Without hesitation, he took the crowbar and wedged in between the lock and then leaned on it. At first, nothing happened — the lock was old, but the clasp was thick. But he didn’t give up. With a grunt, Beckett pressed all his weight down on the crowbar.
There was a metallic grinding sound, followed by a snap. Although the clasp hadn’t come completely free, all it took was a few twists with his hand and Beckett managed to slip it off.
No sooner had he pulled the lock free, was the door pushed open from the inside.
Beckett jumped out of the way, holding the crowbar in one hand, while moving the other to the X-Acto knife in his waistband.
A woman clad only in a string bikini bolted out of the room. Her eyes were streaked with black makeup and her hair was a mess, but for an instant, Beckett thought that it was actually Chloe.
But when she didn’t stop and he got a really good look at her, Beckett realized that it wasn’t Chloe, but one of the many women from last night who looked just like her.
He was about to step inside the cell when three other women pushed by him. He stepped aside and allowed them to pass.
His heart had been racing before, but now it felt as if his blood had started to boil. He couldn’t wrap his mind around what these women had felt, locked in a dark room, not knowing when, if ever, they’d be let free again.
Beckett watched as the women made there way down the hall and out of sight. When they were finally gone, and he was convinced that no other women were inside the makeshift cell, he stepped inside.
The interior was the complete opposite of the rest of the yacht: the floor appeared to be made of concrete, as did the walls. There were stains on both, dark stains that looked like oil or some other equally viscous substance. Near the back was a bucket that, even from his distance, Beckett knew what was used for.
The smell gave it away.
Off to one side was another wooden pallet, just like the one outside the room, only this one wasn’t empty; it was stacked waist high with bricks of yellow powder.
And then there were the dozen or so loops of black fabric, gags or maybe blindfolds, several of which had splotches of rust-colored stains on them like those on the wall.
His blood still boiling, Beckett pulled the X-Acto knife from his waist and clutched it tightly, his thumb on the slide.
Yeah, Donnie DiMarco was going to pay alright.
Just as he started to back out of the room, someone spoke from behind him and for the second time in as many minutes, Beckett froze.
“I told you that I needed your help, Beckett, but you just wouldn’t listen.”
Chapter 28
Screech stared at his cell phone for a long time before replying. He’d managed to remain relatively calm and sane up to this point by convincing himself that Drake could solve all his problems, but now he realized how foolish that idea was.
After all, Drake had his own problems to deal with, ones that rivaled, or even exceeded, his own. It wasn’t fair to bring him on board with this.
Screech swallowed hard and wiped the tears from his eyes.
You’re a fucking adult, Screech. Why don’t you start acting like one?
He read the message one final time before forming his perfunctory message.
Found the yacht and let Bob know.
He quickly followed this with a second.
Everything’s all good.
It hurt him to lie to his friend, but it wasn’t the first time, and most definitely wouldn’t be the last.
He wondered briefly how many times you had to do things that were against your character, contrary to what you believed in, before you were just kidding yourself; before that was who you actually were.
Screech was about to slip the phone back into his pocket when it buzzed with Drake’s reply.
Remember what Bob said; discretion. I’ll see you when you get back.
With a sigh, Screech rose to his feet.
Discretion… something tells me that this is going to stick with me for a long, long time.
He swore then looked out the cockpit windshield.
At first, he simply stared out at sea, watching as the waves broke fifty feet from shore. He almost got lost in this hypnotic scene and might have even fallen asleep for a few seconds, before he heard something.
The sound of people making their way down the dock.
Bob Bumacher was striding forward, a stern look on his pink face, two militia walking briskly behind him.
Screech glanced down at the dials all around him and shook his head.
Steal this thing? Really? I’d have better luck operating a plasma torch without getting burnt.
It occurred to him then that stealing the yacht was probably never the actual plan, but rather just a way for Beckett to get rid of him.
And Screech knew exactly why the man wanted to be alone.
“Fuck,” he said, rubbing his eyes.
He had to do something.
As much as he despised Donnie DiMarco and what he’d done, he couldn’t let Beckett go through with it.
He couldn’t allow a repeat of Craig Sloan.
Once you went there… you could never come back. And Screech thought he might still be able to save his friend.
I’ve got to stop him, he thought as he forced his tired legs to make him move again.
Chapter 29
“Fancy meeting you here,” Beckett said with a sneer.
Donnie smirked and waved the gun in his hand back and forth.
“You did this… you brought that man — Bob Bumacher — here, didn’t you?” Donnie said, still smiling.
Beckett said nothing, but he slipped the X-Acto blade back into the waistband of his boxers as he raised the crowbar in his other hand as a distraction.
Donnie’s eyes followed the crowbar.
“Yeah, you did. I don’t know why I thought we could work together, that you could help me — that we could help each other. I should have known that Ken Smith would get involved.”
Beckett tried to keep his composure, but the mention of New York City’s Mayor threw him for a loop.
Ken Smith? Is he involved in this, somehow? More importantly, what does this have to do with me?
“See, the thing is… I think we were both set up. I can see it in your face, good doctor: you didn’t even know that he was behind you coming here. What, you think it’s a coincidence that the moment you arrive, Bob shows up as well?”
Beckett’s brow furrowed.
He thought back to his meeting with Internal Affairs after what had happened with Craig Sloan. Not only had they decided not to press charges against Beckett, but they’d also refrained from reporting the incident to the College of American Pathologists. Instead, they’d suggested that he take a vacation.
And, lo and behold, Beckett’s friend had called not twenty-four hours later, letting him know that if he ever wanted to get away from the city, that he could stay at the very exclusive resort on the Virgin Gorda…
Beckett shook his head, wondering why he hadn’t seen the connection earlier.
He wasn’t sure if Ken Smith was behind this, but the fact remained that someone wanted him here, someone who wanted him to meet up with Donnie DiMarco.
Whether their intention was for Beckett to help Donnie with his particular problem, or to do what he’d done to Craig Sloan, was unknown.
Either way, Beckett had already made up his mind.
“It doesn’t matter why you and I are here, only that we are,” he said at last.
The smile slid off Donnie’s face.
“Oh, it matters alright, it matters a great deal. I, for one, am nobody’s puppet. I’m Donnie DiMarco, for Christ’s sake. Now, why don’t you drop that crowbar and step forward?”
Beckett let go of the crowbar and it clanged loudly on the concrete floor.
“You’re going to pay for what you did,” Beckett said through clenched teeth. His fingers were tingling again and his heart had started to race, not with fe
ar, however, but with something else.
Excitement.
Donnie gave him a funny look.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it? You’re some sort of caped crusader, now? Don’t forget that I know what you did — I know that you killed Craig Sloan. I know that you bashed his skull in with a rock. I know this, because the same people that made sure you came to this island told me about you. And you wanna know what the funny thing is? I came to you for help, to help my girls so that they stopped dying. But that asshole Ken and his men? They’re the real bad guys, the worst of the—”
A spindly figure suddenly appeared behind Donnie, something round and cylindrical clutched in two hands.
Donnie never saw the blow coming.
Screech drove the butt end of the fire extinguisher into the side of the man’s head. His eyes rolled back and he staggered for a moment before collapsing to the ground in a heap. The gun skittered across the floor and when it bumped against the wall, Beckett came to his senses. He dashed over to Donnie, slipping the X-Acto knife from his boxers as he did.
“W-we have to get out of h-h-here,” Screech stuttered. “B-b-bob’s coming.”
Beckett ignored his friend as he hovered over Donnie’s fallen body. The man’s eyes were fluttering and he was moaning between labored breaths. There was a trickle of blood coming from his temple, which made his hair look even darker.
Beckett leaned in close.
“I told you I’d make you pay,” he whispered in the man’s ear.
The thing about being a doctor, especially a pathologist, is that you implicitly knew the most efficient methods to kill someone; all you needed to do was reverse engineer what they taught you in med school, mainly how to save someone’s life.
When a patient breaks their femur, the first thing you do is make sure that their femoral artery is intact. If it’s ruptured or damaged in any way, you need to stem the bleeding quickly, else the patient will bleed out in about five minutes.
The sound of footsteps above provided the perfect distraction. After confirming that Screech’s eyes had drifted upward, Beckett slipped the knife into his hand and extended the blade a quarter inch. Then, with his free hand, he hiked up the right leg of Donnie’s shorts.
All it took was one small, deep incision, and Donnie’s pale inner thigh started to turn red.
Beckett lowered the man’s shorts again and they immediately started to darken as they sopped up his blood.
“Screech? Help me get Donnie upstairs,” he said quickly. “We need to get him upstairs before anyone finds him.”
Chapter 30
Screech passed a fire extinguisher on the way to the lower deck and for some reason, he picked it up. And then, when he eventually found Donnie holding Beckett at gunpoint, he was glad he had: without thinking, he drove the bottom of the tank against the side of the man’s head. Screech had never hit someone in the head with anything, let alone a metal fire extinguisher, and wasn’t sure how much strength to put behind it. But Donnie had a gun, which meant that not enough power would likely mean getting shot and maybe even killed.
He gave it his all, and Donnie dropped like a stone.
As Screech struggled to catch his breath, he heard footsteps upstairs. Despite only being distracted for thirty-seconds, maybe even less, Beckett had done… something… during that time. In his periphery, Screech caught a flurry of movement, but when he looked back his friend appeared the same as before: hovering over Donnie, staring down at the man with a loathsome expression on his face.
But while Beckett appeared the same, Donnie had changed: for one, the man’s bladder appeared to have let go and his shorts had started to turn dark.
His eyes were also different; the alpha look, the steely gaze, that Screech recalled from yesterday in the lobby when Donnie was ordering the receptionist around, was gone.
Beckett was the alpha now, of this, Screech had no doubt.
But there was no time to think about what any of this meant, or literally anything at all that had happened over the past twenty-four hours. It wouldn’t do either him or Beckett any good if they were found with the unconscious man only a few feet from the makeshift cell.
Screech wrapped one arm around Donnie’s waist, while Beckett did the same on the other side. Together, they hoisted him to his feet, and then they dragged Donnie to the stairs. It took some effort — Donnie was no small man — but they eventually managed to haul him up to the upper deck.
It was only when they made their way around the staircase that Screech noticed his hands were stained with blood.
Beckett did do something… he… what? Cut him? Stabbed him?
The strange thing was that the only injury Screech could see was the trickle of blood from where Donnie had been struck with the fire extinguisher.
“Go get Bob,” Beckett ordered in a calm voice. “Intercept him.”
Screech blinked.
“What are you… what are you gonna do?” he whispered.
Beckett looked to the water over the side of the railing before answering.
“Donnie is going to have an accident,” he said simply. Then he turned back to Screech and unexpectedly shouted. “Go, Screech! Go! Don’t let Bob come over here.”
Screech blinked again and then took to action, sprinting toward the other side of the yacht. Only before he turned the corner, he chanced a look back over his shoulder.
Beckett was hovering over Donnie’s body again and he was saying something. Donnie only moaned in reply and Screech realized that the blood on his hands had come from the man’s right leg. He also noticed a red smear leading from the staircase to where Donnie now lay.
Yeah, Screech thought, his stomach suddenly tight. Beckett did that. I don’t know how, or where, exactly, but he cut him.
And then, as Screech watched in sheer horror, Beckett reached down and wrapped his arms around Donnie’s waist.
His friend’s lips moved as they pressed against Donnie’s ear, but from his distance, Screech couldn’t make out any words.
And then, without ceremony, Beckett hoisted the man to his feet and tossed him over the side.
Screech wasn’t sure why, but he reached into his pocket then and pulled out his cell phone.
Maybe it was instinct, or maybe he was just continuing with orders from Ken Smith, but either way, Screech snapped several photographs, first of Beckett, then of the bloody deck, and finally of Donnie DiMarco in the water.
The shock of being submerged must’ve caused the bearded man to come to, because in the photograph that Screech captured, Donnie’s arms were outstretched, reaching toward the surface, his eyes wide.
Only he was too weak to swim.
The sound of someone approaching caused Beckett to turn, and Screech quickly ducked behind a pillar. Only he wasn’t quite fast enough.
Beckett had seen him, Screech was sure of it. And this realization sent a shiver of fear up and down his spine.
Chapter 31
“Donnie had an accident,” Beckett said with a straight face.
Bob Bumacher’s eyes drifted to the blood-streaked deck boards, then to the red smears on Beckett’s bare chest.
Beckett didn’t falter: he locked eyes with the muscular man across from him, wondering what he was going to say.
But instead of asking for details, an explanation, Bob simply nodded.
“The world is better off without him.”
The choice of words struck a chord with Beckett and reminded him of one of the last things that Donnie had said.
About how Bob Bumacher was worse than him.
But that asshole Ken and his men? They’re the real bad guys…
Bob turned to Screech next.
“Well, we better get this place cleaned up. Then do you guys want a lift back to the mainland? You can hop on a flight to New York from there.”
Screech, who somehow looked paler than he had even after spending a night in the water, nodded.
“What about the bodies? The ones Donnie
planted in my bed?” Beckett asked.
Bob glanced over his shoulder at the militia that were standing on the ramp leading up to the yacht.
One bad dude is put out of business, but business stays the same, Beckett thought unexpectedly.
“The girls that Donnie killed? It looks like he paid for that. I wouldn’t worry about the rest.”
Beckett nodded again.
There was a coldness to Bob Bumacher, one that put him on edge. Again, he was reminded of Donnie’s final words.
Beckett turned his eyes to the water and stared at the bubbles that rose to the surface, the last vestiges of Donnie’s existence.
If Bob truly was a bad man, then his day would come.
His day would come just like it had for Craig Sloan and Donnie DiMarco.
Epilogue
Beckett closed his eyes and took a deep breath. In his mind, he saw Donnie’s face several inches below the surface of the water.
He deserved to die, Beckett told himself with a nod. Donnie might have come to me for help, but the fact remains that he was responsible for the deaths of those two girls and countless others.
With a sigh, he took a seat on the edge of his bed and removed a leather case from the bedside table.
Inside, Beckett found a pencil with a sewing needle embedded on the end. With the precision of a surgeon, he wrapped a length of thread around the end of the needle, then dipped both into a small container of ink.
Using a small vanity mirror, he observed the tattoo that ran horizontally across his ribs beneath his right arm.
Inhaling sharply, he brought the stick and poke contraption to his skin.
As Beckett tattooed a second line beneath the first, he repeated the name of his most recent victim under his breath.
“Donnie DiMarco… Donnie DiMarco… Donnie DiMarco…”
When he was done, he ran a finger over the first line.
“Craig Sloan,” he whispered. Then he traced the new, red and raw tattoo. “Donnie DiMarco.”
It wasn’t remorse that Beckett felt in that moment, but something else entirely.
Bitter End Page 9