Page 39 of The Bone Hacker

“Brief me.” Musgrove directed her command to no one in particular.

Eager to comply, Kemp explained what we already knew. Fishermen stumbled across a boat drifting a mile offshore, pulled alongside, saw corpses, called the cops. Members of the marine branch boarded the vessel and covered the bodies. Finding the engine dead and the fuel gauge on empty, they ordered a tow.

“How many individuals?” I asked.

Kemp didn’t know.

“Men? Women? Kids?” Musgrove asked.

Kemp didn’t know.

“Other than placing the tarps, has anything out there been touched?”

“Not since Stubbs and I took over watch. But we haven’t left the beach.”

“And before the hand-off?”

Kemp didn’t know.

Musgrove turned to me. “Ready?”

I nodded.

“Gear is in the truck.” Kemp displayed more teeth than keys on a piano. “You can suit up in the tent. Shall I show you?”

“We can manage. Be ready to ferry us over.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Kemp nodded so hard I feared a vertebral dislocation.

We skipped the tent, choosing instead to slip into our Tyvek coveralls alfresco. The rest of the PPE—personal protective equipment—we secured in plastic sacks and carried with us.

When we returned to the shoreline, Kemp and Bernadin were similarly garbed. Stubbs had not suited up.

Bernadin was seated in the Zodiac’s bow. Kemp was thigh deep in the surf, steadying the small inflatable with both hands. Stubbs, obviously the skipper, was in the stern, ready to start the outboard and work the tiller.

Musgrove and I waded out, holding our bagged gloves, masks,and shoe covers at shoulder height, boots looping our necks by their tied laces. Musgrove sloshed to port, I to starboard. We tossed our bags onto a pile made up of the men’s boots and two similar bags and, at a signal from Stubbs, climbed over the pontoons running along each side. Stubbs cranked the engine, Kemp hopped in, and we were off.

The crossing took less than ten minutes. As we drew close, I could see that the Sea Ray had been Christened theCod Bless Us.

Stubbs maneuvered to the stern where a stainless-steel ladder ran from the swim platform into the water. Kemp grabbed hold of the lowest rung and clambered up. Bernadin went next, looking a bit like a spider stick-walking its web.

After tossing my boots and bagged PPE to Kemp, I followed. Musgrove came close on my heels. Stubbs remained at the tiller.

Even outdoors with a salty breeze caressing our faces and heavy laminated polyethylene covering the source, the odor was unambiguous. I knew whatever lay beneath the tarps had been dead for a while.

We all raised our hoods, booted, added shoe covers, gloves, and masks. As Kemp shot videos and stills, Musgrove and I captured our own images and recorded notes on our phones. The usual opening act, but this time performed on a rolling deck offshore.

Prelims finished, Musgrove said, “Let’s see what we have.”

Our foursome stepped down onto the wrap-around seating, down again onto the cockpit floor. Positioning ourselves in the narrow space between the bench and the tarp, we each grasped an edge of the polyethylene sheeting.

“Ready?” Musgrove asked.

Three nods.

“Lift.”

We did.

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