The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  She had eventually given up on that plan too, and placed the box back against the wall.

  She’d carefully placed all of Caroline’s remains back in the box. It had taken a while, as she had to take frequent breaks to keep from getting sick as she did it. Her poor sister was unrecognizable in this state. She felt herself crying, even though moisture did not come out of her eyes. Placing the lid back on the box, she knelt and prayed for her sister to feel peace.

  She would almost certainly be joining her soon.

  And that’s when the hallucination came…

  Bonnaroo, 2012.

  Caroline had convinced Mindy to join her on a trip up to Manchester, Tennessee, to experience the music festival.

  “The lineup is amazing this year,” Caroline told her, “Radiohead, Janka Nabay & the Bubu Gang, Phish, Sister Sparrow, and Kenny Rogers. Kenny Freakin’ Rogers is gonna be there!”

  Mindy agreed to go after hearing Kenny would be there. She didn’t know any Radiohead or Phish songs, and she hadn’t even heard of the rest of the bands. But whenever the opening chords of The Gambler came on, she sang along with every word.

  The drive up to Tennessee should have been a warning to stay away. A tractor trailer dropped a huge metal beam in front of them and they couldn’t avoid it without running off the road. It flattened two of their tires in one fell swoop. Thank goodness for Triple A. But they’d been in the deadlands of South Georgia when it happened, so it took a good three hours for the tire replacements to arrive and for the mechanic to put them on. Apparently, they didn’t drive Porsches in South Georgia.

  Once they were back on the road it was smooth sailing, and Caroline used the time to educate Mindy on the more popular songs of the headliners that they would see.

  Upon arrival, Caroline had done nothing but seek out the best weed, and had started smoking right away. She was a good pothead though, laid-back, fun, and happier than she was most other times. But when night fell, she’d been coerced into a tent where much stronger substances were going into mouths, under tongues, and into veins. Mindy decided to sit that one out. She wandered around the grounds, enjoying the music—most of the time—until she found a really cute guy playing a guitar and singing. He sounded great and looked even better, so she’d plopped down and sat in the circle of people he’d attracted until late into the night.

  As it turned out, he was a perfect gentleman, too. Mindy had been surprised he hadn’t invited her into his tent, even though he’d been smiling and making eyes at her all night. Instead, he’d asked if she’d like to check out the bonfire with him. It was kind of a big deal, he said. She agreed. He’d reached out and taken her hand and they’d walked toward the gigantic fire like girlfriend and boyfriend. Staring into the fire, Mindy had laid her head down on his shoulder and drifted off to sleep.

  It was the best night’s sleep she’d gotten in months. The early morning strains of music getting started woke her, and she wasn’t surprised to find he was gone. She’d walked back to where she thought his tent was, but that was gone too. She then walked back out to the central location of the bonfire—which was still smoldering—and asked around about Caroline.

  Someone recognized her name and had directed Mindy to the drug tent. Caroline was bombed. Her shirt was torn and her makeup had run down her cheeks… she’d been crying. The stoners hadn’t raped her, but she’d definitely been taken advantage of… and then they’d vanished into the crowd. In the shape they’d been in the night before, they might not even remember it… Caroline barely did. But she remembered enough to know she was ready to go.

  Through her tears she’d asked Mindy to drive her home. As they made the long walk back to the car, Caroline had pointed to the pile of embers where the bonfire had been and said she was sad she’d missed it.

  Mindy snapped out of the memory. She lifted her head and looked at the box that held Caroline’s body. Stenciled on the side was the single word, OIL. Mindy remembered the box had been slick with blood and the remnants of the decades old fuel residue. She looked down at the pile of Caroline’s things sitting next to her. She snatched up the lighter and flicked it. The flame danced high and strong above the flint.

  She pushed herself up and walked toward the OIL box. She grabbed the edges and dragged it to the center of the room. She slid it directly on top of the locked hatch. She opened the box and noticed the smell of oil more obviously now over the odor of the decaying body of her twin sister.

  “I’m sorry Caroline,” she said.

  Somewhere deep in her mind, it felt like Caroline had said to do it… she would help her sister from beyond even death.

  Mindy clicked the lighter and held it to the edge of the box. The flame took some time to get going, and Mindy was afraid the fuel in the lighter would run out. But finally, the edge of the wooden box began to catch. In minutes, it was engulfed in flames at least four feet high. Not quite high enough for someone to see through the windows, but Mindy hoped the flickering glow would be enough to draw some attention.

  And she hoped maybe the hatch would burn and give way…

  29

  Back In The Saddle

  Troy Clint Bodean had been dozing off in the ridiculously plush leather chair in front of the massive seventy-five inch television screen in the Colpiller penthouse apartment when the call came in. They had been waiting downtown for the report from the gaggle of cops that had gone to find Taz. They traced his location to an apartment building in Liberty Heights. Oddly, the apartment in question was empty and reeked of skunk, and was rented to the private investigator Jack Colpiller had hired to find his missing daughter, Caroline.

  In the hours that passed, Joe Bond—the detective on the case and an old friend of Troy’s—had reported that nothing new was discovered. They literally had no leads, no clue where Mindy was, no clue where Taz was, and no clue where Remington was… so Joe Bond had suggested they go home and wait. And that’s where they had been until Remington called them and said he knew where Taz and Mindy both were and needed a boat to go get them.

  Jack Colpiller was pacing around the room and wringing his hands together. “Dammit,” he said, “I should never have let Remington take my boat. We should’ve gone out there to get my daughter back.”

  “No, siree, compadre,” Troy said and held up his hands, “that would have been a really bad idea. What we need to do is call Joe and get every last cop in Miami out here to make sure nothing bad goes down.”

  “But you heard Remington,” Jack protested, “if anyone besides Remington shows up out there, Taz will know something is up… he’ll just kill Mindy on the spot.”

  Troy stood up. “But if we get Joe and the Coast Guard out on the water over there, Remington can signal them to let them know he’s got her. Then the cavalry can swoop in.”

  “You’re right,” Jack said, clicking his phone. “I’ll call Joe now.” As he waited for the call to connect, he said, “And then we’re gonna go borrow a boat and get over there.”

  Troy opened his mouth to protest, but Jack turned away.

  “Yes, this is Jack Colpiller,” he said. “I need to speak to Detective Bond.”

  He listened for a moment, then said, “No, I cannot hold. This is an emergency.”

  Another few seconds of listening.

  “Are you kidding me?” Jack took the phone away from his ear and looked at Troy. “She said she had to put me on hold to connect the call.”

  “I guess that makes sense,” Troy said, shrugging his shoulders.

  Jack put the phone back to his ear. After three disconnects and redials and forty-five minutes of blaring hold music, he hung up. “Let’s go,” he said, pointing toward the elevator door.

  He walked briskly and urged Troy to follow. They took the elevator down to the lobby, hopped in Jack’s Lamborghini, and raced the two miles to the Key Biscayne Yacht Club. Jack ran in the door and Troy—after carefully extricating himself from the ridiculously low riding sports car—followed.

  When Tr
oy finally got to the front door and pushed it open, he saw Jack yelling at the Dock attendant.

  “Are you freaking kidding me?” he yelled. “There’s not a single boat here I can take out?”

  The young man looked like he might pee his pants.

  “Don’t you know who I am?” Jack leaned over the kid’s counter. “This is a matter of life and death.”

  “Sir,” said the young man, whose nametag read Steve-O, “I’m super sorry, Mr. Colpiller. We’re renovating the slips and everything is in dry-dock.”

  “You mean to tell me every boat is out of the water?”

  “Yes, sir.” Steve-O held up his hands, palms to the sky. “I’m really sorry, sir.”

  Jack Colpiller banged his fist on the counter and the boy jumped. He looked down at his lap and Troy saw that he had actually peed his pants. Walking past the two of them and scanning the marina, Troy saw that it was indeed a ghost town. Nothing.

  Jack came up behind him and inhaled deeply. “We’re stuck.”

  “Yup,” Troy answered, “looks that way.”

  “Dammit.”

  “Did you try calling Joe again?” Troy asked.

  “I’ll try now,” Jack said, pulling out his phone.

  Then he saw it. Out by the gas pumps and banging up against the dock was a small metal Jon boat with the words RENT ME printed on the side.

  Jack pointed at it and looked at Troy. “What about that one?”

  Troy looked and shook his head. “We’d never make it out there in that thing. Besides, I’ve had bad juju with those things ever since… well, for a long time now.”

  Jack put his mouth back to the phone. “Yes, now listen. This is Jack Colpiller. Don’t put me on hold and do not hang up.”

  Troy could hear the person on the line try to protest, but Jack interrupted. “You tell Joe Bond that my daughter is being held captive by a murderer out at the yellow and green Stiltsville house. They can’t just show up, or he’ll kill her. But if they’ll send out the Coast Guard, I’ll get word when she’s been rescued and let you—”

  The voice apparently interrupted him. “Rescued by Remington.”

  The voice asked another question.

  “Remington Reginald,” Jack said, getting frustrated, “the investigator I sent after them.”

  He listened to the voice for a second, then blurted, “Wait, wait, wait, don’t—”

  He held the phone up to show Troy. “She put me on hold,” Jack said incredulously, “can you freakin’ believe that?”

  Troy shrugged. Jack clicked the phone angrily and shoved it in his pocket. “Well,” he said, “what the hell do we do now?”

  “I guess we’ll just have to wait,” Troy said, taking a deep breath, “and hope Remington is able to get Mindy out safely.”

  “Dammit!” Jack yelled and walked toward the floor to ceiling windows looking out at the ocean. “If only the damn pilot was here.”

  Troy perked up. “Pilot?”

  “Yeah, he’s usually here during the week,” Jack answered, putting his hands on his hips, “but his sister has an engagement party, or something like that. Hell, I had no idea I’d need—”

  “Wait, a pilot for what?”

  “The chopper, of course,” Jack said, and pointed up.

  “You’ve got a chopper?”

  “Yeah.”

  “On the roof?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Wait, you mean to tell me that you can fly a chopper?”

  “Yup,” —Troy was already headed toward the private elevator door— “learned how back in Afghanistan.”

  “Hot damn,” Jack said running after him.

  “You said it.”

  The private elevator opened up to the long flat roof on top of the Grand Bay Resort and Residences building. To the right Troy saw the skyline of Miami across Biscayne Bay starting to light up as night fell. He saw a row of gigantic cruise ships lined up and ready to sail passengers out to a plethora of tropical locations. Beyond those he saw high-rise condominiums and office buildings with deco colors and mirrored glass. South Beach was starting to pulse as well, with partiers from all around the world starting to get their groove on. But the only sound he could hear was the wind in his ears and the waves crashing on the beach. He grabbed his hat as a strong gust threatened to steal it off his head.

  To the right, he spotted the lower Ritz-Carlton building, and past that the various smaller hotels and apartment buildings. He could almost make out his crap-hole place from up here too. At the end of the long row of sunset reflecting buildings, he could see the Towers of Key Biscayne looking like something out of a Tolkien novel. Past that, it was jungle… mangrove… the wild. He couldn’t see the lighthouse from this angle, as it was hidden by the Towers. But they were going to the other side of the island, out to Stiltsville.

  “Here,” Jack said, holding out a key.

  Troy took it and looked down at it. He’d flown the seaplane for his brother down in Key West without incident, but he hadn’t flown a chopper since the war. Not since the incident with Harry Nedman. He hadn’t experienced any PTSD symptoms—no nightmares, no tremors, no fear—since he’d come back from Afghanistan… until now.

  Looking down at the key, he noticed his hand begin to shake. It was just a small tremor at first, but it became so violent that it shook the key right out of his hand.

  He looked up at Jack. “I don’t know if…”

  Jack Colpiller took Troy’s hand and held it tight. “Soldier,” he said calmly, “this is not the time to flake out on me.”

  Troy nodded, but he was still shaking.

  “Son,” Jack said in a commanding voice, “your unit needs you. You are the only one who can get out there and save them. You, and you alone, stand between their life and their death. Do you hear me, son?”

  “Yeah,” Troy said weakly, “I hear y—”

  Jack poked his finger into Troy’s chest with force. “I can’t hear you! Do you hear me, son?”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Troy reflexively snapped a salute.

  And that was all it took. He reached down and grabbed the key.

  “Good!” shouted Jack. “Now, get your ass in that chopper and get us in the air!”

  “Sir, yes, sir!” Troy said, and ran over to the chopper.

  The helicopter perched on the slightly raised pad was matte black with two glossy gray stripes running up diagonally along the tail. It was smooth and sleek and futuristic looking. He lifted himself up into the cockpit as Jack ran around to the other side.

  Once inside, Troy grabbed the headset, laid his hat aside, and placed them over his ears. He started a pre-flight check and was amazed at the high-tech dash in front of him. This thing was amazing.

  Seeing him staring at it, Jack asked, “You okay?”

  Troy glanced over at him. “I’m good now. Thanks.”

  “Good,” Jack said and put on his headset. “Now, can you fly this bird?”

  “Hell yeah, I can.” Troy clicked a few more switches. “What’s she called?”

  “She’s a Eurocopter EC135,” Jack said, smiling, “twin-engine rotorcraft. It can be alternatively powered by a pair of Turbomeca Arrius 2B or Pratt & Whitney Canada PW206B engines. Quietest bird in her class and fast as hell. Cost me over four mil.”

  Troy looked over at him and smiled. “No, I mean… what do you call her?”

  Jack laughed. “I call her Betty.”

  Troy gave him a thumbs-up and nodded. “Me likey.”

  And as they lifted off the platform, he began humming the tune of Black Betty by Ram Jam.

  The chopper swooped off the building and Troy found that yes, Betty was indeed fast as hell. The structures lining the beach of Key Biscayne whizzed by on their left and people on the sand below waved as they passed overhead. The sun dipped below the horizon and left Troy flying almost solely by instruments.

  “We’ll head down past the Towers and then head west,” Tr
oy said and pointed toward the buildings. “The mangroves should mask our sound a bit. Once we get across, I’ll get up pretty high and we’ll wait ‘til we hear from Remington.”

  “Good plan,” Jack said, taking out his phone. “Nothing yet.”

  Less than fifteen minutes later they were circling the group of houses known as Stiltsville. It was dark, but flying this low they could still see well enough to make out the individual homes.

  “Jack,” Troy said, “which one did he say again?”

  “He didn’t,” Jack answered, sweeping his head around to check all the houses, “but there’s no one out here. And I don’t see my boat.”

  “Could he have it hidden beneath one of them?”

  Jack shook his head. “Nah, it’s too big. It would have to be parked dockside. It’s not here.”

  “Dangit,” Troy said, and swept the chopper back around.

  Below them the houses perched on stilts above the shallow waters were dark, quiet and abandoned. No lights shone, and there were no boats parked anywhere. No one was here.

  “Call Remington,” Troy said.

  Jack dialed the phone. He waited a while, then shook his head.

  “Voicemail,” he said.

  “Crap,” Troy said, “what now?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Try calling Joe back?”

  “That gets us nowhere,” Jack said, “besides, if he got my message, he’s probably got the Coast Guard headed out here anyway.”

  “Jack,” —Troy pointed at a number on the screen in front of him— “we’re gettin’ low on fuel.”

  Jack nodded. “Head back. We’ll fuel it up and try again.”

  Troy nodded, but he knew it was hopeless. This time of night, they’d have no visuals on the ground or the water. It was pitch black down by the mangroves with no residual light from buildings, streetlights, or cars.