The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “Huh?” He furrowed his eyebrows.

  “Help me out, with starting the foundation,” she continued. “I don’t know the first thing about it, but I can keep us floating with the money until we get real backers.”

  Chesney laughed. “I have no clue about any of that. I’m sure I wouldn’t be any help at all.”

  “Yeah, me neither,” she grinned.

  She caught his eyes. He really was a sweet guy.

  “Or we could buy a boat and sail around the Keys for a bit,” she said, winking at him.

  “Now, that sounds more like it,” he said. “I am a pretty good sailor, you know?”

  “Really?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “No, not really,” he said, smiling, “but I think I could figure it out. You want to come to my place tonight and talk about it?”

  “Well, well, Mr. Biggins.” She took his hand in hers. “I’d like that very much. I think this might be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  “Indeed,” he said, and nodded.

  They all piled out of the diner, patting their bellies and complaining about how full they were. The night air was cool and heavy with a warm wind blowing in from the ocean. The sky was hazy with the moisture of rain on the way.

  Karah Campobello took Troy Clint Bodean’s hand and walked out into the parking lot.

  “I’m gonna go be with my folks for a bit,” she said, kissing him on the cheek, “and then I’ll come over and we can talk.”

  Troy brushed a strand of auburn hair off her forehead. “Sure thing, darlin’.”

  He let her go and waved to her parents as they hugged again and piled into their car. He wondered why his throat felt so thick and his eyes burned. He thought maybe it was because he knew what they’d be talking about later.

  “Hey, Troy,” Chesney called to him, “you need a ride back to the island?”

  He nodded, afraid to speak for fear he’d let out the emotion his mind was holding back.

  Laura patted his shoulder, maybe sensing his struggle. They all piled into Chesney’s cruiser and drove in silence back to The Turtle House. They let Troy out and waved their goodbyes.

  He walked into the house just as raindrops began pattering on the metal roof. He went to the fridge and cracked open a Corona. After taking a long sip of the beer, he walked to the beachside of the house and slid open the glass door.

  He stepped out onto the screened in porch and plopped himself down into a rocking chair. He’d just about finished his beer when he saw a figure walking up the beach holding a rain jacket above their head.

  Karah jogged up the steps and knocked on the screen door playfully.

  “Anybody home?” she asked.

  “Come on in, darlin’.” He motioned her to the chair next to him.

  She plopped down and shook off the drops of water clinging to her hair.

  “Beer?” He held up his empty bottle and nodded back into the house.

  “Definitely,” she said.

  He returned with two Coronas, a slice of lime in each, and handed her one and slid into the rocking chair next to her.

  They sat for a long time, saying nothing and staring out at the ocean. In the distance, lightning flashed, but the storm was far away.

  “So,” she finally said, “I’m going back to school.”

  “Good idea,” he replied, sipping his beer.

  She was quiet again.

  “You’ll be okay, darlin’,” he said softly. “It’ll take time, but you’ll be okay.”

  “Troy,” she said, tears starting to touch her eyes, “I’m gonna miss you.”

  He took his hat off his head. “Karah, you’re a sweet girl. You belong in college, where the future is bright and you got things to look forward to ... ”

  She reached out and took his hand. “I know, really I do.”

  “And I belong on a dock with a fishin’ pole in my hand,” he said, smiling, “but next time I’m wearin’ a helmet.”

  She sniffed out a laugh and wiped her eyes, remembering the first time she’d seen him, getting wacked by the fishing boat.

  “And, I’ll probably come back to visit Laura during summer breaks and all,” she said. “I’m sure I’ll see you then.”

  He nodded and took a swig of beer. He didn’t answer that one. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he was leaving soon and wouldn’t be back.

  “Troy ... ” she said quietly.

  “Yes?”

  “Can we sit on the roof again?”

  “In the rain? Not much of a sunset to see tonight.”

  She nodded.

  “Sure thing, little darlin’.”

  As they climbed up to the roof, the rain stopped and the stars blinked into sight. They said their goodbyes in silence.

  Troy woke in the hammock under the house the next morning.

  Karah had gone.

  40

  Check It Out Now

  Daisy Mae Gallup cradled her sleeping baby in her arms as her sister drove. Their stolen Jeep had been burned to bits by that asshat, Darren, back at Pawleys Island, but they’d been lucky enough to find another ride behind the cheesy beach store in the parking lot of a self-storage building. Daisy Mae didn’t know much about cars, but she figured this one was pretty nice.

  The owner’s manual had told her this was a Mercedes Benz AMG G65 SUV. She had absolutely no idea what that meant, and had promptly stuffed the manual back into the glove box.

  “I’m gon stop at the next gas station,” Ellie Mae suddenly whispered. “I gotta pee somethin’ fierce.”

  “Al-right,” said Daisy Mae, “sounds good. I need ta stretch out mah legs anyhow and git these shoes owff. Mah feet are swelled up like a pig in heat.”

  The next station turned out to be a little mom and pop place with only one pump and a unisex bathroom that looked like a deer had died in it. But when nature calls, ya gotta answer.

  Ellie Mae jogged off to do her business and Daisy Mae gently laid little T.C. down in the back seat to let him nap. He was a beautiful baby, that was for sure. She thought she’d have Ellie Mae pull into the next Baby Gear store she saw and steal him a proper car seat.

  She leaned back against the side of the car and pulled one of her shoes off.

  “Oh, mah God, that’s better’n sex,” she said, scratching the bottom of her foot.

  She tossed the shoe into the floorboard of the car and pulled the other one off. As she did, a piece of paper that must’ve been stuck to the bottom of her shoe fluttered away and landed at her feet.

  “What’s ‘is ‘en?”

  She bent down to pick up the paper and unfolded it to read it. Her eyes went wide and nearly popped out of her head.

  Ellie Mae Gallup returned to the car and slumped into the driver’s seat.

  “Whew, dang,” she said and started the car, “that was a close one. I dang near peed on tha flah.”

  Daisy Mae said nothing. She just let out a squeal and handed a piece of paper to her sister.

  Ellie Mae’s eyebrows furrowed and her lip curled up. “What’s got inta you, sis?” she said, unfolding the paper.

  “Just read it.”

  Ellie Mae read the paper, sounding out each word much like a child pronouncing each letter several times to make sure she got it right.

  “Certified C ... Ca ... Cashier’s Check ... ” Her voice trailed off. She returned Daisy Mae’s wide-eyed stare. “Ho-lee sheeee-ittt!”

  As the Mercedes Benz AMG G65 SUV squealed back onto the highway, the crotchety old gas station couple could hear shouts of YEEEEEEHAWWWWW all the way until the car cleared the horizon.

  Epilogue

  Ocean Blue

  Troy Clint Bodean closed and locked the door to The Turtle House for the last time. He slid the key into a drop box and tipped his hat to the old place. It wasn’t his home for very long, but it had earned a special place in his heart.

  He clomped down to the red and white Chevy S10 pickup truck in the carport and flung his army duffle ba
g into the passenger’s seat. He slid the key into the steering column and stopped.

  He had no idea where he was going. Maybe farther south. Florida, or something like that. He hadn’t been to Florida.

  With three cranks, the S10 finally sputtered to life. He turned the radio on and twisted the dial until he found something suitable by the Eagles.

  As he crossed the causeway over to the mainland, his phone chirped to life. He didn’t recognize the number, so he let it go to voicemail. It took almost five minutes for the caller to finish the message and the notification to hit the screen.

  “Jiminy Cricket,” Troy said aloud, punching in his PIN to play back the message.

  “Troy Clint Bodean,” the caller started, “I hope this is you. It’s R.B.”

  Troy almost dropped the phone.

  R.B.

  Ryan Bodean.

  His brother.

  “Hey, bro,” he continued, “I know it’s been a long time and I know I kinda disappeared without giving you a proper explanation, and one day, I promise I’ll tell you that story. But right now, I need a pilot!”

  Troy reached the traffic signal at Ocean Highway. It was red. He pulled to a stop.

  “I’ve just bought a seaplane business. It’s a tourist-y kind of thing, flying people around the Keys. Look at the seashells, look at the waves, blah, blah, blah. Easy shit like that. And the money’s amazing!”

  Troy huffed to himself.

  “Anyway, I just lost my co-pilot and I’ve got trips on the schedule for this weekend. So, get your ass down here A.S.A.P.!”

  R.B. left the address and hung up.

  The light changed to green. Troy didn’t move. He just stared out the window. A minivan full of screaming kids honked twice and he startled out of his shock. He put on his blinker and turned left, heading south.

  He cranked up the Eagles and rolled his window down.

  “Cayo hueso,” he said as he turned, “here comes Troy.”

  THE END

  Deep Wave

  A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller #2

  Did you know Troy had a brother? I didn’t either until he called Troy up one day and invited him on the adventure of a lifetime.

  Prologue

  G.P.S.

  Hector Martinez crept onto the boat in total, blackout darkness, thinking the two passengers had passed out from a long day of fishing and drinking. His intention had been to quietly steal their G.P.S. unit and be gone with it before they woke. He was unscrewing it from their boat’s dashboard when a young kid, maybe college-aged, appeared from down below holding a plate with a sandwich and a beer. In one startled second, Hector grabbed him and tried to pin him down. The kid was quick and strong, shoving him backward, almost off the boat and yelling out to someone presumably still below deck. Another kid, maybe a year or two younger, jumped up the stairs two at a time as Hector regained his feet.

  “Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  “I have no beef with you,” Hector said breathing heavily, “but I need your G.P.S.”

  “Dude,” the older kid stepped toward him, “you need to get the hell off our boat.”

  “Not without that,” he said, and pointed toward the dashboard.

  As he turned to look, Hector drew his knife and slashed him harshly in the throat. Blood spurted high into the air, so much of it that it was obvious his jugular had been cut.

  “Holy shit!” the younger boy screamed and lunged toward him.

  Within seconds, Hector had killed them both. It was that simple. He hadn’t meant for it to go down that way, but he really didn’t care either. He wiped off his knife and finished the job of unscrewing the G.P.S. Sitting on the dashboard next to the navigation unit was a blackened metal bowl that the boys had clearly brought up from below. It wobbled around unsteadily because of a weird ring on the bottom. He’d been instructed to get rid of anything they’d brought up, so he hefted it into the water. It disappeared with a plunk into the black surface. He jumped back aboard his boat having turned on the trolling motor of the boys’ rented boat and steering it to the west… away from the Keys.

  Julie Matthews, Channel 7 news anchorwoman, had plenty to say about Hurricane Daniel; wind rotation, water temperature, velocity, but the man watching the report was only interested in one thing; the storm’s direction.

  It looked as if it was going to track northward toward Cuba then head a few miles south of Key West, close enough to do some serious damage… probably just after next Wednesday. If the storm kept up its current category four strength, it would certainly scatter and bury the evidence.

  The man muted the droning weather report and clicked open one of his three secured cellphones.

  “It looks like we have an answer to our problems,” he said to a voicemail that always picked up with no courtesy message. He closed the cellphone and waited.

  Exactly two minutes later his landline rang. He picked up the receiver and listened.

  “Yes, Papa,” he answered the caller, “I have someone on it.” Then he hung up the phone.

  Too many loose ends, he thought. He believed he’d had them all tied up when his last Cuban friend had shot down the drone, plunging it into the gulf. And then those damn boys started bragging about finding something out there. That loose end was being tied up tonight.

  Far too many people getting far too close to the wreck. He ticked off a mental checklist and when he was satisfied he’d taken care of everything, he clicked the remote and turned the volume back up on the television.

  The weather girl was now warning the residents of southern Florida that there was a possibility of a non-local evacuation as early as Friday, and given the storm’s intensity and potential track, there would likely be a total evacuation by Monday.

  The man turned off the television when the current weather report became predictable, going on and on and calling for rain, rain and more rain. He re-lit a cold cigar and pulled a few strong puffs. He stood up and strode over to his desk, picked up a long rolled up piece of paper, and carefully unfurled it until a map of the Gulf of Mexico lay in front of him. He moved his stapler onto one corner and his ashtray to the other to hold the map open, then drew a line roughly representing the path of Hurricane Daniel.

  “Anywhere within a hundred miles of that oughta do the trick,” he said through a puff of cigar.

  He traced the line up toward Key West and drew an X about sixty miles southwest of the island. He tapped it with his pen a couple of times.

  “Do your worst, Daniel,” he said, clicking off the desk lamp and throwing the room into blackness.

  Part I

  Something In The Water

  “If your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to meet it.”

  -Jonathan Winters

  “We call them tropical depressions and give them mundane names like Hugo or Andrew in an effort to rein in their power and rob them of their fury, but to date no man on any sailing ship has ever tamed a hurricane.”

  -David F. Berens

  1

  The Ride

  Troy Clint Bodean woke up with his cheek stuck to the dark aged wood of Captain Tony’s Bar. It was a hot tourist spot, but still a crusty holdover from old Key West. On any given night, one might find a sexy sorority kitten sitting next to Barnacle Bill. With its open-air front, dirty floors, never-level coin operated pool tables and mid-forty-something rockers desperately holding on to their stringy manes of bleach blonde hair on stage, it painted a portrait of a must-see location… but once is usually enough. Troy’s fingers were still wrapped around a shot glass full of sticky brown liquor. His Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat was propped backward sitting on the crown of his head.

  “Oh God,” he muttered and tried to lift his head.

  Twelve months in. He’d suffered through twelve long, slow, hard months in this dang place. God, Pawleys Island had been crazy and he’d wanted to slow down, but this was ridiculous. He’d been dulling the boredom with more drink than usual lately; shots of this an
d shots of that had become a bad habit… a habit he needed badly to kick.

  Hangovers must be extremely heavy, he thought, because once they got into your skull; it seemed immensely difficult to lift his head. But with great effort he finally sat up on the barstool, peeled open his eyes, and searched the room. Two other people were sitting at the bar across and diagonally from him.

  Noticing him stir, one of them got up and strode over to him with a damp bar towel. A just beyond middle-aged Italian man Troy knew as Vince the bartender took the shot glass of liquor and poured it into the bar sink.

  “Hey,” he protested weakly, “I wasn’t done with that.”

  “Okay, Troy,” he said to the groggy patron, “you don’t gotta go home, but ya can’t stay here.”

  “Right, right,” Troy rubbed his eyes and ran his hand through his matted hair, “what time is it, Vince?”

  This was not the original owner of Captain Tony’s, but a newly retired fishing expedition guide out of Islamorada who took a job as a bartender in Key West for extra cash. Before that he’d been in Chicago and no one really knew what he did for work there, and no one really cared to know.

  He had jet-black hair with streaks of grey over each ear slicked back roughly from a deeply tanned and lined forehead. A stray scar from what looked like skin cancer surgery broke up his receding hairline. His hands were meaty and rough and sported rings on the left and right little fingers. Vince looked at his Tag Heuer watch.

  “It’s four-thirty in the mornin’, Dude” he said.

  Troy shook his head and slowly wobbled himself up off the barstool. He took a step toward the front door, swayed hard back toward the bar barely catching himself before crashing into a mixed drink blending machine.