by Vince Milam
“Ears.”
“Necklace?”
“Haven't decided. I'll allow them to dry for a day or two. I feel like steak.”
“I feel like another permanent bloody benchmark was pounded into the ground. And I look back and see a long trail of those.”
He stood and rolled his shoulders. An owl hooted above us, having perched and watched the killing floor below. Mosquitoes came and went with the breeze. The smell of the nearby dead man's blood carried over us.
“Coronado and the staked plain.”
His statement referenced the conquistador explorer. Which would segue into one of Bo's life tales. I could rise and check dead bodies for ID, but didn't feel like moving. Stars were flung by the bushelfull overhead. Post-battle drain ruled. My heartbeat stood normal, but the backwash of adrenaline still coursed.
“Okay. Staked plain.”
“The Texas-New Mexico border lands. The Llano Estacado. Where Coronado sought the city of gold. The terrain featureless. It was said he set tall stakes as he moved. Back-sighted on those and ensured he kept a straight line. Never found gold. Maybe he should have stopped having those left-behind stakes guide him.”
Pine needles pricked the back of my neck and I scratched a spot along my thigh that called for it an hour ago.
“You're making a helluva point. Which means I've slipped off the deep end. Or unknowingly received a head shot.”
“Tonight was a single point on our path. Future points need not align with this one.”
I extended a hand and he pulled me upright. The profile of the Ace—dim, with stark geometric lines surrounded by the softer curves of nature—shone sufficient to anchor me. I gripped the back of Bo's neck and shared a forehead bump.
“Thanks. He had me,” I said.
“Perhaps you had him. Don't dismiss the possibility. Schrodinger’s cat.”
“Screw the cat, my brother. You took care of business.”
He patted my side. “So shall we finish this business, cast off, and eat?” His white teeth gleamed, the smile so genuine and so, so needed.
We finished this business. Each body searched. No ID, no identifiers. They carried MK17 assault rifles with night vision scopes —standard stuff. Man was I lucky. The guy Bo shot twenty feet away from me likely relied on naked vision, focused on movement within the brushy area. Use of his scope may have identified my shape. I’d never know. Thirty minutes later we boarded their boat. We wore gloves—no fingerprints. The vessel contained no papers, registrations, nothing. They ran this ops incognito. Operators.
We backed off the mud bank and eased away from the preserve. Entered Currituck Sound, headed south. Currituck—a thirty mile long and five mile wide estuarial bay—held a few tug/barge combinations and fewer pleasure boats as the evening progressed. I fixed a double shot of Grey Goose on ice. Bo grabbed a beer. We shared the wheelhouse.
“Pay Case a visit,” Bo said. “Relax. Get it together. I'd forgotten you don't live a boring life, El Conquistador.”
“Could use some boring.”
“A substantial body count for a Colonel Mustard in the library gig. Seven?”
“Two of those are yours.”
“Five, then. I mention expired inhabitants of this earth only to ward off your angst-filled reflection BS. A preventative assault.”
“Good of you.”
“Yes it is. And those weren't bounty hunters. They wanted your Jack Tilly butt in a sling. Layers and timing, bucko.”
“The Caribbean job kicked it off. I'll buy that. But the bounty might have been the sugar frosting. Added incentive.”
“Which plunges recent events into a different category. Driven by clandestine ops,” Bo said.
“Yeah. I get it.”
The damn bounty. Catch, Bo, and I came close in New Guinea. A Russian. We sniffed, circled, and captured someone who knew the funding source. But he was killed before answers emerged.
Besides the Russians and the CIA, bounty knowledge nested among the unknowns. The Chinese may have owned awareness. Or not. Hard to say.
“Well, get this goober boy. You can make a clean break. You're off the grid again. Change course. Stop looking back at those stakes.”
“I'm tired, Bo. My own private swirl. Let's let the clock tick for a while.”
We did. The night was night warm and clear, the Ace rumbled, life washed past. We crossed into North Carolina waters and an hour later turned east. Found anchorage among the marsh islands of the Currituck National Wildlife Refuge, part of the long barrier island separating the bay from the Atlantic.
I retrieved steaks from the fridge, fired the upper deck grill, and opened a bottle of Virginia wine. Bo lit a bowl of weed and hung in his hammock.
“So, just spitballing here,” he said, voice low and filled with humor. “But a niche market may have arrived at your doorstep. A business opportunity.”
“Do tell.” The steaks sizzled while the dim lights of far distant burgs were the sole reminder we weren’t alone on this planet. The aftermath of killing began shedding its weight.
“Young folks appear enamored with adventure activities. Well, crank it up a notch.”
“I know where this is going.”
“I can see the social media ads. Thinking of hiking the Andes? Why not take it to the next level?”
“Come take the ride of your life on board the Ace of Spades,” I said, grinning. “Get your adventurous tail shot at.”
“Yes, the Russians will be after your adventure-seeking ass. But that's not all! The Chinese have joined the chase. Attempts on your life from multiple sources!”
“And it all starts with a visit to the Clubhouse. Where the business end of a double barrel shotgun greets you at the door.”
“And as an added bonus,” he said. “We’ll visit a variety of exotic spots and ensure a professional killer or three joins the fray.”
“Weaponry and bullet-proof gear not included,” I said, laughing. Release flowed and equilibrium reset. Silly, foolish stuff—but it fueled the relief valve.
“Your mileage may vary.” Bo chuckled along with me.
I was home, nestled. Bo added much needed companionship. And we’d made it. Made it through another dark slice of life. One hidden from all but a very few on this good earth. Events unknown, unmarked, tucked away in the inky shadows as the grand clock ticked on. I cast quick glance well past the stars to express gratitude and make a request. “Thanks. Sincerely. From both of us. But could use a little help navigating forward.”
Chapter 16
Dawn. A new day and greeted with open arms. Coffee time. I padded onto the foredeck, avoiding excessive noise in case Bo slept. His hammock hung empty. Well, he’d always been a pre-dawn riser. Coffee water heated as I stretched, working out the kinks. I heard my red-headed brother before sighting him. He belted out an old Rolling Stones song from around a shoreline curve of head-high marsh grass. He appeared, splashing along, a driftwood-made spear—no more than a sharpened stick—raised and pointed my direction as a mock threat. Then tossed into the marsh. His other hand gripped the gills of a large redfish. Breakfast.
“The menu stipulated croaker,” I said. “What kind of B&B you running here, mister?”
A blank canvas, another day, and started fresh. A personal commitment not to back-sight those bloody stakes. All good.
“Fresh out of croaker, my Georgia mullet. Catch as catch can.” I handed him a filet knife and avoided his use of the Bundeswehr—a weapon recently used for other activities. Two ears were strung on a looped length of cord at the front rail, gaining full sun exposure for quicker drying. Bo squatted near the Ace's bow and with a deft hand produced two fat filets.
“You want anything with that?” I fired another burner and placed a cast iron skillet over the flame. Poured a bit of olive oil and rummaged for spices.
“Coffee.”
“Can do easy.”
We cruised, ate with our fingers, and relished the act of being. The day turned hot, the wi
nd light as we headed south. A wave and smile toward passing vessels—tugs, pleasure boats, cruisers. The low rumble of the Ace’s diesel felt through bare feet.
Bo plugged his version of music into the sound system. Low verbal hums, deep kettle drums, and random short high frequency electronic slashes. It washed over the foredeck and into the wheelhouse.
“Just an FYI,” I said through the wheelhouse's open windows. "This so-called music has limited appeal. A limited time-frame appeal.”
Bo lay in his hammock, feet pointed toward the bow. At each electronic screech across the drummed and hummed backtrack, he'd raise both arms and gesture outward. A push-away. “Limited being the operative word. Dig deep, Mr. Lee.”
“Or dig out some earplugs below deck.”
Four or five hours until Albemarle Sound. A five mile crossing and re-enter the hemmed-in Intracoastal Waterway. The Ditch. No place I'd rather be.
“So what's the plan, Stan?” Bo asked.
His general enquiry about where this sojourn might head. My response offered an opportunity to turn off the music.
“Four hundred miles between us and Charleston. A three or four day trip. Take in our private slice of the Ditch.”
“And visit your mom and CC?”
“Yep.”
“Cool.”
And that was that. Bo world—take it as it comes.
“Gotta make a phone call,” I said. “And file a report. That’s the extent of this day's plans. Other than to keep heading south.”
“The mysterious yet much beloved Mr. Pettis?”
“One and the same.” I'd try him through my Jack Tilly temporary phone exchange. It would appear as an Omaha number for Pettis. “He's in Cali and may still slumber with sweet dreams. Those will halt in short order after he hears from me.”
“Roust him with the dulcet tones of your voice. Fill me in post-contact. I’m here to help. But there may be a learning curve with this sleuthing stuff.”
“You’ll require a trench coat. At least look the part.”
“Bo Dickerson. Man of mystique.”
“You mean mystery.”
“No, goober.” He swung his legs from the hammock and beat a rhythm against his rock-hard stomach. “Mysteries abound. It is one's approach to them that matters.”
“And what type of sleuthing gigs would interest you? I can place a good word with the Zurich gnomes.” Man, I missed hanging with him. They broke and buried the Bo mold.
“Time and space issues. Navigating the universe.”
“Serious stuff. You have experience?”
“Beaucoup. I'm awash in it.”
“The Swiss should be duly impressed.”
The breeze stiffened and the Ace plowed its rolling gait forward. Another pot of coffee brewed and the final step of the Caribbean job was initiated. I dialed Jordan Pettis.
“Who's this?” Demanding and accusatory and delivered with buckets of attitude.
“Mr. Pettis. My name is Jack Tilly. Providence Insurance Company.”
He hung up. I tried again. No answer. So be it. As a final effort, I texted.
Hey, dumbass. This is about Bettencourt and Whitmore and you staying alive.
Ten seconds later my phone rang. He didn't wait for me to speak.
“Insurance company my ass. And I thought you people never contacted the client.”
I didn’t have the foggiest notion what he meant.
“You want to run that by again, Pettis?”
“I. Am. Your. Client. And those Zurich people said I'd never hear from you. Well that's worked really well.”
Oh man. Pettis contacted Global Resolutions for the Caribbean job. With Case Lee the appointed finder of answers.
“Didn't know you were my client, so cool your jets. This is a courtesy call about the deaths of Bettencourt and Whitmore.”
"Tell me."
Bo cranked push-ups under the foredeck tarp. I eased west toward Albemarle Sound. A pod of dolphins angled toward the Ace, the sun dancing off their backs as they surfaced.
"You there?" he asked.
"Not for long. Bottom line, Mr. Congeniality—you'll want to keep your head low. Hitters might be after you."
"Hitters?"
"Killers. And their ranks swell the longer I talk with you."
"Hey! Chill! I'm stressed, all right? Tilly, right? Jack Tilly? You ever been the target for bad guys, Tilly?"
"Once or twice. Read the report after I submit it later today. You paid for it. But understand you're in a precarious situation."
"No shit, Sherlock. I contacted the Bay Area FBI after Bettencourt and Whitmore died and told them the same thing. They blew me off. Blew me off!"
"I’m stunned. Read the report."
"Wait! Wait! We need to talk."
"No we don't."
"Look, look. I could use someone like you. I'm hiding on this stupid island behind locked doors. I'll pay."
"Don't do bodyguard work. Good luck, Pettis."
I hung up. He called back. When I didn't answer, he began texting. What a jerk.
Turned out he sat in the American Virgin Islands. Even I could figure that's where he met Whitmore. And pitched his Costa Rica deal. Whitmore knew Bettencourt, and brought him into the fold as another investor. Chain complete. But the text messages also came with offers of further employment. He knew when he’d contacted Global Resolutions they'd hire someone like me. Someone with special skills. Fine. But I wasn't playing nanny for this venture capital jerk.
Bo piloted while I completed my report. I mentioned the conversation with Pettis—full disclosure. Sent it encrypted through the deep web. Zurich would acknowledge receipt and fatten my Swiss bank account. Done and done.
Chapter 17
"So here's what I don't get," I said. "You've always clicked with women. So what's the issue?"
We sat in the lone bar of a tiny burg along the Ditch. I'd refueled and bought a few food items. This stretch of the Ditch was hemmed with Spanish moss-laden oaks. Bright green aquatic vegetation bobbed across the surface as a wealth of insects started their nighttime cacophony. The bar’s screened windows and doors kept them at bay. My poison was Grey Goose on the rocks. Bo drank a beer. A dozen folks sat with us along the bar or at tables. A few younger couples, several retirees, and three large guys liquored up at a corner table. Intermittent waves of their loud laughter filled the place. And a barkeep who paid close attention to the televised ball game droning above the bar. No killers, no bounty hunters. The docked Ace was visible through a screen window.
"Issue connotes a problem,” Bo said. “I would contend that’s the wrong category.”
"Okay."
“Let’s look at this swirl we call life. And have a gander at you.”
“Okay.”
Bo peeled off the beer bottle label, wadded it between two fingers, and dropped it on the bar top.
“Among the billions of stars and planets and through a weird time continuum, you and Rae connected.”
My murdered wife, Rae Ellen Bonham.
“Like a nuclear collider,” he continued. “Two atoms among billions connect. Explode.”
“We fell in love, Bo.”
“Exactly! A collision improbable and far-fetched. But it happened. A soul mate collision. High odds lay there, my brother. Astronomical odds.”
“Yeah. I get it. And this isn’t about Rae. Or me.”
He lifted off the barstool and with a sad smile bumped heads. A gentle gesture, message understood. Let’s leave Rae’s memory alone. Bo gestured toward the barkeep, who’d delivered another nearby patron a long-neck bottle of beer. The barkeep smiled, approached and asked if we’d like another.
“My simple friend would. Yes, please,” Bo said. “As for this magnificent creature perched before you, something pink.”
“Pink?”
“And frothy.”
The guy blinked, cogitated, and clearly struggled to fulfill Bo’s request.
“Got a bottle of Campari. Been sitt
in’ on the shelf since I bought the place ten years ago.”
“I like it. A hidden gem. Perhaps a totem. A fine start, sir. Fine start,” Bo said.
Bo didn’t converse on drink selection with a frivolous attitude. He exuded respect toward the barkeep, a serious discussion with a man who’d taken his request seriously. A pink drink. Frothy.
The barkeep turned and surveyed his domain behind the bar. Then addressed Bo. “Could add club soda. It would make it pinkish. Bubbly-like.”
“Whipped cream?” Bo asked. “It would both facilitate the appropriate color and add texture.”
“Not a lot of call for whipped cream here.”
“Hmm.” They locked eyes, a decision awaited. “Yes. Yes, if you would please. Campari and club soda.” Bo’s nod sealed the deal.
As the barkeep assembled his drink, Bo continued. “A connection with a specific woman is a different domain. I’m talking soul mate collision. A melding with someone who gets me.”
A challenge large and evident—find someone, anyone, who got Bo Dickerson. A barn door wide open for a joke, a quip. But I didn’t go there. My blood brother was serious and resolute.
“If it’s any consolation, I considered my soul mate a one in a million shot.” Rae. One in a million, for sure. “So maybe it’s a matter of time.”
“That’s the dimension I struggle with. Time.”
“You’re not exactly getting old, Bo.”
“But I require an old soul. An old soul partner.”
The ball game droned as another young couple wandered in and ordered beers.
“For whatever it’s worth,” I said. “Hang with me until you at least half-figure it out.” I straightened two fingers and began poking his side with vigor. He squirmed, dodged, and cracked a smile. “And maybe part of this is a desire to settle. You’ve always liked your own bit of turf.”
The three large and drunk men shoved off from their table. One staggered before he gained a semblance of steady.
“The skew toward geographic placement of said turf would appear minimal,” Bo said. “It’s a battle with the odds. Odds of the atomic collision.”
“Could be. But I’m a blind pilot, bud. You seek life partner advice from a man who lives alone on a boat.”