Stranger's Gift (23 page)

She shrugged and turned her chair so that she could prop her feet up on the railing of the houseboat and look out toward the sunset. “Suit yourself, but methinks the man doth protest—”

“I have to get back,” John interrupted. “Thanks for supper, and if you see Zeke, ask him to stop by, okay?”

“Yep.” Margery sounded half asleep.

He made the short leap from the deck to the pier and then into the boat Margery had lent him, thankful that she had loaned him the boat when she probably could have rented it out. “And don't go spreading it around that I'm looking for help,” he said.

“Got it, you stubborn blockhead.”

The following morning Zeke was there, sitting on the stump of a cypress tree when John crawled out of bed. “Morning,” he called. “Margery said you could use a hand.”

John glanced around, saw no boat other than his own and no other visible means of transportation.

“Did Margery bring you?” he asked, hoping the fisherwoman hadn't talked about him in front of others.

“Nope. Caught a ride.” Zeke nodded toward the lane. “Want some coffee?” He held up two large cups from one of several fancy coffee vendors John had noticed on Main Street.

“Thought you were broke and homeless,” John commented as he gratefully accepted the hot liquid.

Zeke grinned. “Can still sing for my coffee,” he said. “Had to give 'em two songs this morning, so you owe me.” He glanced around and released a long, appreciative whistle. “You've made some real progress here.”

“Getting there,” John admitted.

“Got yourself a small generator, I see.”

“Samuel Brubaker brought it out one afternoon.”

“Good man.”

“Yeah.”

“So what's on tap for today, boss?” Zeke drained the last of his coffee and crushed the cup in one fist.

“I'd like to finish closing in the kitchen and get it covered.”

“No worries,” Zeke replied and set to work.

For the next several days he came every morning, bringing John coffee and then getting to work. After a week, though, John noticed that Zeke didn't look well, and he took frequent breaks either to relieve himself or simply to sit for a long moment, his head bent low to his knees.

“You feeling okay?”

“Picked up some kind of bug,” Zeke replied. “It'll pass,” he added and grinned. “Hotter today, though, so I'm knocking off. See you tomorrow?”

“Take a couple of days and rest up,” John said. “We've made good progress here. Take care of yourself, okay?”

When Zeke did not return the following day or for two days after that, John figured he'd taken the advice to get some rest. But when he hadn't come back after a week, John began to worry. He was well aware that Zeke marched to his own drummer on his own unique time schedule, but he also knew that if Zeke had committed to doing something, he was there until the job was complete.

Something was wrong. He fired up Margery's boat and sped under the Stickney Point Bridge then past the mouth of the creek, leaving a wake that earned him a warning blast from the shore patrol.

How could he not have seen that Zeke was getting worse? The man had switched to tea the last day he arrived, telling John that he needed something to settle his stomach. And he was thinner than usual. He kept hitching up his pants, the same ones John had seen him wear every day for a week, and knotting the rope belt a little tighter.

But John's focus had been on the incredible progress they were making. The night before, he had slept in the packinghouse under an actual roof for the first time since the storm. He'd still slept on the sleeping bag that Samuel had provided and covered himself in the netting, but he had been inside, not in the cramped camper.

As he navigated, he scanned the shore for any sign of Zeke. He passed under the Siesta Bridge. Nothing. Zeke was the kind of person who stood out with his long hair and his guitar slung across his back. As John passed the botanical gardens, he spotted the abandoned boat Zeke had shown him. Slowly he circled it, calling Zeke's name but getting no answer. He pulled into a vacant slip at the far north end of the city's main marina. Remembering Zeke's description of where he had set up his “crib” as he called it, John ran down the sidewalk, dodging runners and dog walkers until he reached a small patch of exposed mud flats. He was very near the Ringling Bridge that carried traffic from the mainland over to Lido and Longboat Key and the fancy shopping area known as St. Armand's Circle.

Glancing around, he saw a cluster of mangroves and sea grape bushes where the seawall curved. He ran toward them, seeing a man lying there. “Zeke!” His heart hammering, he touched the inert shoulder of a body folded in on itself and was relieved when he heard a low moan. “Zeke? It's John.”

“Oh, sorry, man. I …” Zeke sat up suddenly and wretched in dry heaves. “Pretty sick,” he said with a weary smile, his voice husky.

“Let's get you to a doctor,” John said.

“Hester,” Zeke protested. “Get Hester. Hospital takes forever.”

“All right. Hester, then. But I'm not leaving you here. Can you walk?”

“No worries, man.” But when he tried to sit fully upright, a wave of dizziness overtook him.

In spite of the stench of his clothing and body, John scooped his friend into a fireman's carry and headed back toward the marina.

“Guitar,” Zeke moaned.

“I'll come back for it,” John promised.

“Tide coming in,” Zeke managed.

“Then I'll buy you a new one if it gets ruined.” He could barely afford groceries, much less a guitar, but the important thing was to get Zeke some medical attention—and fast.

As Hester had predicted, once the sun came out and the floodwaters receded, the public's attention moved on to other matters. No longer did she turn around while restoring the houses along the creek to find a television reporter and cameraperson carefully picking their way across a soggy lawn, hoping for a story. And after it became clear that there had been massive property damage but little human loss, the media packed up and moved on for good. The National Guard, too, had moved on, as had other disaster-relief groups that had set up temporary headquarters in Sarasota.

Even the out-of-state volunteer teams from Mennonite and Amish congregations that had appeared in droves during the first seventy-two hours following the storm had headed back home after a few weeks. The difference there was that they sent replacements, crews of teenagers or college students who were eager to spend a few days rebuilding someone's house and rejoicing in the reward of seeing a family moved from one of the cramped FEMA trailers back into their own place.

It was a pattern that Hester was well used to and one that she saw as a natural part of the rhythm of life on Florida's Gulf Coast. When another storm struck their shores—and it would—if not this season then next, or the one after that, these wonderful caring people would be back, ready to once again help the residents of Pinecraft and the surrounding area rebuild.

She was putting the final touches on her father's house when the phone in Arlen's study rang. “Pastor Detlef's residence,” she said as she cradled the phone on her shoulder and wiped her paint-stained hands on a rag.

“Hester?”

John Steiner sounded as if he'd run a marathon and called her straight from the finish line. “It's Zeke Shepherd,” he said. “Can you come?”

“What's happened?” Hester asked, already setting the rag aside and reaching for her bag. “Where are you?”

“He's really sick. We're at the city marina, north end. I'm illegally parked.”

“You drove?”

“I've got Margery's boat. I'm in one of the vacant slips. When Zeke didn't show up at my place for over a week, I went looking for him. I mean, it wasn't like him to disappear for over a week without at least stopping by.”

Hester didn't see the need to tell John that it was exactly like Zeke to disappear for long periods of time without letting anyone know where or how he was. Eventually he would show up, his impish smile all Jeannie needed to forgive him for giving her such a fright.

“I'm on my way.”

She wrote a quick note to her father, grabbed the car keys, and prayed the traffic lights would be with her.

They were. She reached the marina in record time and saw John standing at the end of one of the piers near a pay phone. He was looking far healthier than he had the last time she'd seen him. In the days that had passed since they'd worked together on Margery's place, the ankle boot was gone, and his bruises and insect bites had healed. Only the wrist cast remained, and the way he was waving his hands around, it didn't look as if that was much of a concern.

She followed him out to the boat. Zeke was lying on the deck curled into a fetal position. He moaned and rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach. The stench from his clothing and lack of proper hygiene almost overpowered her, but she sucked in a deep breath and knelt next to him. “Tell me what's going on, Zeke,” she said softly as she began taking his vitals—pulse, temperature, pupils.

“Hurts,” he moaned.

“Where?”

“Head. Stomach. Everywhere.”

“John, could you get Zeke some water?” For once John did as she asked without questioning her.

“No!” Zeke protested weakly but firmly. “Goes straight through me,” he added as he pulled his knees up to his chest and rocked from side to side.

“You're dehydrated, Zeke. We have to get some fluids in you. How long has this been going on?”

“Couple of days like this, maybe a week in all. Seems like forever.”

Hester was beginning to have her suspicions as to a diagnosis. “Anybody else sick?”

“He lives alone,” John reminded her.

She ignored him. “Zeke?”

“Yeah. A couple of others that I know of.”

“Okay, let's get you to the ER, and then I'll go check on the others.” She turned her attention to John. “Can you carry Zeke?”

Once again he lifted Zeke in a fireman's carry. Hester held the door of her car open as John laid the man across the backseat. Then he got into the passenger seat while she took the wheel.

“What others, Zeke?” she asked as she navigated traffic between the marina and the hospital.

“Danny, for one.” He paused. “I can't think.”

“Okay, well then, let's get you to the emergency room, and then I'll go see what I can find out.”

“I can stay with Zeke,” John volunteered.

“No worries, man,” Zeke mumbled. “Go help Hester.”

It was clear that the ER staff was less than thrilled to see this disheveled man who reeked of sweat and the aftermath of severe diarrhea come through the door. But Hester ignored their displeasure and gave them her credentials as a registered nurse. “He's showing all the symptoms of crypto,” she said curtly. “I suspect there are more cases among those of the homeless community that hang out around the library. We're going there to check on them. You got this?”

The admissions person and a burly aide who had brought a wheelchair out to the car to help Zeke inside both nodded.

“Good. We'll be back as soon as possible.” She squeezed Zeke's hand and then headed back to the car.

“What's crypto?” John asked as she started the engine and eased into traffic.

“Cryptosporidium—a parasite. Causes a pretty awful gastrointestinal illness called cryptosporidiosis. Mostly it comes from consuming contaminated food or water.” She leaned forward as if willing the light they were stopped at to turn green. “People like Zeke are at risk because they tend to get their food and water from unorthodox sources—trash bins behind restaurants, and water from streams or other places.”

She waited for a car to pull out of a parking space across from the library, a large white concrete structure surrounded by pineapple-shaped columns. “Uh-oh,” she murmured.

“What?”

“Nobody around. Normally there would be clusters of two or three people sitting up there on the steps or over there in the park.” She pointed.

“It's close to ninety degrees,” John reminded her. “Maybe they went inside to take advantage of the air-conditioning.”

“Maybe.” She hoped John was right. She started across the street and was surprised when John took her arm to stop her from stepping out in front of a car speeding up the short side street.

“Careful,” he said, releasing her arm before crossing.

She caught up to him. “You don't have to come,” she said. “I mean, you can wait in the car or out here if you'd rather. I know this really isn't—”

“I'm here, aren't I?” For reasons Hester couldn't fathom, his characteristic gruffness gave her comfort. “That's better,” she said as they climbed the steps together. “For a moment there I thought you'd gone all soft on me.”

“Not a chance,” he said, but he was smiling.