The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  He thought back to the business meeting on Monday, with his accountant showing him a lot of red numbers. Too much money spent on television production, and not enough coming in.

  “And friends,” he continued, staring deeply into the camera, “we need your help to keep our church open. This sanctuary is God’s house, and God has shown us that where we are gathered, there He will be.”

  The music began to play softly beneath his words, hymn-like and emotional. The choir stood behind him. As the music grew stronger, so did his words.

  “Do you need a miracle, friends?” he said and took a step toward the camera. “It is written that God will bless those who give freely. Don’t keep that of which God has given you stewardship away from Him. It is His to do with what He will. Blessings will flow to you if you only allow Him to use your gift.”

  The choir began to sing, and he raised his voice over them.

  “As we close out this morning’s glorious service,” he said, motioning with his hands, “the alter will be open. There are ushers on both sides to receive the gift you choose to bring. Come now.”

  He folded his hands together, looked toward the ceiling, and mouthed a few private words for himself, and then walked off the stage.

  The crowd surged forward, and he was certain the accountant would be happy with today’s offering. He shut the door of his office behind him, wiped the sheen of sweat off his face, and knelt.

  “Father, forgive me for what I have done,” he prayed, “but a sin of deception for the greater good seems alright with me. If you deem my work to be false and unworthy, please give me a sign and take it from me.”

  He rose slowly. He knew he had about fifteen minutes to catch his breath before the next service. The staff would have everything reset on stage. He glanced at his notes about the upcoming miracle; a young blonde mother with breast cancer. There was a picture of the actress. Nice, Brant thought, wholesome but hot, the girl next door, but maybe a little sex-kitten sprinkled in. And a perfect situation. Nothing that the audience could actually see… his acting would carry it all.

  His phone rang.

  “Yeah,” he said into the receiver.

  “Great haul this morning, Brant,” said the head usher, beaming, “we topped the last record by double.”

  “Thanks, Stephen,” he answered, “God bless.”

  “God bless, indeed,” Stephen said, and hung up.

  Another good show today and that red ink would be a thing of the past. And that’s when his whole world turned upside down.

  The hefty knock on his door sounded urgent and official. It was unusual for anyone to disturb him during the brief break he had between services. He squashed his annoyance and tucked away the folder of notes for the next miracle he would perform.

  “Yes,” he said to the door with a smile in his voice, “come on in.”

  The door swung open quickly and he was immediately struck by the gruff nature of the man in the black suit. He didn’t smile, he didn’t introduce himself… he didn’t even bat an eyelash. What he did do was walk across the carpet and slap a piece of paper on the desk. He held his fingertips on it and waited until Brant looked up at him.

  “What’s this all about?” the pastor asked, eyebrows furrowing.

  “Cease and desist,” the man said flatly as he let go of the paper.

  “Excuse me?” Brant pulled his reading glasses from the middle drawer of his desk and examined the paper.

  “Your church, its employees,” —the man pointed a finger at him— “and you, are ordered by the court of Alabama to cease and desist all activities claiming to be religious miracles.”

  Brant’s mouth opened slightly as he read the court order. “But the work of God—” he started.

  “Has been faked in this building for the last fifteen years,” the man finished.

  “It has been no such thing!” Brant pulled his glasses off. “This is a clear and simple violation of my first amendment rights! Freedom of religion, sir. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

  “In 1982 a young woman came to you for a miracle,” the man said, and pulled a picture out of his pocket and laid it on the desk, “and you kindly obliged. You waved your hands around, said some words, and proclaimed her healed.”

  Brant looked at the picture. He recognized the woman immediately.

  “She left this place and stopped all of her medical treatments, believing that the power of God had healed her,” the man continued, “but it hadn’t… had it?”

  “God’s plans are not always understood by His people,” Brant said weakly.

  “It would’ve been one thing had you just been wrong about her physical well-being, but it was quite another to coerce this woman to send you all of her remaining life savings as a donation for the so-called miracle you performed.”

  “Now, you see here,” Brant said, standing, “there was no coercion at all. That woman was free to send us whatever she wanted, and it just so happened that she did. I had nothing to do—”

  The man interrupted him. “Before she died, she went on record saying that she had been convinced by members of your church, including you, that if she didn’t send the money, the miracle could be reversed.”

  “That is absolutely not true,” Brant said, defending himself. “And besides that, all of that is mere hearsay.”

  “Perhaps,” the man said, shrugging, “but when you combine it with the affidavits of three actors whom you hired in the past to act out miracle healings, it doesn’t look good. Does it, Mr. Reginald.”

  Brant swallowed. It was bound to happen. The church paid the actors well and had them sign contracts saying they would keep their mouths shut. He knew they were taking monumental risks. But it was for the greater good.

  “What are the terms of the order?” Brant slumped back into his chair.

  “You and all the board of directors of the church will resign. The United Methodist Church has already signed your defrocking papers. The television station just confirmed that the broadcast of the Heavenly Father’s Holy Sanctuary Church of Fairhope, Alabama, is officially canceled. You are finished.”

  The man walked across the plush carpet and stood in the doorway.

  “The church will be allowed to remain open, but under entirely new leadership,” he said as he pulled the door, “and who knows, maybe this time they’ll get an honest preacher.”

  He slammed the door, leaving Brant alone. Dreadfully alone. The shock rolled over him in waves, and tears rolled down his cheeks as he fell to his knees.

  “Father,” he said, clutching his hands together, “why hast thou forsaken me?”

  But he knew the answer to his question. He was being tested. Much like the early Christians being thrown into cells, locked in chains, and fed to the lions, Brant Reginald had finally gotten the attention of God. He convinced himself it wasn’t the end, but merely a new beginning. He pulled himself up and sat back in his chair. Oddly, he felt the chains of oppression being lifted from his shoulders. Light streamed through the windows of his office and he knew God was with him. What to do next? What now, Lord?

  Penance. He picked up the photograph the man had left on his desk. Aliah Ranchero. He’d start by finding this woman’s family and begging for their forgiveness. Next, his attention turned to a photo on his desk, his estranged wife and son. His wife was long dead, taken by a drunk driver, but his son… he had driven his son away—furious that he wouldn’t repent for what he’d done.

  He wondered what Remington was up to now and if he’d ever gotten right with God. Lord, the boy had always been a strange one, and the incident with Gram had certainly shoved him over the edge into a sinful nature. No matter. Brant’s journey was one for his own sins, not the sins of his boy.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the last number he had for his son.

  16

  Do You Hear What I Hear?

  Troy Bodean couldn’t stop the twitching in his legs while he watched Joe Bond set up the fancy tracking machine�
��which he revealed had been a gift from Chris Collins at the C.I.A. He didn’t understand anything at all about the mumbo-jumbo Joe tried to explain to them about the machine, but he knew it could find Taz—if Taz answered his phone—and if he stayed on the line for longer than a minute. Jack Colpiller was pacing back and forth, alternately wringing his hands and chewing his lips. They were both anxious to figure out what their next move was going to be… and it all hinged on finding Taz.

  Joe Bond punched in the number from the text messages they’d recovered from Caroline’s phone. As they listened, the line connected and began to ring. Joe put his hand over the receiver to effectively mute the call, and nodded his head toward the tracing machine.

  “It disguises the number so that he can’t tell where we’re calling from,” he said. “It shows up as a pizza place on his end.”

  Joe put his mouth back to the receiver, and Troy decided he couldn’t stand the waiting anymore. Ever since Afghanistan, he’d been about as non-confrontational as a man could get. He made eye-contact with Joe and mouthed the question, Water? Joe mouthed back, Down the hall. At that moment, the line picked up.

  “G’day?” said the speaker on the other end.

  “Ah, yes, sir.” Joe tried to make his voice sound higher than usual. “This is Joe from Super Sid’s Pizza Emporium. I’m your delivery driver and I need directions, please.”

  Taz was quiet for a second, but then answered. “Ah sure as shit dint order any pizza,” he said gruffly, “and ah’m kinda busy right now, so—”

  “Oh, um, sorry, but my manager says it’s way over time and you can have it anyway,” Joe said, shrugging to indicate he couldn’t think of anything better to say. “Just tell me where to bring it.”

  Troy opened the office door as quietly as he could and stepped into the hall. Before he closed it behind him, he heard Taz say, “Look ‘ere, ya twit, I didn’t order any fookin’ pizza and I don’t…”

  Troy gently closed the door, missing the rest of the conversation. He hoped Joe could keep the kid on the line long enough for the machine to work its magic and get a location for Taz.

  As he stepped into the hall, he noticed an odd collection of men walking single file past him. They all had dark hair, curly, and a little shorter than shoulder length. And they all had beards and blue eyes. It was like a convention of Troy wannabes parading past him in the police department. He nudged the last guy in line.

  “Hey man,” he said, “you know where the water fountain is in this place?”

  The man looked down the hall toward where the convoy of Troys was heading. “It’s down there, bro.”

  “Right on,” Troy said and fell in behind them. “Thanks, man.”

  “You bet,” the guy said. “You here for the lineup?”

  “S’cuse me?” Troy asked.

  “Peepin’ Tom thing,” he said, “down on Key Biscayne.”

  “I don’t have a clue what—”

  Troy was interrupted by a mean looking officer who stepped out of a room in front of the walking line of men.

  “Shut it,” he said, and waved the first man into a door to the left, “and get your butts in there.”

  Troy slowed to let the guys get a distance ahead of him. The officer cocked his head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows.

  “You too, dude,” he said, and waved harshly at Troy, “fall in.”

  “Oh, no, sir.” Troy held up his hands. “I ain’t no Peepin’ Tom. I’m here with the other—”

  “Yeah, right.” The officer grabbed Troy by the arm. “That’s what they all say. I’m innocent, I’m innocent. Get your ass in there.”

  “I think you’ve got a little mix up here, sir,” Troy tried to protest, but the officer shoved him into the room and closed the door.

  Troy heard the lock click behind them. Inside the long narrow room, the other guys were lining up along the wall to the left. On that wall were lines indicating height, and on the opposite wall was a mirror… obviously a two-way mirror with someone on the other side, hoping to pinpoint the South Beach Peeping Tom.

  Troy walked up to the mirror and put his hands beside his eyes, peering into the glass. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake here,” he said, seeing nothing in the mirror but his own eyes. “I’m not here for a lineup.”

  “Against the wall, number five,” a voice crackled through the loudspeaker, “or you’ll be spending a night in a jail cell.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Back it up, number four!”

  Troy wasn’t sure why he’d been dubbed number five, but then he looked at the other guys in line. They all had sheets of paper that had large numbers printed on them… one through four. He had no sheet of paper. Troy moved toward the door and as soon as his hand touched the knob, it jerked open and the mean looking police officer grabbed him by the arms, flipped him around backwards, and had him cuffed behind his back within seconds.

  “Get in line now, number five!” he yelled at Troy, and shoved him back against the wall with the other four men.

  He reached up and jerked the cowboy hat off of Troy’s head, then walked out the door and slammed it behind him.

  Number four looked at him with a grin. “Nice work, bro. Fight the po-leese.” He held up a fist, presumably to fist-bump Troy, but then realized Troy was now handcuffed, so, he bumped his shoulder.

  “This is a load a crap,” Troy muttered, and backed up against the wall.

  When they got situated into a reasonable line, the loudspeaker crackled again.

  “Number one,” it said, “please step forward.”

  The man took a step.

  “Turn to your left.”

  The man complied.

  “Turn to your right.”

  It was strange watching the reflection of the similar looking men watching the first guy go through the motions.

  “Now,” the voice continued, “say the line.”

  The first man held up a piece of paper and read it. “Show them to me. Oh, yes, Mrs. Morgenstern, show me those huge funbags,” he said flatly. “I’m gonna motorboat those beautiful balloons,”

  Number three snickered, and predictably the voice in the speaker told him to shut his mouth.

  Troy had started to laugh too, but when the name came, he froze. Morgenstern. Morgenstern, he repeated to himself, why do I recognize that name?

  “Back in line, number one.”

  This continued down the row, each man passing the script down. By the time it had reached Troy, he was sweating. The cop re-entered and took off the handcuffs.

  Troy turned to him and started to ask about his hat, but the man looked meaner than before, so he kept his mouth shut.

  “Step forward, number five.”

  Troy stepped forward and shielded his eyes from the bright lights. “Um, respectfully speakin’, sir or sirs, I ain’t involved in this case.”

  “Turn to the right.”

  Troy turned and said, “It’s a case of mistaken identity. If you’ll just get Detective Joe Bond in here, he can clear all this up.”

  “Turn to the left.”

  Troy did as he was told, and said, “I’m not sure what the deal is, but if we can get Joe to come down for a sec, this’ll all be—”

  “Read the line,” the voice interrupted.

  Number four reached out, handing him the script. Troy held it in his left hand and stretched out his right, palm up. “But I don’t have anything to do with—”

  The mean cop took a quick step toward him and drew his baton. “Read the damn line.”

  Troy stepped backward from the cop. “I got it. Read the line.”

  The cop grimaced at him and stepped back toward the door. Troy held up the paper, and as he read through it in his mind, it clicked. Mrs. Morgenstern. Funbags. Beautiful Balloons. Dangit. It was Billy, the security guard at the Tennis Garden, and Linda Morgenstern. His mouth went dry.

  “Read the line, number five!”

  Troy swallowed. “Can I get a lawyer.”


  Taz hung up the phone, trying to decide what was stranger; the delivery dude not taking no for an answer on bringing him a pizza he didn’t order, or the freak of nature sitting in front of him in the old lady’s nightgown, listening to classical music, stroking the back of a skunk like a cat with one hand, and clutching a small, white-faced doll in the other hand.

  “So, we meet at last, Mr. Hull,” the man in the gown said. “What is it that I can do for you?”

  Taz was still wearing the bandana to mask the smell of the skunk still heavy in the room, but it wasn’t doing much to help. He pulled the bandana down. “Money,” he said, “plain ‘n simple.”

  “And why should I give you anything?” the man Taz knew as Mr. Smith asked, adding, with the hint of a smile on his lips, “I know what you’ve done. I’m the one with all the cards. I could have you in jail with a single call to the police.”

  Taz thought for a second. It was a good question. He hadn’t really thought this through. He knew Smith had information about his own case, but he also had information about the senator’s case as well. And as he stood there, watching this strange man rock the baby doll and the skunk, the pieces clicked into place. He smiled. “Because,” Taz said through his teeth, “ah know what you’ve done too.”

  The man’s smile faltered a little, but he recovered quickly. “Which is?”

  “You’ve struck a deal wif the devil, aincha?” Taz asked rhetorically. “Ah watched ya meet with the good senator. I dunno what you asked for, but if you weren’t blackmailing the man he’d be in jail by now.”

  “My business with the senator has absolutely nothing to do with you,” Mr. Smith said, though he stopped rocking. “And that doesn’t matter now anyway. That business has already been conducted.”

  “Conducted in private, yeah?” Taz said, grinning. “But what if it ain’t private anymore?”