Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) by Chris Bauer (i want to read a book TXT) 📕

“Plentiful, Patrick, all over these islands. We’ll get some later. Let’s keep moving.”

Patrick Stakes. Not his real name. A temporary identifier still in place after more than three years. He’d been a John Doe at the ER in a Philly hospital. Was found bludgeoned and unconscious in a foot of snow in a dumpster near the iconic South Philadelphia cheesesteak joint, Pat’s King of Steaks, so why not name him something similar, the ER docs said. The blunt head trauma had lowered his IQ a few points and left him an amnesiac. He was maybe twenty-five years old, his real birthdate and birthplace unknown, and was deemed Hawaiian, or at least Polynesian, this because a female acquaintance of recent infamy, also Hawaiian, touted that as his ethnicity, and it had been confirmed by DNA testing. No matches for his fingerprints or for DNA from the FBI or military databases. It was hoped, therefore, on the part of Philo, Grace and Hank, and Patrick, that this Hawaiian visit would rekindle memories elusive to him from the first twenty-five or so years of his young life.

A rooster scooted from underneath an SUV rental and crossed the road into Philo’s path, wings flapping, a cake donut in its beak. It lost its hold on the donut, dropping it onto the blacktop at Philo’s feet. A standoff, rooster versus man, or so the rooster’s loud squawk intimated, the donut between them.

“Don’t go near the donut,” Patrick said.

“Wasn’t going to,” Philo said, retreating a step.

Large for a rooster. Wide, gray, feathery collar, brown body, and pronounced black tail feathers. It picked up the treat in its beak and ran past him, onto a pet relief lawn. An Irish Setter on a leash whimpered when the rooster charged it, the dog’s tail curling between his legs. The chicken disappeared into the shrubbery beyond the lawn.

“I see they still grow their chickens big in Hawaii,” Philo said.

“They’re wild here,” Patrick said. “The ones at the cockfights are even bigger. The chickens keep the cats under control.”

“Chicken versus feral cat?” Philo said. “Not buying your assessment about the outcome, Patrick.”

“Hunger does crazy things on the streets, sir.”

Inside the SUV, their bags stowed, Philo pressed the ignition. “Pull up the address for our rental cottage on your phone, Patrick.”

“Target acquired, sir.”

Philo backed the car out, not particularly careful about any wildlife that might still be lingering underneath. Kauai chickens were, from what he remembered, a nuisance regardless of size because they were everywhere, and they were aggressive. He stopped the car for the traffic light at the parking lot exit, processing the rooster incident in his head. His gaze lingered on Patrick, who stayed serious, his head swiveling at what was, for the moment, non-existent cross traffic. The light turned green.

“You can go now, Philo sir.”

“You realize what just happened, Patrick?”

“Yes, sir. You almost fought a chicken over a donut, sir.”

“Yes. But I didn’t, did I? Because odd as it all seemed, I knew not to even try. Because I’ve been here before.”

“Yes, Philo sir, you were smart. Those chickens are nasty.”

“Yes, they are.” Philo stayed at the exit, waiting for something to click for Patrick. The light turned red again, their SUV still idling. “You listening to yourself, bud?”

“Sir?”

“You knew about these chickens. You know this place.”

Patrick blinked hard, absorbing Philo’s words, his eyes darting back and forth until they sank in. He choked out a response.

“I’ve… I’ve been here before! The chickens. I remember the chickens!”

Philo’s congratulatory squeeze of his shoulder put him on alert. Patrick now tried to absorb every detail of every passing tree and building and sign at every turn the SUV made after leaving the terminal. No other hits for him as they drove the island perimeter, but he was beside himself anticipating new revelations.

This first destination island, Kauai, was an indulgence, Philo looking to check in on a retiring Navy commander he’d served with on more than one deployment: Commander Evan Malcolm, CO for the Hawaiian Missile Training Outpost at Howling Sands, on the western side of Kauai. Philo awaited a return call from his CO buddy to set up their reunion. Howling Sands was a military-use-only airport, not open to the public. But before tomorrow’s cross-island stop, they needed to drive twenty miles along the coast to their VRBO beach cottage rental, where they were scheduled to stay a few nights. Close to the cottage was tiny Port Allen Airport, like Lihue Airport open to the public, but with a runway able to handle only small aircraft and tourist helicopters.

The plan was to check in, then rest on a sandy beach for the remainder of the day to handle their jet lag. Tomorrow morning would be more beach time for Patrick, with Philo intending to drive farther west along the coast to Howling Sands. He had a favor to ask his Navy buddy Evan: could they get clearance to visit Miakamii Island from whoever could grant it? For Patrick’s sake, to at least rule it out as an origin for him, a long shot considering Miakamii’s secretive status and strange history. Two weeks to visit all eight islands. It was ambitious, but that was the plan to give Patrick the best chance at finding his identity and lost early life. Kauai and Miakamii, the westernmost inhabited islands, would be their first two stops.

“Monk seals, ten o’clock,” Philo said. Patrick craned his neck to look past Philo, out his window. They splashed out of the water and onto a small beach as they drove past. The seals were prevalent on Miakamii and Kauai both, Philo recalled. “They do anything for you, Patrick?”

“Sorry, sir. Not remembering the monk seals. But they’re really cute.”

Miakamii Island, a.k.a. “The Prohibited Isle.” Where time stood still for 1,230 inhabitants per the 2010 census. During the last decade the census count became suspect, both from heavy attrition and closer scrutiny. From a practical perspective, no