Nothing. Quiet. He eased himself up the stairs to the deck at the back of the house. When he reached the top, he stopped and listened again. The only sound was the rush of waves crashing on the beach ... good cover for his approach, but also good cover for the man who might still be inside the house.
As he army-crawled across the deck, his right knee throbbed and he had a mild flashback to Afghanistan. He could still hear Harry Nedman screaming, legs torn off from an I.E.D. The explosion had shot a piece of shrapnel into Troy’s knee, completely severing his ACL. Under heavy machine gun fire, he’d rolled Harry up onto his back and crawled through the sand back toward the chopper, praying to God that there wouldn’t be another bomb in the sand. Harry didn’t make it back to base and Troy never went back into combat. Here he was, light years away from the desert, on a beach house deck, and crawling again.
He carefully opened the screen door on the porch. It squealed mildly, but probably not loud enough to hear inside. From here, Troy could see that a curtain had been pulled almost shut across the sliding door. There did appear to be a four-inch opening between the jamb and the drape where he could see in ... if he could just look without attracting any attention from the dude inside ...
He crawled past two brightly painted rocking chairs, one with a Longboard beer design and another with a Harpoon IPA picture. The wind kicked up and the chairs started rocking back and forth. He froze. He heard a thumping sound from inside and ... was someone moaning? When the sounds quieted, he inched closer to the opening in the drapes. He was just about to peek around the edge when a huge engine growled from in front of the house on the road. He heard a throaty rumble and then the sound of voices shouting.
“DARREN!” a loud female voice called. “Where you at?”
Then the horn started honking. It blared over and over again in between the shouts.
“HEY!” the woman yelled again. “Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Troy stopped crawling. Do I know that voice?
The honking sounded closer. It sounded like maybe they were pulling into the carport under Laura’s house. Gall-dangit, thought Troy. He jumped up and ran, slamming the screen door back and leaping down the stairs toward the beach. No sneaking down under the house and scooting across the dunes now. He hit the sand and didn’t look back. Someone was definitely here. He waddled through the loose sand, knee screaming in pain. He grabbed the handrail of his own steps and took them two at a time, hopping as fast as he could.
At the top of the deck, he grabbed the door and yanked. Locked. Dangit. He’d forgotten that he told Laura to lock it. He ran back toward the side of the house away from Laura’s to where the kidnapper and the car had been, and took the stairs down under his house. His old Chevy pickup was there and he hauled himself up (on his good knee) and threw himself down into the bed. He was pretty sure they couldn’t see him from next door. Sliding the cowboy hat off his head, he peeked up over the bedrail of the truck. A huge red Jeep was in the carport under Laura’s house, probably the kidnapper’s backup or maybe the kidnapper himself coming back for Laura. He subconsciously tapped the gun in the back of his waistband to make sure it was still there. Then he remembered his cell phone. He tapped out a message to Karah’s cell (Laura had it upstairs with her).
-“Laura, it’s Troy. Open door downstairs.”
-“How do I know it’s really you?”
-“Just ask Ches.”
-“K, be right down.”
Troy peeked over the truck bedrail again and listened intently. He could hear muffled voices, but nothing he could make out over the sound of the ocean. His knee pounded and he thought about Harry Nedman losing his legs to that dang I.E.D. back in Afghanistan. He wondered if it was time to move on again. Pawleys Island hadn’t proved itself to be very quiet and he needed some quiet to drown out those flashbacks from the war. He’d been one of the lucky ones ...
“Troy,” Laura hissed from the door, “come on!”
He rolled himself out of the truck and limped up the stairs. When he reached the top, Laura was frantically waving him in.
“Did you see anything? Is she still over there? What’s going on?”
“I never saw inside.” Troy pointed his thumb toward her house. “Somebody just drove up in a big red Jeep. You know anyone with a car like that?”
Laura shook her head.
“Then it’s likely that the kidnappers are still in your house.”
“And Karah?”
“I couldn’t hear any screamin’ or anything,” he said and walked into his living room, closing the door behind him, “so they probably took her away somewhere and they’re waitin’ on you to come back.”
Laura slumped down on the futon and started crying again. “Oh my God. First dad and now Karah. Why is this happening to me?”
Troy took his hat off and rested a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know, little darlin’, but we’re gonna get her back and figure all this out.”
He limped into the kitchen, dug out a Ziploc bag, and began to fill it with ice.
“Where’s Ches at?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Almost here.”
“Good.” Troy sat down at the kitchen table, propped his leg up and put the ice pack on his knee. “Let’s sit tight and wait for the cavalry.”
Laura nodded. “You think she’s okay, Troy?”
“I do, little darlin’,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing but not at all convinced himself, “I do.”
28
Sayonara, Jackass
Darren regained consciousness to the sound of a horn blaring somewhere outside the house. His head was pounding and his entire body ached. Feverous shakes racked his bones and his vision was cloudy.
He propped himself up on his knees to assess his current situation. He’d come to this cursed house to grab the blonde bitch but she’d elbowed him in his good eye and now both were swollen and oozing pus. And to add insult to injury, she’d slammed the door on his left hand ... his good hand. He’d already lost a few digits from the right and he was sure he’d felt his middle finger come off his left when the door closed on it.
But that wasn’t the worst of the situation. His left hand had been positioned at the exact height of the handle when she’d slammed the door. Somehow, the bones of one of his fingers had gotten jammed into the bolt hole and the door was stuck shut. He’d tried to open it, but couldn’t grasp the knob well enough with his blood slicked, finger-lacking right hand. The more he tried to turn it, the more slippery it became.
“Mutha fookin’ bitch,” he growled, and slumped back down.
Before he’d passed out, he’d reached into his pocket for his cell. It was a burner phone Victor had handed them to use for communication during the search for Troy and the hat. With his right-hand situation—missing digits, wrapped in a blood-soaked gauze, and sore as hell—he’d squeezed the phone a little too tight and it had jumped out of his hand. It bounced twice and landed about five feet away. His left foot could barely graze it, but that was all.
He laughed and thought absently that it was a maniacal sound. He knew he was on the edge ... who wouldn’t be with all that happened to him. He wondered if he was going to die here ... oozing out blood from almost everywhere.
“Ain’t this jus’ grand?” He slumped further down.
The good news was that his left hand (the one stuck in the door) was elevated so the flow of blood had basically stopped. The bad news was that it was starting to go numb and he was cramping badly in his shoulder. He decided that eventually he was going to have to just bite the bullet and rip his hand free from the door ... but not yet. He would rest a few minutes, gather what little resolve and strength he could, and then—
His thoughts were interrupted by the squeaking of the screen door on the back porch. The drapes were pulled so that only a slit of light showed through the sliding glass door that led out to the beach. He could hear the gentle thump of someone walking, or maybe crawling, out on the deck. He
blinked away the sweat beginning to drizzle into his eyes and squinted hard into the light. And then, there it was ... the hat ... the God forsaken straw cowboy hat. It was low to the ground and looked as if someone was about to peek into the house. Must be Troy.
He drew in a breath, about to scream at Troy, when the sudden clomp of heavy footsteps sounded on the steps leading up to the door he was stuck in.
“DARREN!” a loud female voice called, “where you at?”
Then the horn started honking again. It blared over and over again in between the shouts. Darren jerked his head back toward the sliding door. Troy was gone ... his money was gone. If the stupid cowboy had any sense in him, he’d be on the first flight out of South Carolina. Shit.
“HEY!” the woman yelled again, “come out, come out, wherever you are!”
Darren heard whoever had been on his back porch jump up and run. He never saw his face, but he knew it had to have been Troy.
“You’re a dead man,” he growled toward the sliding door.
Then a loud pounding knock sounded on his door.
“Hey, Darren,” Ellie Mae’s voice called from the other side, “you in thar?”
“Yeah,” he croaked through a dry, cracked throat. He swallowed and tried again. “Yeah, it’s me. Look, I’m stuck in the door.”
“Stuck in the what?”
“Me hand’s stuck. It’s wedged in the—”
He was cut off by the door slamming open and into his back. Pain shot into his left hand, but he was free. The blood rushed back into his arm and an arterial spray began shooting from the tips of his fingers.
“Fa fook sake!” he shouted, grabbing the end of his destroyed hand.
He was covered in blood and bandages, most dark brown and oozing. His mangled hands were wrapped tightly together and his eyes were both bruised and swollen. His right leg was wrapped in a flimsy gauze and was also moist from what looked like green and brown mud. In his lap, he cradled a small handgun, also covered in blood.
“Towel,” he said and nodded toward the kitchen. “Get me a towel, wench!”
Ellie Mae looked down at him. He saw the sudden twitch in her hip and she threw it out to the side, slapping a defiant hand on it.
“Whatchu just call me? A wench?” She arched an eyebrow. “And now yer orderin’ me around?” She shook her head. “Yeah, that ain’t happnin’”
“Shit’s sake, woman,” —Darren started to prop himself up on his elbows— “I’m gonna bleed out here!”
Ellie Mae took in a deep breath. She inched around him and walked into the kitchen. Grabbing a white dish towel, she flung it at him.
He grabbed it and the blood spurted from his torn finger. The tip above the first knuckle was gone in a jagged tear. He groaned and wrapped the towel around it as best he could. With great effort, he lifted himself up and looked at Ellie Mae. Her eyebrow was still arched.
“What in God’s name done happened to you?” she asked.
“Ah was attacked by an evil she-bitch!” Darren said, wobbling on his feet, “but she’ll pay fa that. First, I’m gonna go slit her cousin’s throat. Then, I’m gonna chase her down and rip her fookin’ eyes out. Then, I’m gonna tear her fingers off, one by one. And then ... ”
Ellie Mae’s eyebrow slowly went down. He saw a new emotion flick across her face ... fear.
Good, he thought. She needs to be afraid of me.
“And then,” he continued, “I’m gonna fookin’ rip off Troy’s goddamn head and take his fookin’ hat. Take the fookin’ check out of it and then burn that fookin’ hat. Then, me and baby Darren are gonna cash that check and disappear on a beach somewheyah south of the border.”
“What about us?” Ellie Mae’s voice sounded different. “What about me and Daisy Mae? We’re goin’ too, ain’t we?”
Darren blinked twice. “Ah, yeah ... that’s what ah meant. All four of us. Disappear. On a beach, or something like thet.”
Now a new emotion started to drip into Ellie Mae’s eyes. She crossed her arms.
“So, you mean to tell me you ain’t got the money? But it’s in Troy’s hat?”
“Yes, woman,” Darren snapped. “Haven’t you been—”
He stopped suddenly. That fookin’ bitch, he thought, she’s gonna steal my money. His eyes closed to a slit ... even though they were mostly closed already from the beating they’d had in the last few days.
“Ah’ll fookin’ kill you!” he yelled, trying to point his pistol at her as he lunged toward her.
His slickened bandages slipped across the hardwood floor and she jumped back. He scrambled like a fish on a slip n’ slide toward her, the gun clattering away from him. She turned and bolted out the door.
“Sayonara, jackass,” she called behind her as she ran down the steps, “your ass is grass!”
He had no idea what the hell that meant, but it enraged him. He pounded his bloody fists on the floor until they started throbbing. Bandages were flying, syrup ribbons of blood slung in every direction. Rolling onto his back he let out a guttural scream. He had now officially lost everything. His money, his woman (women), his baby, his fingers, his toes, his clear eyesight ... all was slipping away. He thrashed like a wild animal for a few seconds until he panted, his lungs aching.
Can’t get to them fookin’ wenches, dunno where fookin’ Troy has run to, damn blondie ran off, the two sluts with the baby are dust in the wind ... that left only one person to feel his wrath ... Karah.
He rolled over to rise up onto all fours, growling low and deep, like a wolf on the prowl. Ah’m gonna slit that chick from ear ta ear, his thoughts burning red in his mind, and then I’m gonna shoot her.
Part III
Check Out Time
“Yo, man, it’s check out time. It’s time to get out this mother.”
-2Pac
29
Shocking Troy
Troy Clint Bodean paced back and forth on the screened in porch on the beach side of his rented beach cabana. His knee ached a little from all the running and crawling around spying on the house next door. He could hear the sounds of people yelling coming from inside the house, and prayed that Karah wasn’t in there.
Laura’s cop boyfriend was supposed to be on his way, but there wasn’t any sign of him yet. The commotion next door grew ... God, it sounded like a bar brawl had broken out over there. He couldn’t see anything happening, but he did hear a car door slam and then the screech of tires and the scattering of gravel as someone apparently drove away from the house in a hurry ... whoever was in the red Jeep, he guessed.
Dangit, he thought, hope to hell they ain’t takin’ Karah somewhere and we missed ‘em.
He poked his head into his house through the sliding glass door. Laura Kate Starlington sat crying on the futon. She was staring at the cell phone in her lap. It was Karah’s phone. She looked up at Troy.
“Should I call her folks?” she asked through streaming tears.
Troy took a deep breath. “Yeah, probably so.”
“What do I say?” Laura asked, sniffing.
He had no idea. Your daughter has been kidnapped, she might be right next door and we’re just waitin’ on the police while the kidnappers have their way with her. Troy checked to see that his gun was still tucked in his waistband. The cold steel made him feel uneasy. He pulled a breath in across his teeth.
“It’s quiet over there now,” he said and nodded toward the next house, “so ah’m goin’ ta get her.”
“I’m going with you.”
“Nope.” He pointed at the front door. “You wait ‘til Ches gets here and then you send him over. This ain’t my first rodeo, so I’ll be just fine.”
“Bu—” Laura started to protest, but he interrupted her.
“No, now you sit tight,” he said, “and call her folks. When the cavalry arrives, send ‘em on over if I ain’t made it back with Karah yet.” He slid the door shut, then opened it again. “Lock this behind me.”
Laura stood up, walked to the door and
clicked the lock while staring through the glass at Troy. She mouthed the words, be careful.
He nodded and winked at her. He studied the house next door before leaving the safety of his own screened in porch. It was deathly quiet. Whatever had been going on over there was now done. They’d probably taken Karah away. Dangit.
He opened the screen door and casually took the stairs down to the beach, acting as if he was just out for a day on the sand. Glancing sideways at Laura’s beach house next door, he didn’t see any activity; no sign on anyone moving around in the house and no noise that he could make out over the crash of the waves. The big red Jeep that had been parked in the driveway was gone too. Likewise, the beach was almost completely empty as well ... except for one woman.
She was sitting in a teal blue beach chair wearing a teal blue one-piece bathing suit. Her towel was also teal blue ... it was the strangest thing ever, this monochromatic ensemble. Her hat was the only thing that didn’t match. It was a large floppy hat, pink with a white bow around the brim. Her hair was pulled back into a single tight braid and was brown with an ashy look that might’ve been a color died over her natural grey.
She was flipping through the pages of a magazine and occasionally picked up a nearby tumbler and sipped at the straw. Troy was certain he’d never seen her in Pawleys before, but there was something oddly familiar about her. She suddenly dropped the magazine and stood looking out into the ocean. Stretching her arms high, she leaned her head back and inhaled the breeze. She flipped her head, looking north down the beach, and then turned to look south, directly at Troy.
He jerked his gaze away, realizing he was staring. She had large round sunglasses on, obscuring most of her face, but the sensation that he recognized her flooded into his mind. Maybe he’d run into her at the grocery store or the gas station or something. No, that didn’t seem right. He thought she must be someone he knew ... like, really knew.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 23