SKIN TIGHT by Carl Hiaasen

“Yes.” Rudy wasn’t dressed like a surgeon. He was wearing Topsiders, tan cotton pants, and a Bean crewneck pullover. He was dressed for a boat ride. “Here, wait.” He took out his wallet and showed Kimbler an I.D. card from the Dade County Medical Society. Kimbler seemed satisfied.

“I realize this is out of the ordinary,” Maggie said.

“Yes, well, let’s have a look.”

Chemo pinched Christina by the elbow and said, “We’ll wait here.” He handed Maggie the keys to the Bonneville. She and Rudy led the man named Kimbler to the car, which was parked in a city lot two blocks away.

When Maggie opened the trunk, Rudy turned away. Kimbler adjusted his glasses and craned over the corpse as if he were studying the brush strokes on a fine painting. “Hmmmmm,” he said. “Hmmmrnmm.”

Rudy edged closer to block the view of the trunk, in case any pedestrians got curious. His concern was groundless, for no one gave the trio a second look; half the people in Miami did their business out of car trunks.

Kimbler seemed impressed by what he saw. “I don’t get many whole cadavers,” he remarked. “Certainly not of this quality.”

“We tried to locate a next of kin,” Rudy said, “but for some reason the patient had given us a phony name.”

Kimbler chuckled. “Probably had a very good reason. Probably a criminal of some type.”

“Every place we called was a dead end,” Rudy said, lamely embellishing the lie.

Maggie stepped in to help. “We were going to turn him over to the county, but it seemed like such a waste.”

“Oh, yes,” said Kimbler. “The shortage of good cadavers … by good, I mean white and well-nourished. Most of the schools I deal with—for instance, one place in the Dominican, they had only two cadavers for a class of sixty medical students. Tell me how those kids are ever going to learn gross anatomy.”

Rudy started to say something but thought better of it. The whole deal was illegal as hell, no doubt about it. But what choice did he have? For the first time in his anal-retentive, hyper-compulsive professional life he had lost control of events. He had surrendered himself to the squalid street instincts of Chemo and Maggie Gonzalez.

Kimbler was saying, “Two measly cadavers, both dysenteries. Weighed about ninety pounds each. For sixty students! And this is not so unusual in some of these poor countries. There’s a med school on Guadeloupe, the best they could do was monkey skeletons. To help out I shipped down two hearts and maybe a half-dozen lungs, but it’s not the same as having whole human bodies.”

Shrewd haggler that she was, Maggie had heard enough. Slowly she closed, but did not lock, the rusty trunk of the Bonneville; Reynaldo Flemm had begun to thaw.

“So,” she said, “you’re obviously interested.”

“Yes,” said Kimbler. “How does eight hundred sound?”

“Make it nine,” said Maggie.

Kimbler frowned irritably. “Eight-fifty is pushing it.”

“Eight seventy-five. Cash.”

Kimbler still wore a frown, but he was nodding. “All right. Eight seventy-five it is.”

Rudy Graveline was confused. “You’re paying?”

“Of course,” Kimbler replied. He studied Rudy doubtfully. “Just so there’s no question later, you are a medical doctor? I mean, your state license is current. Not that you need to sign anything, but it’s good to know.”

“Yes,” Rudy sighed. “Yes, I’m a doctor. My license is up to date.” As if it mattered. If all went as planned, he’d be gone from the country by this time tomorrow. He and Heather, together on a mountaintop in Costa Rica.

The man named Kimbler tapped cheerfully on the trunk of the Bonneville. “All right, then. Why don’t you pull around back of the office. Let’s get this item on ice straightaway.”

Mick Stranahan brought Heather Chappell a mug of hot chocolate. She pulled the blanket snugly around her shoulders and said, “Thanks. I’m so damn cold.”

He asked how she was feeling.

“Beat up,” she replied. “Especially after that boat ride.”

“Sorry,” Stranahan said. “I know it’s rough as hell—there’s a front moving through so we got a big westerly tonight.”

Heather sipped tentatively at the chocolate. The kidnapper, whoever he was, watched her impassively from a wicker barstool. He wore blue jeans, deck shoes, a pale yellow cotton shirt and a poplin windbreaker. To Heather the man looked strong, but not particularly mean.

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