Shark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 6)

by David F. Berens

  He must have noticed Troy’s eyebrows arch in surprise, because he said, “I know. Hard to believe, but absolutely true.”

  Troy smiled. “Not that hard to believe, actually.”

  “Heh. Anyhow, Country has been in and out of trouble for a long, long time. Long enough that he and I have crossed paths many times before today. I knew he was up to no good when he showed up here unannounced asking about me helping with a job of some kind.”

  “Did he say what the job was?”

  “Nope. Just that there was some heavy lifting for more than one person. And he’s got some kind of injury in his family jewels where he can’t lift much of anything. Poor fella, I hope he got the bleeding stopped.”

  Troy didn’t know what that was all about, but he was suddenly very worried about Prosperity. Heavy lifting for more than one person sounded an awful lot like a body-dumping mission. Troy described the situation with Prosperity and how he was afraid something bad had happened to her and Country was involved in trying to get rid of her body. It was all pretty tenuous, but Troy had learned to trust his instincts.

  “Boy, I sure am sorry, Troy,” Michael said. “Have you called the MVPD?”

  “Actually, I’m pretty sure they’re complicit in the matter. I can’t really say for sure, but the cops up there have proven themselves to be pretty shady.”

  Michael took a deep breath. Troy could almost see the man’s brain working through all the details.

  “So, you’ve got a dirty cop or two. I might know someone up there who isn’t in on this. Maybe I can give him a call and see what’s going ’round the station about this whole thing.”

  “That’d be great, Mr. Banks,” Troy said.

  “Let’s go inside and get on my radio. We can hear what they’re sayin’ and find my buddy, Will. He’ll know something if there’s anything to know. And it’s Michael.”

  Troy walked into the cottage with the man. It looked exactly like he expected it to. Lots of whitewashed pine, old furniture with white cushions stained from use, and tons of fishing gear—rods, reels, nets, baskets, lures, and mounted trophies of random catches. Michael walked over to a seventies-era record player cabinet and pulled a CB radio out of one of the drawers. He dusted off the top and turned the power on. The static hissed out of the speaker and Michael turned the dial slowly, one digit at a time.

  When he reached channel 9, a voice came through the buzz, loud and clear.

  “This is Officer Jed Manning of the Martha’s Vineyard Police Department. We are issuing an all points bulletin on a man believed to be involved in a missing person’s investigation, possible homicide.”

  For one second, Troy thought they were referring to Country.

  “Suspect is approximately five-foot-eleven with shoulder length black hair. Weight estimated to be about one-seventy-five. Last seen wearing a white, short-sleeve shirt, khaki shorts, and a straw cowboy hat. Subject may be armed and dangerous. Approach with caution.”

  Michael glanced up at Troy, the man the police officer had just described, with concern in his eyes ... and then he fell asleep.

  20

  Prison Shank

  Prosperity Spartanburg woke lying on her back with a throbbing pain inside the left side of her head. She reached up and touched her temple and felt it was puffy and extremely sensitive to the touch. She could also tell her left eye was swollen and guessed it would be black if she could see it. Then she realized she wasn’t bound or gagged. She tried to shake out the cloudiness in her mind and remember what had happened before she blacked out. The cop. The cop had kicked her. The chilly room she was in echoed with her movement and she could tell the floor was concrete. Her surroundings began to resolve as her eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  Now she could tell the entire room was made of concrete. It was a tiny room, maybe six or seven feet square. All of the meager light was coming from one wall. She pushed up to her elbows and managed to get to one knee. She wobbled a bit, and fell to the side. Her hand caught her on something soft. She patted it and discovered it was a thin mattress on top of a rusty cot. Looking up, she realized it was a set of bunk beds. She pulled herself up and the full picture of the room finally came into view.

  She was in a cell, an honest-to-God prison cell, complete with bunk beds, stainless toilet on the wall, and a wall of bars holding her in. She cried out and her voice echoed out into the hall. There were no lights on anywhere that she could see, only a soft filtered glow coming from somewhere far above her. She walked toward the bars and looked out. Rows of similar cells lined three floors of rooms below her. The only windows she could see were skylights far above that let in a dim, blue moonlight. Despair hit her like a brick and she slumped down to the ground. Her tears stung her left eye, and she sniffed them back and wiped her nose.

  “Get a hold of yourself, Pros,” she said. “At least you’re not dead.”

  She wasn’t sure why they hadn’t killed her yet, but no one was here to ask anyway. She guessed maybe they had a plan to get rid of her, but she wasn’t going to wait around to see what that plan was. Turning back into the room, she scanned around for something to use to beat on the bars. She knew that there was nothing, but maybe she could break off part of the bed and use it as a pry bar or something. She took a quick second to hover over the toilet and relieve herself. There was no flush handle, so she let it be. She reached instinctively for where she thought the toilet paper would be, but found none. Standing, she pulled her pants back up and a wave of vertigo hit her. She stumbled into the bed, bouncing forward toward the bars. At the last second, she raised her hands to protect her already concussed head. They flung into the cold, metal bars, and she expected them to slam into her. Instead, they gave way. With a loud screech, the door she had run into swung open.

  She jerked her head up and ran out the door. She grabbed the rail and saw that she was indeed in an abandoned prison of some kind. She jogged a few steps to her right, looking for a set of stairs to get her down below, where she guessed the exit would be. She found them at the end of the hall and took them down three levels. The common area in the center of the prison was exactly what she would have expected—steel tables and chairs, all bolted to the floor. Most of the tables were empty, but there were some on the far end of the room that had boxes sitting on them. She walked closer and saw that they were wooden crates like the ones she had seen back in the hidden room at the Vineyard house. She propped the lid up on one to find it was empty, except for a straw-like packing material. All-in-all, she counted thirty boxes like this one, and spot checking here and there, she found they were all empty. These guys were running a lot of guns. The sound of a door slamming grabbed her attention. She ducked behind a stack of boxes and froze.

  Muffled footsteps and the voices of more than one man drifted into the room. They were close, but they didn’t sound like they were in the common area with her. She waited until they moved away and tiptoed in the direction of the sound. She found what might have been the prison’s ancient check-in area, and looking into the office there, she guessed the place was maybe fifty years old. A decrepit rotary telephone sat on the desk next to a rolodex. The office chair was overturned and lay on its side. She pulled open the drawers looking for something she could use as a weapon. The best she could do was the telephone receiver. She jerked the cord out of the base and clutched the receiver in her hand as she walked down the hall. It ended in a T and her choice was right or left.

  The voices seemed to be drifting toward her from the left, but when she turned right, she saw light and a door—a door to the outside. She ran toward it, dropping her makeshift weapon. Her hands were on the handle to push outside when she skidded to a halt. She could see a man’s head through the small window in the door.

  Shit, shit, shit, she thought, backing away in a panic. But as she watched, she realized that he was looking down at something and hadn’t seen her. What is he doing? Then she heard it, the jingle of keys. She heard one slide home into the door’s lock an
d heard it squeak as the man turned it. She dove backward into the hall, running as fast as she could away from the door. She ran past the check-in area. No use going that way, she would’ve been out in the open. Ahead she saw three doors. The one straight ahead was cracked open and there was light coming from inside. The closer she got, she realized she could hear the voices talking in that room. Over her shoulder, she could see the man had turned around to lock the door behind him, and in a rush, she dove into the door on the left. She almost ran into a rack of old cleaning supplies. She reached out to stop herself and knocked a broom loose from the rack. In slow motion, she watched it falling toward the collection of old metal dust pans—the sound from that would give her away for sure.

  In an instant, she lunged out, reaching for the broom. Her fingertips touched it and somehow she was able to deflect it from the shelf and kick her leg out to catch it before it hit the floor. It balanced precariously on her ankle and she hopped on one foot until she could reach down and pick it up. Footfalls clicked outside the door, and she realized she hadn’t closed it. It stood halfway open and she was standing right inside. If he looked her direction, he would see her for sure.

  She held her breath and watched the man walk past her door without looking. Oddly, he had both hands firmly on his crotch. He was groaning in what sounded like pain as he limped into the door with the other voices.

  “What the hell happened to you, Country?” she heard someone ask him.

  “Jed shot mah balls off.”

  21

  A Stitch In Time

  Winchester Boonesborough was either dumbfounded, shocked, or sick to his stomach staring at Country Cooper’s bloodstained crotch. Buff Summerton couldn’t tell which one it was, but he sure as hell didn’t want Boonesborough to get sick all over the damn place.

  “Winnie,” he said. “Get yourself together, dammit. We’ve got business to attend to and I don’t want this to take any longer than it already has. Florence is at home ogling that damn pool boy again.”

  “I’d get rid of that kid.” Country eased himself into a folding chair. “I wouldn’t want my woman ’round any bad influence like that. That’s the truth.”

  Boonesborough pointed at the man’s pants. “What in God’s name have you done to yourself, Country? Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, it’s just a scratch.” he said, lifting the soaking wet towel up to take a quick look. “Had some stitches, but then I got kicked. Long story short, I think I popped a couple. Need to get back in and have ’em redone.”

  “Well, you sure as shit can’t go back to the hospital now.” Buff smacked his hand on the desk he was sitting on. “The local PD has gotten a whiff of something somehow and the hospital will be on alert for any strange behavior. And if anybody was ever the definition of strange behavior, it’s you.”

  Country cocked his head sideways. “How you figure that, Mister Summerton?”

  Without warning, Buff backhanded the man across the cheek. He hit him so hard that the metal chair he was sitting on tipped up on two legs and almost toppled over. Anger flashed across Country’s eyes and Buff took two steps and leaned over the man, his face only inches away.

  “What?” he demanded through gritted teeth. “What are you gonna say, you piece of—”

  “Gentlemen, please,” Boonesborough said, weaseling his arm between them. “Let’s quit all this bickering and get to the matter at hand.”

  Buff held his ground, pushing lightly against Boonesborough’s arm, then shook his head and stepped back.

  “Goddammit, Country,” he said. “It’s Frank. You always have to call me Frank. Or Mister McCorker. If you slip up and make that mistake to anyone else, this whole operation is over.”

  “I’m sorry, Buf—er, Mister McCorker,” Country said as he rubbed his jaw.

  “Just don’t let it happen again.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Buff eased himself back down to sit on the desk. He could feel his blood pressure rising, the throbbing in his neck getting stronger. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself.

  Country pressed his towel down on his crotch, and blood trickled down off his chair and spattered onto the floor.

  “Country, you need to get that taken care of,” Winchester said, looking away. “Frank, there has to be something we can do.”

  Buff thought about it for a few seconds. “Just get a damn needle and thread. That’s what we had to do in the Stan.”

  “Jesus, Frank,” Boonesborough said. “We’re not all soldiers. The man’s going to bleed out, and then we won’t have anyone to take care of the girl or the delivery.”

  He took a deep breath. “Actually, it’s not such a bad idea. Just need someone who can do a decent stitch with some dental floss. Don’t you have anyone on staff at the club who can sew? Seamstress or something like that?”

  Boonesborough clapped his hands together and widened his smile over his brilliant capped teeth. “Daisy Mae. That’s who can do it. She stitches all the girls’ outfits and has even done a button or two for me. We’ll get her to do it.”

  Country did not look at all satisfied, but Buff said, “Just get it done, Country. I need you on this job.”

  I need a patsy on this job, he thought, and you’re a perfect fit.

  “Oh, now, Mister McCorker,” he grinned and nodded his head. “Don’t you worry ’bout nothin’. I’ve got me a couple of fellas right ready to help.”

  “Oh? Who?”

  “Couple of modern day cowboys. And I got a plan to pin the girl’s untimely demise on one of ’em.”

  Prosperity held her breath as she listened to the conversation happening in the next room. She had no idea what the whole Frank McCorker or Buff Summerton deal was all about, but she did know she heard them say something about her untimely demise. She had no intention of sticking around to find out what Country had planned for her. She took a step toward the door and another wave of vertigo hit her. She reeled backward and fell against the rack with the brooms. One of the broom handles slid down and threatened to slam against the floor.

  On pure instinct she lunged for it, and her forehead smacked the shelf with all of the metal dustpans. The sound they made as they clattered to the floor was like a selection from the Broadway show Stomp. She had seen it with her mother on a trip to New York and had loved it. Right now, the cacophonous sound the dustpans made as they clanged down against each other sent a chill up her spine.

  There was no way they couldn’t have heard it. And right on cue, she heard someone’s voice yelling from next door. “What in God’s name was that?”

  She decided to run for it. She bolted out of the closet just as Country emerged from the next room. He lunged for her, but she had a head start and he was in obvious pain. She sprinted as fast as she could toward the exit door and freedom. Behind her she could hear the clump of boots chasing her, but she didn’t bother to turn around. She was far enough ahead of them that she would be out the door and gone before they caught up.

  Her hands reached out and slammed into the door of the prison. Expecting the door to swing open, she put her full force into it. As her head flew forward and smashed into the window of the door, she vaguely remembered that Country had locked it after he had come inside. Damn, she thought as darkness filled her vision again. She wondered if this counted as a second concussion, or just an extension of the first. She felt hands wrapping her arms in vice-like grips as she blacked out.

  22

  Déjà Vu All Over Again

  Troy pulled the decommissioned police cruiser he borrowed from Michael Banks up to the filling station and eased alongside the closest gas pump. He’d borrowed it after learning from Michael that the officer who had delivered the APB on Troy was Jed Manning, an officer he was very familiar with. Apparently, there was a particular shift and assignment that all of the officers hated except for Jed—Saturday nights at the Tail Spinner Club.

  “Yup, Jed used to love goin’ down to the titty club,” Michael told him. “All t
he rest of us would trade shifts with him when we were assigned there.”

  “Why’d he like it so much?” Troy asked.

  Michael shrugged. “Boobies and beer, I suppose.”

  “He’d go inside?”

  “Yeah, the ownership of the club worked out some kind of arrangement with the MVPD to provide an officer on Fridays and Saturdays. Apparently, it can get kind of rough in there on busy nights.”

  “I know that’s true,” Troy said.

  He could remember back in his Las Vegas days DJing at the Peppermint Hippo the rowdiness that liked to come in on weekends and liven up the place. Sometimes it would end with the blue light cab coming in and dragging everyone off to the tank to stew in their testosterone and booze for the night.

  “Yeah, old Jed always worked it,” Michael said, “and the owners always requested him if a tangle broke out.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “Well, now if’n that ain’t the sixty-four thousand dollar question. They keep it a pretty tight secret. It’s all listed under a corporate name. Summerton Industries. I tried for years to dig info up on the company, couldn’t find a damn thing.”

  The name hit Troy like a tidal wave. Summerton. So, Buff owns a strip club? What the hell is this dude up to?

  “I gotta get out there,” he said. “You wanna take a road trip?”

  “Troy, as much as I’d like to help you out with this, my narcolepsy makes me wary of goin’ anywhere close to a tense situation.”

  Troy nodded his head. “Well, you wouldn’t happen to have a car or somethin’ I could borrow for a bit, would you?”

  Michael scratched at his chin under his long white beard. He seemed to be hesitant to answer.

  “I mean, if it ain’t too much to ask.”