Medusa's Lair

by Kenneth L. Funderburk

  “Hello, Mr. Chic. I’ve heard so much about you.”

  Chic turned to see a six-foot-one, well-built Belizean officer, about forty-five years of age, decked out in a sharp, well-starched police uniform and speaking as one fresh from Oxford University.

  “My name is Captain Raintree. I’m in charge of this investigation. Come along. I’ll bring you up to date on what we know. I understand you had a little excitement over in Belize City.”

  “Thanks for inviting me, Captain Raintree. I came here, as you know, to essentially spy on the cartel members who were on the yacht, Angel. I didn’t have any real hope of gaining much useful information. I certainly didn’t expect to witness the demise of the Boston end of this cartel. Do you know exactly who was on the yacht?”

  “The best we can determine is that two bankers from Boston were on board along with one member of the Sinaloa group from Mexico City. Two more cartel members were to join the yacht while they were underway, but our information is they were not on board at the time of the explosion. Of course, everyone on board was killed. We may never have a true head count.”

  Chic looked around. There was very little confusion at the resort. Somebody had the employees under control.

  “Captain Raintree, have you seen a young white woman here by the name of Myra? I have some unpleasant news for her. The man I had to kill is one of the Boston bankers and is Myra’s boyfriend. Unless I can talk you into telling her the news, it seems like my burden. Captain, it might be helpful and safer to have you present. When she sees me come in, she’ll know that Larry is dead. I have no idea how she will react.”

  “Absolutely, my good man.” Captain Raintree always responded with an upbeat smile, flashing his white teeth. “Who knows, she may actually give us some useful information. We talked to her earlier. and basically she provided us no real information other than she was here as Larry’s guest. Generally, the employees and guests who have given us statements have been very guarded in their comments. Perhaps you can open up the beautiful lips of this sexy-looking lass.”

  “Captain Raintree, I’ll give it my best shot.”

  The two men found Myra sitting in a chair on the deck overlooking the Caribbean, with a pina colada in her hand. Myra actually was a good-looking woman. Chic could see how she could lead Larry around. When she saw Chic come through the door, it was as though she were immediately transformed into the personification of Medusa, the Greek goddess. Myra fit the description: a vile creature, roaming the earth with snakes as her hair, attempting to escape a living hell.

  Had Chic’s imagination gone wild? Chic blinked, and his vision adjusted to reveal a very real Myra, not the vision of Medusa.

  Chic was confident that the vision of Myra as Medusa was a truer version of the real, live demonic creature occupying the body of this woman.

  “Good afternoon, Myra. I hope you don’t mind talking to me. I’m sure your family will want to hear that you’re okay when I give them my final report on my investigation of Ken’s death.”

  The look she gave Chic was pure evil. Medusa would have been forced to turn away.

  Chic had pondered whether Myra would be embarrassed for her family to know the truth about her relationship with Ken’s killers and how she profited from his death. Chic could see in her look that her real family now was the cartel. She would sacrifice her family on this altar. In fact, she had already sacrificed her brother.

  Chic saw another thing in those evil eyes. Myra was ahead of him. She had already figured out that Chic was not going to tell her family anything about her secrets. Chic was too nice a guy to be the bearer of that kind of bad news. He was simply going to tell her mother that, based on his research, Ken was dead. So, Chic, in that short pause, decided not to press Myra.

  “You know, Chic, this is really not a good time to talk about my family problems. A lot of people here have lost love ones on that yacht, so we need to respect their sorrow.” Myra’s concern came from her mouth like a flicking snake’s tongue, searching for small prey.

  “I heard you were here with a man called Larry, Myra. Was he on the yacht?” Chic had decided to play her game. Would she even admit that she knew Larry was dead?

  “Yes, Chic, I was here with Larry. I have a personal life separate from my family. Larry was going to join the yacht later on a helicopter. We are certain he was not on the yacht at the time of the explosion. I’m sure he will find me a little later on today.”

  “Myra, do you know any of the people who left the resort on the yacht?”

  “Not really. Larry had some friends on board, but I didn’t actually meet any of them, so I’m really not of much help. We had only arrived from Cancun, so I didn’t have a chance to meet anyone. That’s all I can tell you, Chic. Now, if you talk to my mother, tell her I’m okay. I hope you will excuse me. I need to get in the sun and soak up some rays. Hope you don’t mind.”

  “Nice talking to you, Myra. Hope you enjoy your stay here. If you hear from Larry, please let Captain Raintree know.”

  “Absolutely, Chic. I’ll do that.”

  As Chic and Captain Raintree left Myra, Chic didn’t know what Myra was really up to, but he firmly believed that her association with the Sinaloa cartel was just beginning to become serious.

  Chic stayed in Belize for another three days working with the local authorities on the case. As he had suspected, the Boston bankers were all dead. The Mexican cartel was still intact, with only one member dead. The only connecting link was Myra, whose place in the cartel was unknown. The FBI was on the case. Chic was certain that BCWB was in serious trouble.

  For all practical purposes, Chic had completed the job of dismantling the crime syndicate that had tried and failed to kill him and Suzy.

  Several days later, Chic decided it was time for a psychological readjustment, which meant a slow sailboat trip to somewhere with Suzy. Chic was sitting alone at his favorite cantina on the west side of Isla Mujeres, sipping a drink made from passion fruit, when he placed the call to Suzy. Chic couldn’t explain why a sailboat was the place he always returned to in order to gain his spiritual renewal and psychological balance. All that counted was that it worked.

  As Chic prepared to dial Suzy’s cell phone, the wait and the stress created by his battle with the cartel began to lift. The great weight of that moment became apparent. Surely the burden of waiting to hear from Chic on the outcome of this fight was even more critical to Suzy.

  “Hey, babe. You ready for a little R&R?”

  “You bet. What have you got in mind, sweetie?”

  “How about a slow sailboat to Ft. Lauderdale? I can’t make it to China, so hopefully Ft. Lauderdale will do.”

  “Sweetie, I thought that the hero always got on his horse and road off into the sunset. Whatever happened to that kind of ending?”

  “You know I don’t have a horse, but the main problem is that the cowboy rides off alone. I intend to go east with the real hero in this case.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Babe, that’s you. If there is a hero in this case, I give that title to you. You earned it. Please get on the next flight out of Atlanta to Cancun. I’ll be here waiting for you.”

  The following night, Chic and Suzy were well on their way to Dry Tortugas. The fifty-one-foot southwestern Hinckley rode the waves like a horse in stride making ten knots over the ground. They had been gone several hours when Chic’s world phone rang. It was Heath.

  “Chic, Heath here. I just received some news from the FBI. They called to let me know that at this point they do not have enough information to arrest Myra. They will continue to investigate her on tax evasion issues. The agent asked me to inform you that the information you provided made it possible to continue the investigation, and he sends his sincere thanks. When you get back, he wants to meet with you as soon as possible.”

  “That’s great news, Heath. I t
hink we can all be happy we shot the demon between the eyes. I’ll call you in a couple of weeks.”

  Chic was satisfied that the tide of evil that had almost killed both him and Suzy and that had brought terror to many innocent souls had crashed on the rocks of God’s law. The demons had retreated to their dark lair, restoring harmony in God’s infinite universe.

  Chic and Suzy lay on the deck of the boat, hand in hand, taking in the unbelievable majesty of the heavenly sky, unspoiled by light pollution. The surface of the sea flashed with the bioluminescence of the sea creatures. The boat created no noise as it rode the waves and current in a following wind. The sensation gave them the illusion they were simply floating through the night sky as much a part of the universe as the stars themselves. As they entered that heavenly bondage of body and soul, their spirits soared freely with the angels.

  Myra made her way to Cancun, and from there she flew to Miami. In Miami, she boarded a flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina, to meet with Jose Barbolla and Miguel Lazzino of the Sinaloa cartel. El Chapo Guzman had been transferred to the US federal prison system in New York. As far as Myra was concerned, he was already toast. From her experience in the drug cartel business, exposure to the public meant certain death. The infrastructure required to invest billions of dollars in a clandestine way was extensive. Notoriety was totally inconsistent with secrecy.

  Myra leaned back in her first-class seat, sipped her Jack Daniels, and looked up at her seatmate, catching his eyes as they focused on her legs. Hungry eyes glazed over with visions of forbidden pleasure. Satisfied with her power over men, she relaxed into a semiconscious reverie. Knowing that a man she didn’t know sat next to her who was consumed with lust aided this process.

  New adventures lay ahead of her. One door closed, but another opened.

  Myra knew the first time she met El Chapo that he lusted after her. She had full confidence that El Chapo made this meeting possible. Myra knew that she was going to discover who was the real boss of Sinaloa. Her plan was to bring Sinaloa into the modern world of money laundering. There was clearly a need. Greed insured that plenty of functionaries who had access to billions of dollars were ripe for the picking. Myra had the contacts. These dumb shits couldn’t buy what she had. She, on the other hand, was for sale. More importantly, the Sinaloa cartel knew it was she who was responsible for her brother Ken’s success. She designed the business plan now used by Sinaloa. Ken merely followed her plan. It was her plan that provided direction to the Sinaloa functionaries who actually controlled the flow of money to all of the underbosses.

  Myra was the master of all she saw within her world vision. She relied upon the power of her mind and the attraction of her body, which were her primary tools. She could not explain how or why she was thrilled with her life. Was it the power, the danger, the greed, the control of her little world? She recognized that she loved to abuse men who responded to her animalistic scent as begging, submissive children, meekly whining to experience her sexual favors. This, along with the expectations of high-yield profits from her business acumen, made her irresistible.

  As if from nowhere, a bright light flashed into her subconscious mind. Still semi-awake, a vision appeared—real or not, it seemed real. It was as if she had entered Dante’s hell. She saw hell—Satan, his demons, all were there. She thought she may have seen Ken. She knew there was no hope for those who entered this world. Flee or enter the gates? She had now followed Lucifer to the gates of hell. As she entered, she willingly left behind any goodness that may have remained in her life. She grasped the hand of Lucifer. Myra morphed into her new state of being as Medusa.

  All we like sheep have gone astray; we have turned every one to his own way; and the Lord hath laid on him the iniquity of us all. (Isaiah 53:6)

  How art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning! how art thou cut down to the ground, which didst weaken the nations!

  For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven, I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north. (Isaiah 14:12–13)

  Chic was viewing the marvelous night sky.

  “Love.” Chic nudged Suzy. “Look at that sky. Have you ever thought of what it really means when we say God is the alpha and omega, the beginning and the end?”

  “Yeah, sweetie, I have. I’ve decided that humans are not smart enough to actually understand eternity. We certainly can’t understand the infinite.”

  “Absolutely right. The human race is in a way like Satan. We want to believe we can be as God. Within that desire, humans seek their own way, just as Lucifer did when he was cast from heaven. The battle between God and Satan began that day and will continue forever. For the same reason, our fight with crime will never end. It is the eternal battle between good and evil.”

  “Well, Chic, that’s a depressing thought. But I am comforted when I think of Handel’s Messiah. He began the story of Christ, the Prince of Peace, with the tenor aria, ‘Comfort Ye My People.’ Then he follows with a tenor aria, ‘The Mountains Made Low and the Valleys Made High.’ This is followed with a bass aria, ‘The Refining Fire.’ Certainly Handel is presenting the Prince of Peace in a prophetic way.

  “A brilliant man was Handel! As I look at the stars, I’m reminded that God’s universe is in a continuous process of creation through death and destruction. New life evolves out of destruction. In the human sphere, truth is light that will win over death or darkness. He brings victory over the grave.”

  “Tonight, Chic, God’s peace will silence the demons. Come here. I need a kiss.”

  “Eight bells, all is well.”

  About the Author

  Kenneth L. Funderburk graduated from Samford University, attended graduate school at Mississippi State and received his juris doctor degree from the University of Alabama. He has practiced law for over fifty years and is active in the art and music community. He is the senior partner in a law firm and has served as a County Attorney for many years. He has a wide business background including as a real estate developer, is on the board of several small businesses and was the founder and chairman of the board of a savings and loan. He is a member of the 10th Street Art Gallery, Columbus, Georgia and has won multiple blue ribbons in juried competition in the acrylic medium. He has served as part time choir director in churches in several states. Many of the events in the novel come from 20 years as Captain on his Amel 40' ketch yacht sailing the entire Caribbean Island basin. He has been involved in community service for his entire adult life.