Zero Island (Blessid Trauma Crime Scene Cleaners Book 2) Chris Bauer (free reads TXT) 📖

Wally stared out the window, analyzing what had just happened, taking shallow breaths, trying to calm himself. “We need to get this organized fast. Bring that cooler inside the car and let’s get back.”

“Boss—”

“They are going to kill her, Magpie.”

Wally contemplated what would need to happen next, what his new priority was, and how he would prepare to handle it.

“I do not doubt that you would lay down your life for Ka Hui, and for me, Magpie. You are a good man. But I have someone else in mind.”

23

Philo recognized drunk texts when he saw them, sometimes simply by their timing. Anything after midnight would always be suspect. He’d received them from women he’d dated long-term, from women who’d been one-night stands, and occasionally from wingmen he’d frequented the bars with over the years. He’d authored enough of them himself, after nights of debauchery celebrating bareknuckle fights where he’d earned large purses, or after SEAL missions he could never tell anyone about, having drunk himself into oblivion to ease the physical beating he’d taken to earn those purses, or complete those missions. But this one, this text arriving 11:37 p.m. from one former wingman in particular, was heartbreaking.

I am in pain, Evan’s text said.

He had Evan’s home address, near Poipu Beach in Koloa, a gated condo community a half block from the ocean. Its hip-roofed building housed single-floor residences with gorgeous tropical architecture in soft greens and blues, and bright white wood framing that gleamed in the moonlight.

Another late night for Philo, which was becoming routine in its exclusion of the kind of company, female, that he was hankering for when he’d booked this Hawaiian junket. To his knowledge, Patrick had no experience in talking people off precipices, so Philo would have him sit this excursion out.

Evan opened the door to his condo, stood at the threshold in gray boxer jockeys and a Gold’s Gym beater tee in yellow. He leaned severely starboard, the doorjamb keeping him upright.

“C’mon in, you SOB,” he said fondly. “Beer’s in the fridge.”

Beer was not what Evan was drinking. A fifth of tequila was nearly empty on the coffee table, a coupla shots of the crystal-white liquid in Evan’s tumbler, then in Evan’s mouth. The TV was off, no music on the stereo. His only company, the only diversion of consequence, was his unholstered sidearm next to the tequila. Even in its silence, the handgun had the loudest speaking part in the scene. Philo popped open a bottle of beer, tossed the cap into the sink, and sat across from his intoxicated friend in a tufted chair.

“I’d ask you to talk to me, Evan, but I don’t want you to feel any more pain than what you’re feeling already. How can I help?”

“Less pain since I sent you that text. That bottle’s been a help.” He drained his glass, poured the equivalent of another few shots into the tumbler. “Sumpin to show you. Came tonight, special delivery.”

“Where’s your holster?”

“The study.”

“That’s where your sidearm belongs. I’m taking your gun. Be back in a minute.”

Philo walked one way with the gun, Evan wobbled another. When Philo returned, Evan was shoving papers out of the way to close an inch-thick binder on the dining room table, many pages dog-eared. He stumbled back into the living room with the binder and dropped it into Philo’s lap. “Start reading.”

“What am I looking at?”

“Miya and her team’s research. A draft version. I’ll wait.”

“Evan, give me a hint. What am I looking for?”

“She had the goods. She validated the rumors. She and her research team had the proof. The solution.”

“The solution to what?”

“Alzheimer’s. Read.”

Philo started paging through the binder, deciphering what he could. The clinical trials. The subjects, from Miakamii, from Kauai, from the other islands, and from the mainland. The blood work. The health records. The lab test results. Medical data going back fifty-plus years. The chemical analyses. The brain scans. Philo took only cursory glances at each sheet, not understanding much. An impatient Evan tried standing up from the couch, fell onto his knees, pulled himself into a crawl, and closed the short distance between them.

“You’re taking too long, damn it.” He dragged the binder off Philo’s lap, slobbered on his fingers to moisten them, then turned page after page from the seat of his pants while squinting at the print. He stopped to jab a finger at the paper in front of him. “Here, goddamn it. Right—the hell—here.”

Findings, the heading said. Next heading, Recommendations. Next heading, Impacts.

“They can cure it, Philo. But there’ll be some unintentional—(burp) unintended—consequences.”

Philo reviewed the summary info and charts, all too technical for him, but he got the gist.

Dr. Miya Ainaloli and her team had unlocked the genetic coding, had isolated the part of the DNA string that kept Miakamiians from getting sick from the disease. And they showed proof that the amazing chemical factory nature of the Miakamii human liver originated from the ingestion of the “meat of the momi,” the small snails who created the beautiful “pearls of the Pacific” molluscan shells. It was not the handling of the shells that provided the immunity; it was generation after generation of eating the detestable mollusk meat. Specifically, Miakamiian mollusk meat, whose high hydrogen sulfide content from eons of volcanic activity worked to reduce the oxidative stress on the human cells of the people who ate them. It helped their cells stay stronger, last longer, not break down, yet it did break down the amyloid plaques that were said to accumulate on the brain caused by advanced age, thereby reducing neurodegeneration. The stronger the snail’s hydrogen sulfide content, the better the protection and the more effective the plaque removal, the research proved. It appeared that all Miakamiians had this protection.

The research team’s recommendations: harvest the snail meat, break it down, atomize its hydrogen sulfide content, inject the little plaque scrubbers into the bloodstream, and watch ’em go.

Impacts, intermediate: potential depletion of natural resources in/around Miakamii; worse yet, potential depletion of Miakamii natives if