanna take a look?” she asked.

“Yeah. Wait. The kid said something about a watch.”

Jessica turned around and pointed toward an open compartment in the boat’s center console. “I didn’t put it in the cooler. Nice watch, see?” She handed him another Ziploc.

Mike held it up. “Well, we can either rule out robbery, or the killer didn’t know what he had.”

“Whadya mean?” she asked.

“This Omega is expensive as dive watches go. It’s not a Rolex Submariner, but a Seamaster like this one sells new for about four grand.”

“Can you use this to ID the victim?”

“Maybe,” Mike muttered before retrieving his cell phone. He placed a call into the conference room where the other detectives were following up on leads related to the two existing homicides. “Hey, on this new Key Largo case. I need someone to run down our list of missing persons. Contact the families and see if any of the missing persons own an Omega Seamaster Diver 300 wristwatch. Also, check Miami-Dade missing persons.”

Mike might have just taken on another case, but he might have caught a break as well.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Monday, October 21

Driftwood Key

It was another beautiful day in the Florida Keys. As the operator of a resort hotel, Monday wasn’t especially different from any other day. Guests came and went seven days a week. Meals were prepared. Drinks were served. Entertainment was offered. Daily maintenance functions were undertaken.

Fantasy Fest was underway in Key West, and thousands of people were jamming A1A as they descended upon the southernmost point of the Continental U.S. The Driftwood Key Inn was full, as always, with another couple of bungalows turning over that morning.

Two elderly couples had arrived early, and while their room was being prepared, Hank took them on a short tour of the beach amenities. He offered to walk them down the dock, and then he’d return to the main house to meet with Sonny and Phoebe to place their wholesale orders and discuss their work projects for the week.

“I believe this is your first visit to Driftwood Key,” said Hank casually as the group strolled along the dock toward where Hank’s fishing boat would normally be tied off. Jimmy had taken a family fishing early that morning for half a day. “Is it your first time in the Keys?”

One couple came regularly, and the other had never been to Florida. They were residents of Colorado. As if on cue, just as they arrived at the thatched covering, Bob Marley’s music began to softly play through the speakers that dotted the beachfront. It set the tone for the group to observe the turquoise waters swarming with fish that day.

“Would you mind telling us about the Conch Republic?” asked the man from Colorado politely, pointing at the flag gently flapping in the breeze.

Hank smiled and nodded. This question was often asked while he interacted with guests. He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his Conch Republic passport. The novelty item, issued by the official Conch Republic office in Key