23
Bad Timing
Karah Campobello rolled out of bed with a pounding headache. One too many margaritas, she thought.
“Hey, I’m just gonna take a quick shower,” she called down the stairs, “and then we can hit the beach, k?”
She waited for the response from her cousin. None came.
“Laura?”
Strange… maybe she went down to the beach already. Karah walked down the stairs calling out again. She found a note on the kitchen counter:
Gone to the bucks, brb. Taking your car.
She rummaged around in the junk drawer of the kitchen and finally found an old, out-of-date packet containing two ibuprofen capsules and swallowed them whole, downing an entire glass of water in the process. Hydrate, gotta hydrate and rally, she thought. Troy will be here soon and I can’t be all hungover.
She filled her glass again and headed back upstairs to get going on the shower and beach prep. “I hope Laura’s gettin’ me a double shot of espresso and something,’” she muttered .
Her shower steamed up the mirror in the bathroom and she almost fell asleep under the hot stream of water. After a few minutes, she began to feel human again. Rummaging through her bag, she found a new bikini she’d bought from Venus along with her new dress that Troy had only seen in a pic. It was a little racier than the one he’d seen her in before. She grinned at the thought of seeing his reaction to her tan lines that were exposed, because this suit was much smaller than her other bikini. She felt a thrill at the thought and was excited to see him.
Wonder where he is anyway… he should be here by now.
She ran downstairs to check her phone and realized Laura had it with her. Crap. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror hanging in the living room. Dayummm, girl, she said and winked at her own reflection, he doesn’t stand a chance when he gets here. She filled a tumbler with a little leftover sangria and ice, grabbed a towel, her book, a straw hat (that she idly thought matched Troy’s cowboy hat) and her sunglasses, and headed down to the beach.
It was still quiet, except for those weird kids next door; they were all running around splashing in the surf, kicking a soccer ball and building sand castles. Laura must’ve been out earlier, as there was a chair sitting down on the dune by the bottom of the steps. She grabbed it and dragged it to a spot at the edge of the surf.
After a few pages in her book and a few sips of Sangria, she nodded off into a warm nap.
Darren dropped himself down into a recliner after Man’ti had helped him up the stairs into the Böhring’s beach house. He froze when Victor inhaled heavily.
“Not zee recliner,” he said, and flicked his eyes to a small couch across from the chair.
“Right.” Darren pushed himself up, groaning with the effort, and limped over to the couch to sit beside Man’ti.
For a long moment, Victor did not speak. The only sound was the clink of ice cubes in his scotch. Darren couldn’t help but lick his lips at seeing the drink, but Victor didn’t offer him or Man’ti any.
“You,” he finally said, placing his drink down on a small cocktail napkin on the side table next to what looked like a cigar box, “look like shit.”
“Boss, ah know that,” Darren began, “but ah—”
“Shut up.”
“Right.”
Darren massaged his leg, the fire burning down into his foot and his head hurt like hell. He wondered if they’d done enough for him at the hospital. He felt better than he had, but had a long way to go to reach one hundred percent.
“Tell me vat you hev discovered,” Victor said, turning to Man’ti.
The giant man held out a cell phone to Victor. He put a pair of reading glasses on, then took it and swiped a few times.
“Vat am I looking at?”
“Thet man theya,” —Man’ti pointed to a picture— “is out in front of ya neighbor’s house.”
Victor looked up over his glasses at Darren. Darren nodded, having absolutely no idea where this was going, but decided it was in his best interest to play along.
“Und, I give a shit about dis because?”
“Thet girl he’s with must be stayin’ next door.”
Victor placed the phone down on the coffee table and slid it back toward Man’ti.
“Und you think she has my check?”
“Not exactly.” Man’ti picked up the phone and scrolled until he found another picture.
Darren could see it was a picture of the man he’d met in the hospital… the man wearing the cowboy hat. He watched Man’ti pinch out on the photograph, enlarging the hat and turning the phone back toward Victor.
“Thet theya,” —he pointed toward the back of the phone— “is Rick Hairre’s hat.”
Darren’s brain finally broke through the haze he’d been in and he remembered the epiphany he’d had seeing Troy at the hospital.
“Thet fooka put the check in ‘is hat!” he exclaimed.
Man’ti looked over at Darren with what might’ve been suspicion and repeated what he’d said. “Thet fooka put the check in ‘is hat—”
“You know we nevah found it on Rick, but we nevah thought ta check ‘is hat,” Man’ti added.
Victor rolled a wet cigar around in his mouth. “Und zees man has zee hat now?”
“Right,” Man’ti said and nodded.
“Und, vere is zees man now?”
Darren touched the right side of his head gingerly. “He was at the hospital… but then he left.”
Victor turned toward Darren and glared. Darren looked at Man’ti, seeking a little help with the rest of the story. Man’ti said nothing. Prick.
“I’m vaiting.”
Man’ti finally said, “Like ah said, thet man theya, wearin’ Rick Hairre’s hat, is the boyfriend of the girl in the otha picture outside thet house ova theya.”
Man’ti motioned toward the house next door through a beach side window.
Victor took a long look at the house. “Zat house belongs to Rick Hairre.”
Darren did a double take. “Well, then, the girl must be his daughta.”
“No,” —Victor swiped a couple of times on the phone, looking at the girl in the phone’s plethora of selfies— “zees girl eez not his daughter. I hev seen his daughter many times. I do not recognize zees girl.”
“Then who the fook is she?” Darren grabbed the phone out of Victor’s hand and suddenly regretted it.
“I do not know,” Victor said and pulled his cigar cutters from out of his pocket and tossed them to Man’ti, “but she eez valking down to zee beach as we speak.”
“Crikey!” Darren jumped up and regretted that too as a shot of fiery pain seared up his ruined leg. “He might be in thet house right now!”
“Vie don’t zee two of you check zee house,” Victor said, then nodded to the razor-sharp cigar cutter in Man’ti’s hand. “If he eez there, bring me zee hat. If he eez not, ask her vere he eez. Cut off one of her fingers every time she refuses.”
Darren shuddered at the thought of fingers being cut off. He was a few digits short on his right foot and hand himself.
“Und ven she tells you,” —Victor paused and struck a match to light the end of his cigar, sucking in the flame and rolling it between his fingers— “make her disappear. Und do it better zan you did vit Mr. Hairre.”
Victor opened a drawer in the table next to his chair. With a white handkerchief, he picked up a small .38 caliber pistol and handed it to Man’ti. He reached back into the drawer and pulled out an exact match. He paused a minute before handing it to Darren. Darren snatched the gun and spun the chamber around checking for bullets. He noticed that the serial number was filed off, clean and ready for business.
He grinned. “Got it, boss.”
24
Where The Hell Is Troy?
Karah Campobello was awakened by the sound of a whistle or something shrilling in the air. It was apparently coming from next door. Whatever it was, the kids all scrambled frantically to scoop u
p their beach toys and towels and ran toward the house. She yawned and stretched. Wonder how long I was asleep? she pondered. The tide hadn’t moved too much and she assumed it had been less than an hour.
Where the hell is Laura? And where the hell is Troy? She glanced back up at her cousin’s beach house. No sign of anyone there. She stretched again and stood up. She didn’t bother to fold the chair up or bring her book with her as she trudged through the sand, but she did carry her tumbler. A little more sangria, and she’d thought she’d be ready to rock. Tromping up the stairs to knock the sand off her feet, she glanced over at the next-door neighbor’s house. It was gorgeous. Surrounded on all sides by a screened in porch, a massive sunning deck on the flat roof extending toward the ocean, and at least twenty rocking chairs sprawled all around. A strange looking old man smoking a cigar was rocking back and forth in one of the chairs. Oops. She jerked her glance away as she noticed he was looking in her direction. Creepy, she thought and wished she’d brought her cover-up.
She walked up the stairs, careful not to look back in his direction, and pulled open the heavy sliding glass door. The rush of cold air hit her and the suddenness of going from bright sun to dim interior light had her fumbling for a few seconds before she could see clearly.
When her eyes adjusted, panic set in. She instantly recognized the massive tattooed dude that had bowled her over outside of Drunken Jack’s sitting on the couch.
“G’day,” he said, “wheyah’s ya boyfriend?”
Karah whirled around and grabbed the handle of the sliding door. A bandaged hand thumped on the glass next to her, holding the door shut. She’d been so shocked at seeing the first guy, she hadn’t noticed the second. He was bandaged all over and seeping through in several places. His eye was blood red and swollen and filled with goop. He was missing a couple of teeth on that same side and his right foot was completely covered in bandages oozing a dark purple fluid. Without thinking, she slammed her heel down on his foot and punched him hard in the eye.
The man howled in pain and let go of the door, reaching first at his foot and then his eye. She grabbed the door handle and yanked hard to open it.
“Not so fast,” she heard the bigger man say close by her ear.
She felt his fist grabbing a handful of her hair. He shoved her hard at the door and slammed her head into the glass. Her last thought before she passed out was that she was going to have a black eye when Troy got here… and she was really pissed about that.
She woke with a throbbing pain around her eye. She could feel it wasn’t too bad—just a little swelling—but it seemed her forehead had taken the brunt of the bash. The room was dark, no windows and only one door. Furnishings were sparse. By the door was a small wooden chair next to a small wooden table with a single bulb lamp without its shade. In the chair was the man she’d recognized from the parking lot at Drunken Jack’s—the huge, wrestler type dude with all the tribal tattoos.
She tried to sit up, but had trouble, suddenly realizing her hands were tied behind her back. They must’ve been bound with some kind of zip-tie as they were raw where the sharp edges of the binding cut into her wrists. Her captor noticed she was struggling and propped her up to sit with her back against the wall. He’d been surprisingly gentle, though quite firm. She wondered if he’d stay that way.
“Right,” he said, sliding his chair around backward to face her and laying his arms across the top of the chair. “Sorry ‘bout the bump… couldn’t have ya screamin’ ‘cross the beach.”
Karah said nothing. Fear was starting to seep into her mind as she contemplated the situation; locked in what might be a basement room, no windows, hand-cuffed, wearing a tiny string bikini and an imposing kidnapper staring at her. Tears began to pool in her eyes.
“Don’t worry yaself.” The man must’ve seen her distress. “Tell me what ah wanna know and we’ll all be outta heyah in no time.”
Karah shook her head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Ya boyfriend,” he said, “where is he?”
Karah was confused. What in God’s name did this man want with Corey? She hadn’t dated him in over a year.
“What do you want with him?” she asked the man.
Before she could react, the man’s hand flashed up and smacked the side of her head. She tumbled over and pain shot up her cheek and into her ear. She cried out.
“Ah’m askin’ the questions, skank,” he said and made no move to help her up.
So much for gentle yet firm. Karah’s face was pressed into the cold cement floor and the coolness helped the pain a little. She tasted a trickle of blood on her tongue. As the throbbing slowly subsided, she turned her head to face him.
“I have no idea where he is… that’s the truth.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true; we haven’t seen each other for over a year. I mean, if I had to guess, I’d say he’s at home in Alabama.”
“Alabama?” the man asked, “What tha fook are you talkin’ about?”
“I haven’t seen him since last May.” She spit the pooling blood from her mouth.
The man seemed genuinely confused. He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket. Karah instantly recognized Laura’s phone. The case was a custom printed shell with a picture of Laura’s dog, Tyson, on it.
“Where did you get that?”
He raised his hand, preparing to swing again, and she cringed backward into the wall. The blow didn’t come.
“Ah said, I’m askin’ tha questions.”
He clicked and swiped through the phone. Turning the screen to face her, he asked, “Looks ta me like ya saw him yesterday.”
Karah would’ve laughed if she wasn’t lying in a growing puddle of blood from her mouth with her hands zip-tied behind her back in a dark cellar-like room with a massive captor beating her up.
“That’s not Corey, that’s Troy.” She immediately regretted saying it.
“Troy?” the man asked. “Alright then, where tha hell is Troy?”
Troy Clint Bodean was a simple man. He liked to get plenty of sleep, which he’d gotten very little of last night. Back in Afghanistan, there were days on end with no sleep. Then in Vegas, he was up at all hours workin’ the D.J. booth at the Pink Hippo strip club, and fishing boats in Louisiana hadn’t offered much time for rest either. Since he’d come to Pawleys, he’d gotten into a comfortable routine of hittin’ the hammock early and rising whenever he chose. He usually rose just after dawn, but only after a full night of shut-eye, otherwise, he might sleep in until noon.
He felt his ride—the bright orange Creekside Cab—pull onto the causeway and ease down to a slow crawl. Traffic on Myrtle Avenue was light at this hour; most of the runners, walkers and bikers had already had their turn and were probably out on the beach by now.
“Hey buddy,” he said and tapped the cabbie on the shoulder, “you can drop me here.”
A little walk to the house would be good to get his muscles working again.
“Whateva yo pleasure, mon.” The cabbie shrugged and pulled over in one of the gravel driveways.
Troy paid the man and tipped his hat to him. “Gracias, amigo.”
“Ya, mon,” the driver said and backed out and pulled away.
Troy rubbed his eyes and stretched. He took the straw hat from his head and ran his fingers backward through his black hair. He felt old today. He pulled his phone from his pocket and checked his messages—nothing new since Laura had asked him about a coffee. He thought maybe a shower would do him good, wake him up, shake the cobwebs out of his head and give him a chance to change clothes. He clicked out a new text.
-“Gonna hit my place for a few. Grab a shower and some trunks. See you girls shortly.”
-“K. Got coffee, almost back. See you there.”
-“RT.”
Troy settled the cowboy hat back on his head, slipped his Costas on, and started walking. He had no reason to pay any mind to the silver Land Rover that passed him going a g
ood clip over the posted twenty-five miles per hour speed limit, even if the radio was blaring some kind of eighties pop boy band.
Laura Kate Starlington was feeling good. She had the windows of her cousin’s car rolled down and the sunroof open. The crooning of an old group she’d loved screaming for in high school was blasting on the high-end stereo. She took a slow slurp from her chai tea and belted out a few more lines of the song. As the final chorus was fading out, she was pulling into the driveway behind her own car.
She carefully picked up the drink carrier with the three coffees, tucked the pastry she’d chosen for herself into her mouth, and grabbed the phone and keys in her other hand. She clopped up the wooden steps thinking she’d have to kick on the door to get Karah to open it rather than put anything down. But as she reached the top of the stairs, she noticed the door was slightly ajar.
That’s weird, she thought, Karah must’ve seen me coming and opened the door for me. She bumped the door open with her elbow and walked in.
“Honey, I’m home,” she called around the pastry in her mouth.
Nothing. Dang, is she still asleep?
“Karah, come on down. I got you Starbucks!” she yelled up at the ceiling.
She craned her ear up toward the second floor listening for movement. Still nothing.
“Karah?” she called again while walking toward the small table in the kitchen.
“Ya waistin’ ya time, sweet tits,” said a weasely voice from the other side of the room.
A man who might’ve been trying to impersonate a zombie was leaning against the bar that led into the kitchen. He smelled like a zombie too, but after the initial shock, Laura wasn’t very afraid of the man. He looked like he might fall over at any second. He was bleeding from more than one location, including his eye.
The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset Page 13