The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “I said,” —Taz pulled his other hand up, revealing a small pistol— “shut the fook up.”

  Troy halted, and held his hands higher.

  “Okay, okay,” he said, “how ‘bout we just calm down first and make a plan.”

  “I gotta plan, fool,” Taz said. “Ah’m gonna disappeyah down south o’ the border.”

  “Okay,” Troy said, “then what? You got no money, you got no place to stay, whatchu gonna do then?”

  Taz seemed to falter at this. It was obvious he hadn’t given it any thought.

  “Yer right,” he said, shoving the pistol into Mindy’s cheek, “I’ll get daddy dearest to cash me out, or I’ll blow her fookin’ head off.”

  Okay, Troy thought, that didn’t turn out exactly how I planned.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, big guy,” Troy said, and took another step toward them. “That ain’t gonna work, as they’ll just trace the serial numbers and find you that way. No, what you need is a contact.”

  “A contact?”

  Troy didn’t know what the hell he was saying, he just let it flow, trying his best to keep Taz distracted until the cavalry rode in and saved the day. “Yeah, bro.” Troy eased closer.

  As Taz began to consider this, his focus on Mindy seemed to drift.

  “I know a guy with a plane down in Key West who can hook you up,” Troy continued.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, man,” Troy said, and stepped to within four feet of Taz and Mindy, “they don’t give a rat’s ass down there, bro.” He tried to sound like a co-conspirator, a buddy, a confidant. And Taz seemed to be buying it.

  “Sweet,” Taz said, “that’s exactly what ah need.”

  Troy was able to make eye contact with Mindy for a flash of a second and tried to telepathically get her to understand what he was doing. He thought he saw the slightest, most imperceptible nod of her head.

  And then she moved. She slowly reached up with her left hand. Taz didn’t notice. Troy couldn’t tell what she was doing, but he jumped back into the conversation to give her cover.

  “Yeah, dude,” he said loudly and with a chuckle. “We once spent a whole month down in Cabo at Sammy Hagar’s bar drinkin’ tequila and moonshine. Dang bartender thought I was Sammy. Can you believe that?”

  Taz laughed slightly with his brow furrowed. Troy wondered if the guy even knew who Sammy Hagar was… but his story was enough to give Mindy time to act. She got her hand up under Taz’s, and flicked a lighter. The flame jumped suddenly and burned the hand Taz was holding the gun in. He yelped and dropped it, the gun clattering to the ground.

  Mindy rolled away from him and Troy pounced. He’d never played football, but he tried to tackle Taz. He grabbed him around the waist and slammed him back against the wall, though the kid was young and strong, and he drove his knee into Troy’s chest and he felt the air whoosh out of his lungs. He stumbled back and almost fell.

  Taz took the opportunity and leapt on top of him. He raised his hands and brought them down hard. Troy was barely able to move his head to the side and his hat went flying as Taz struck his shoulder. Pain flared through his arm and Troy wondered if Taz had broken his clavicle.

  He brought his knee up under Taz and heaved. The kid flew backward, but didn’t lose his feet. He took two steps and swung wildly at Troy. Troy ducked, but he swung again and caught Troy on the left ear. The pain was intense and Troy lost his balance. He rolled through the embers and felt his shirt start to burn. He jerked it off and slung it at Taz, who just grabbed it and threw it aside.

  He lunged forward at Troy and tried to kick him, but Troy fell backward, dodging his foot. Unfortunately, his own feet fell through the hatch that still lay open.

  He’d gone through the hatch on the opposite side of the steps and his feet dangled above the rail of the stairway, over a one-hundred foot drop to the bottom of the lighthouse.

  His fingers scraped for purchase, but there wasn’t much to hang onto. Taz realized what was happening and started laughing. He walked toward Troy and raised his foot above his clutching fingers. Troy noted that he had on the same brand of shoe they’d found with Caroline’s blood on it. Taz had killed her, and now he was going to kill Mindy.

  “Ya know,” Troy shouted desperately, “she likes me better!”

  Taz froze. “What the fook are you talkin’ about, mate?”

  “Mindy,” Troy continued. “Doesn’t matter what you do, she’ll always like me more than you.”

  Taz’s smile turned into a frown.

  “Hell,” Troy said as he felt his fingers slipping, “she’ll probably even call out my name when she’s makin’ love to you.”

  Taz’s face twisted in rage. “Shut it!” he yelled, and raised his foot again. “Ah’ll kill ya, you mother—”

  Taz’s left eye exploded as Troy heard the bang. The kid slumped to the ground and didn’t move. He looked past Taz’s fallen body to see Mindy, holding up the .22. She’d shot him. A dang good shot too… it wouldn’t have done much damage if she’d have hit him anywhere else. When she saw that she’d made the shot, she passed out, slumping to the floor.

  Troy kicked his legs and tried to reach the stairs. He missed and his left hand lost its grip. He lurched downward.

  “I got you,” a voice called up.

  Troy felt strong arms wrap around his waist, pulling him toward the stairs. Next he felt his feet hit the steps, and turned to look at his rescuer.

  The man in front of him stuck out his hand. Troy took it and shook it hard.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said.

  “Call me Jack.”

  Joe Bond and the rest of the Coast Guard guys were right behind him, running up the steps of the Cape Florida lighthouse.

  “You bet, Jack,” Troy said, turning to run up the steps. “Now, let’s go get your daughter.”

  32

  A New Hope

  Remington Hoyt Reginald sat in the first row of the New Hope church in Doral, Florida. He’d received the wire transfer from Jack Colpiller for the remainder of his payment for finding his twin daughters, Caroline and Mindy. Sadly, Caroline had been killed, but Mindy had been rescued. Remington tried to turn down the payment, but Jack insisted that since the P.I. had been willing to almost give up his life to rescue Mindy, he deserved at least that much.

  Since leaving the hospital, he had made a remarkable recovery. He had some blurriness in his left eye, but it seemed to get better with every passing day.

  The church wasn’t in a standalone building, at least not yet. They had rented a small studio in a shopping center between Milo’s Cigars and Utah Bill’s Golf Shop. It only held thirty people, who sat on folding chairs, but they filled each and every chair, every Saturday night and Sunday morning.

  Remington listened intently as his father addressed the modest congregation. He didn’t perform any miracles. He didn’t take any offerings. He just spoke about the Bible. And that was what his people wanted to hear most of all.

  Remington looked over at the girl sitting next to him. Since meeting her, she’d been a huge part of his recovery. She understood more than most, because she’d been through a similar traumatic experience too.

  “Thanks for coming,” he said and smiled at her.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” replied Jackie Ranchero-Doral, who smiled back at him.

  Hanging on the edge of Remington’s chair was a simple burlap messenger bag. He’d long since gotten rid of the expensive leather one. The flap popped open a little and a tiny black nose poked out.

  Remington lifted the flap a little to see Pepe, his pet skunk, holding the Gram doll tight to his chest and sniffing the air.

  “Almost done, little fella,” Remington said, and petted his head.

  Pepe made two small circles around the bottom of the bag and curled up and went back to sleep.

  Jackie smiled and shook her head. “What am I gonna do with you two?”

  “Live happily ever after?” Remington asked.

  �
��Sounds like a good plan,” she said, and pecked him on the cheek.

  Brant smiled at them from the pulpit and winked at his son.

  New hope indeed.

  Epilogue

  Savannah Smiles

  Troy Clint Bodean pushed his Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat back on his head. The sun was hot and the sand was even hotter. He jogged up the steps to the Sonesta hotel and trotted over to the bar.

  “Hey, hey, amigo!” Gino shouted over the music blaring from the radio. “What are we drinking? Pina Colada?”

  Troy held up his hand. “Wish I could, brother. But I gotta bus to catch.”

  A girl at the end of the bar turned around and smiled. “Can’t I at least get you a beer?”

  Troy smiled at Mindy. She looked good. A couple of days of bed rest and hydration and she was as good as new.

  “Maybe just one,” he said, tossing his duffle bag down under a nearby stool.

  “What’ll it be?” she asked.

  Gino looked at him expectantly.

  “How about a couple of Coronas,” Troy said, “with oranges.”

  Gino nodded and stomped away, thumping his chest and singing along with the music.

  “You could stay, ya know,” Mindy said, fiddling with a paper coaster.

  “Ya, I could,” Troy said, “but you and I both know how that would go. And besides that, you’ll be back at school, right?”

  Mindy had decided to go back and finish her degree, but she’d enrolled in the University of Miami so she could stay close to her dad.

  “Yeah,” she said, “that’s right.”

  Gino delivered the beers and set a napkin between them with four orange slices on it.

  “What will you do?” she asked Troy.

  Troy took a long sip of his beer. “I got a line on something up in Georgia,” he said. “It ain’t much, but I’ve never needed much.”

  “Will you be working on the beach again?” she asked.

  Troy laughed. “Heck no, but I’ll be close enough to the water to get a little fishin’ in from time to time.”

  “Good,” she said, and sipped her beer.

  “I’m truly sorry about your sister,” he said. “I wish things had worked out differently.”

  Mindy nodded, her eyes glistening. “I loved her so much,” she said. “I just wish I could’ve told her that one last time.”

  Troy cleared his throat and thought about calling his brother. He would do that once he got on the bus.

  “Hey, hey, Amigo,” Gino said, and pointed at the door.

  Another Sonesta employee was waving to Troy.

  “It looks like your taxi is here,” Gino said.

  Troy took a deep breath. He reached for his wallet, but Gino held up his hand.

  “This one is on me, friend,” he said.

  Troy took his hand and shook it. “Thanks, amigo.”

  “Don’t be a stranger, okay?” Gino said, and laughed.

  Troy laughed too. “You got it.”

  He turned to Mindy and shouldered his bag. “Be sure to tell your dad thanks for the bus ticket,” he said.

  “He tried to give you some extra money to help out,” she said, shaking her head. “Why wouldn’t you take it?”

  “Sweetie,” Troy said as he pecked her on the cheek, “money can’t buy you happiness.”

  “But it can buy you a yacht to pull up alongside it,” she said, smiling.

  Troy laughed. “I’ll see you around, kiddo.”

  “Yeah,” Mindy said, and smiled a sad smile.

  They both knew he’d never be back this way again. And that was okay.

  Troy trotted through the lobby of the Sonesta and slumped down in the taxi. They drove onto the causeway and off the island. Two streets over, they stopped at the bus station. Troy reached for his wallet again.

  The cabbie held up his hand. “It’s already been paid for, sir. A young woman called in to pay earlier.”

  Troy nodded. Mindy.

  He stretched his arms over his head as the cab drove away. Several passengers were throwing bags into a pile beside the bus to be loaded underneath. Troy added his bag to the pile and walked up to the open door.

  “Savannah?” the bus driver asked.

  Troy tipped his hat and said. “Yup.”

  He handed his ticket to the man and walked back to the back of the bus. He found an empty seat and waited.

  As the bus finally lurched forward out of the station, Troy had drifted off to sleep while humming the words to Lola in his head.

  THE END

  Dark Wave

  A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller #4

  Troy Bodean has never been interested in fine art, but it seems to be interested in him.

  Part I

  Brush Strokes

  “Every brush stroke is, in a sense,

  some kind of an accident.”

  -Raphael Soyer

  1

  Paint By Numbers

  The painting hung in a simple frame with no alarm sensors attached, no laser beams crisscrossing the room, and no iron gates to crash down if it was removed from the wall, all of which made it maddeningly simple to take it down, remove it from its frame, and walk casually out of the building with it rolled up in a long cardboard tube tucked nonchalantly under an arm. It would’ve made for a really boring heist movie, that’s for sure. Had this been a more important work, perhaps a Monet or a Renoir, the security would’ve resembled something only Tom Cruise could handle. That said, a work of that caliber wouldn’t be at the Jepson Center anyway. What the rest of the world didn’t know yet, however, was that the artist was already dead… and the value of the painting would likely skyrocket once this was discovered.

  The Jepson Center in Savannah, Georgia was home to the beautiful painting, titled Savannah Smiling, for a short run highlighting the stunning artwork of the up-and-coming young artist, Tayler Evan.

  Jepson was often home to artists attending the local Savannah College of Art and Design. Normally, though, those young artist’s works would be relegated to a back room or a side-wall in a little-used hallway. However, Savannah Smiling was displayed prominently… in front of more established artists with far more pieces. SS, as the museum’s curators and workers began to refer to it as, was Evan’s only artwork on display. But it truly was a beautiful piece, comprising the timeless melancholy of an Andrew Wyeth, mixed with the raw emotion and power of a Claire Tabouret.

  Savannah Smiling was a portrait of a young black girl wearing a yellow dress and standing under a weeping willow. A dangling tuft of Spanish Moss draped over one shoulder, and sunlight fell across her face, illuminating a smile that would soon be compared to the enigmatic visage of the Mona Lisa. In contrast, in the distance beyond the girl the landscape was burning. Not in open flame, but ashes smoldering everywhere. The effect it had on viewers was layered. First, you saw the beauty of the image and the quality of the technique used to produce it. Fine brush strokes that you could see, but which slowly became invisible as your eyes focused more on the subject matter. And then came the symbolism… beyond the fact that this was a black girl, standing in front of a burning field and who may or may not be smiling – that was still up for debate – there was her left shoulder. The infamous dark patch of skin on that shoulder had many convinced she was bruised there, while others claimed it was only a birthmark. Some said it was a shadow, though there was nothing represented in the painting to have cast one.

  Scholars had come from far and wide to discuss the meaning and metaphor behind the painting, and so many theories had been floated that the piece was quickly becoming a cult-like interpretation project in art schools around the country. Art lovers everywhere had been captivated by the symbolism and beauty of the two-feet by three-feet oil on canvas painting.

  The work’s estimated value, as established by the curator of the museum, was probably in the neighborhood of ten-thousand dollars – not too shabby for a new artist. But the thief knew the real money was to be made from
the work of dead artists – even contemporary dead artists. Without the money to procure a piece that was already priceless due to the artist’s expiry, the thief hatched a nefarious plot to select an artist generating a lot of buzz over limited works, and orchestrate their death.

  And upon reading the piece by local art critic Mortimer LeFleur in the Savannah Morning News, the thief knew immediately that Tayler Evan’s painting fitted the bill perfectly.

  Nestled between the photo gallery proudly displaying the Heels-N-Halligans Night at Pooler Wild Wing Café, and the dreary news of Savannah’s new downtown shuttle plan, was a small section dedicated to Mr. LeFleur’s column. As a professor at SCAD – the Savannah College of Art and Design, often said with derision by its students – Mortimer was constantly exposed to many works of art that were neither exceptional nor valuable in any sense of the word. Most of his columns were two paragraphs calendar entries detailing new displays at local museums. However, his piece on Tayler’s Savannah Smiling had been different. Waxing lyrical, LeFleur went on and on about the beauty and social commentary of the piece. He even compared it to the great works of the past and the hottest contemporary artists around the art world. He wrote three passionate paragraphs of exposition on the qualities he believed would make the painting a classic studied for decades to come. And, by the way, it will be on display at the Jepson for the next month. Be sure to check the museum’s hours, and as always, group discounts are available.

  Careful planning was essential to make young Tayler Evan’s death appear to be a suicide. It might take a week or so for his body to be found, and until then, no one would notice that Savannah Smiling no longer hung in the Jepson Center. The thief had simply replaced the painting with a poster print of the image, initially bought for ten bucks in the gift shop. It didn’t have the texture of the brush strokes, but the giclée printing technique the thief had used was high enough definition to fool most casual patrons. It was easy to tell it was a print if you got close enough and knew what to look for, but a dangling velvet rope kept most viewers a few feet away and limited their view… and all the thief needed was a week before it was discovered missing to get the painting sold.