Poor Tayler was hanging by his worn out brown American Rebel belt from a gorgeous weathered beam in his downtown loft.
The easy part had been getting an invite back to the young artist-in-heat’s place for a nightcap after a rambunctious celebratory night out at the bar. Heady with excitement over the growing furor around his painting, his new contract to produce labels with some wine company in Amsterdam, and the first sale offer of a few thousand dollars for Savannah Smiling, Tayler had been tossing back shots his friends kept buying for him all night. His judgment was impaired to say the least.
The tough part had been subduing him with a spiked cocktail – not too strong to suggest an intentional overdose, but strong enough to render the six-foot-one artist unconscious – and then lift his heavy body up to the beam twelve-feet above the sumptuous reclaimed hardwood floor. It had been nearly impossible, the thief’s latex gloves slick with sweat, but he was determined, and had eventually hoisted Taylor up, his belt around his throat, and hung him from the beam.
He’d stirred once, when his body realized it wasn’t receiving enough oxygen, but by then it was too late. The belt tightened dangerously around his throat, and the up-and-coming artist was suddenly down-and-going before he could reach up and grab the beam. A well-placed chair – toppled under the body – would create a believable suicide scene for the local police department. The thief considered leaving an angsty, melancholy note, but decided against it lest there were fibers and microbes and handwriting experts to pounce on any miniscule clues left behind. As it was, there were no clues at all… he’d committed the perfect crime.
The thief had stood beneath the dangling body and took a sip from the artist’s open bottle of Beaux Freres Pinot Noir. Tayler was a good-looking kid. Dark skin, wild, untamed black hair, skinny, and tall. And based on the wine choice, he also had good taste. The thief regretted killing him. But, to make the painting worth anything, the artist had to die.
And now, moments after switching the poster with the original and walking out of the anachronistic white Jepson Center building, the thief with the cardboard tube drew absolutely no attention at all. Not a single person glanced in the thief’s direction, not even the dude sweeping the floor before they locked up for the night.
It was a beautiful sunset, still plenty of light, yet…
No one… saw… anything!
The thief pulled out his cell phone. Three messages. Clicking on the phone, the thief noticed the latex gloves were still on. Pulling them off and stuffing them into a jacket pocket, he clicked out a message, jumped onto a scooter propped on a nearby light post, and puttered away into the slowly descending darkness.
2
Catch Me If You Can
Troy Clint Bodean swung the Cheetah Marine Catamaran deftly through the narrow channel. On both sides of the boat, marsh grasses three to four-feet tall created a dense corridor for his tour to follow. Startled Susie birds, as Troy called them – or Woodland Storks, as others knew them – took off alone and in pairs as the boat motored past.
Troy was more than comfortable with passenger tours, having flown his brother’s seaplane ferry to Fort Jefferson off of Key West for over a year. As he steered he launched into memorized details about the surrounding lowlands, including its variety of plant and animal life.
The part-time loading work (and sometimes sanitary engineer – janitor – if old Bobo didn’t make it in to work) at the Telfair Museum served as his primary income, but since he hadn’t found reasonably priced housing in Savannah, he’d taken this job as a secondary source of money.
His roommate had a swanky place and loved the fact Troy was almost never home. And Troy adored the downtown digs he could have never afforded on his own wages. Even if he was never there, it was a fantastic place to hang his hat.
One more turn around the channel and his last boat ride of the shift would be over. He didn’t have anything to do at the museum tonight, so he thought he might hit the Rail Pub and grab a beer and a bite to eat. He might even see if the roomie was home and wanted to hang. It was always good to have a wingman around.
Troy droned on a few more lines about the flora and fauna, and his passengers were duly impressed. The three very large people on this last trip, Mama Cass, Daddy Cass, and Toddler Cass, spent more time trying to tuck their triple chins under their life jackets than they did actually checking out the scenery. The rotund toddler had cried relentlessly for the first half hour, but thankfully she had passed out and was still asleep now. Troy commented how cute she was, Mama Cass now firmly in his fan club. Daddy Cass, however, gave Troy dirty looks for the rest of the ride.
When it was over, Mama Cass slipped Troy a fifty-dollar bill for helping to carry Toddler Cass off the boat and tuck her safely into her car seat.
“Aw, shucks, ma’am,” Troy had said, “It’s all part of the job.”
Daddy Cass thanked him for the expert information and begrudgingly slipped him a twenty-dollar bill – probably unaware Mama Cass had already tipped him excessively. Troy didn’t let on.
An hour later, after docking the boat and wiping down the equipment on board, Troy hopped on his bicycle and pedaled down the path beside Highway 80, grabbing for his Outback tea stained straw cowboy hat more than once when the wind threatened to blow it off his head. After another thirty minutes, he cruised into Midtown and turned onto Barnard Street, where a three-story, red-painted brick building came into view. Home sweet home.
Savannah was an amazing city and Troy found he liked it better and better every day. He’d actually started to picture himself settling down in a place like this. The oldest city in Georgia boasted numerous beautifully manicured parks for afternoon strolls, amazing antebellum architecture around quaint cobblestone streets, incredible food and drinks at establishments he couldn’t afford (until he proved he was a local), and Tybee Island – home to sailing, fishing, and bike riding. That’s where he’d gotten his tour boat job and purchased a broken-down bike to repair for transportation to and from work.
His new home was an incredible old building with all the charm of the city, the urban feel of a loft, and the modern conveniences of a brand-new apartment. He parked the bike, a yellow Schwinn Sunrider model with only one gear, down at street level. Unlooping a chain from under his seat, he clicked the lock closed and dialed the combination wheel to scramble the numbers.
He buzzed the front door and waited. Nothing. After thirty seconds or so, he buzzed again. Okay, well, roomie must be out shopping or something.
He buzzed a different unit.
“Yeah?” crackled a voice through the speaker.
“Janie, can you buzz me up?” Troy asked. “Nobody home at my place.”
“Who is this?” Janie asked and coughed, probably smoking a cigarette in the building even though it was prohibited.
“It’s Troy, Janie,” he said.
“Troy who?”
“You’re kiddin’, right?”
The crackly voice laughed until she erupted in another hacking fit.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said. “I’m just givin’ you a hard time.”
Janie was the longest standing resident in the building, so by default, she was kind of the property manager. If something needed fixing, you asked Janie. If someone was breaking a rule, you told Janie. If someone moved out, Janie rented the new place. She was the one who’d placed the ad for a roommate in the local paper that Troy had answered the moment he stepped off the Greyhound bus. Luckily, his new roommate had been a little desperate to share costs and had waived the down payment when he moved in.
“C’mon up,” Janie said, and the buzzer did its thing.
The door clicked, and a second later Troy was jogging up the old wooden stairs, rumored to be leftover lumber from some ship or other that was dismantled after a massive wreck.
The walls were painted in bright colors so thick they might have had thirty coats, and the handrails were worn silky smooth and had no varnish left on them. It was a highly desirab
le location to live… and highly expensive. Troy had answered the ad because it asked for a roommate with very inexpensive rent – at least for the area. He met with the guy and they hit it off. Troy felt sure his roommate liked him because he’d be paying part of his mortgage but would only be there on a very minimal basis. Troy liked it because it was ‘bitchen.
Janie lived down the hall from them. Her door was open and she was leaning out watching for Troy. She stood hunched over an aluminum cane that had a triangle of tennis balls on the bottom – to keep the legs from scratching the floor.
“Hello, handsome,” she wheezed, “how’s the river biz?”
“Not bad today,” Troy called down the hall with a wave. “Good tips.”
“Nice,” she said, smiling. “Gonna take an old lady out to dinner?”
“Ha-ha.” Troy spouted a fake laugh and dodged the question.
“Anybody ever tell you that you look like Tom Selleck?” she asked. “Not Blue Bloods Tom Selleck, but Magnum P.I. Tom Selleck, or maybe Quigley Down Under Tom Selleck.”
Troy laughed again. “Thanks, Janie.”
She stood watching him as he walked toward his door. He gave it a quick courtesy knock, but no one answered. His roommate had been known to have an occasional rendezvous in the loft, but he always warned Troy when he’d be busy and needed him to blow off coming home for a bit. Another very minor inconvenience to live in this amazing place.
Jingling around in his pocket, he found the key – his only key. He slid it in the lock and walked into the great room.
Right in front of him was the living room, with two dark leather couches and a light khaki recliner. Troy had spent more than one afternoon snoozing in that with the Georgia Bulldogs game playing on the forty-seven-inch 4K TV, a pretty cool touch to the rough-hewn antique look of the rest of the apartment. To his left was the bathroom and two separate bedroom doors. To his right was the kitchen, its bright red cabinets, brown, tan, and black speckled quartz countertops, and stainless-steel appliances making it worthy of any gourmet chef.
Above him, in the twenty-foot-high cathedral ceiling, were beautiful, reclaimed wood beams crisscrossing the massive opening. And dangling from the center of the room, with his belt around his throat, was his roommate, Tayler Evan – dead of apparent suicide.
“Dangit,” Troy muttered.
He poked his head back out into the hall and saw Janie had disappeared back inside her apartment. He walked down and knocked on her door. She answered smiling with more than a little surprise on her face, and Troy shook his head as if to dismiss whatever lewd thoughts she was thinking.
“We’ve got a problem,” he said.
3
Dragon Reign
“You killed me, dude,” Alain Montgomery exclaimed while throwing his arms up in the air. “That’s really not cool, bro!”
“I had nothing to do with your untimely death, Alain,” said RayRay Tishomura softly. “You just rolled poorly.”
“Gah!” Alain inhaled and slapped the character sheet that had been lying in front of him. “Can I get back in?”
“Yes,” RayRay said, running his fingers over a map. “If you have another cleric that is tenth level or higher, I can respawn you at The Glade.”
“Naturally.” Alain picked up his backpack. “I think I have Finegan, who’s level twelve.”
“Then you may rejoin your companions on the next turn,” RayRay said and nodded – almost toward Alain.
Alain pulled a folder out of his pack that had an airbrushed red dragon and a gold armored rider with long flowing white hair on the front. He shuffled through a stack of pages and finally found what he was looking for. He pulled it out and laid it on the table in front of him.
“Ready for action,” Alain said while rubbing his hands together.
“Roll for your gear.” RayRay handed Alain a sheet of paper with a list of suitable campaign items listed on it numbered one through twenty. “Five rolls.”
Alain picked up a twenty-sided die and began rolling.
“Okay, geez,” Becky Patton said, exhaling. “Are you two done?”
RayRay inclined his head – almost in her direction.
“Yes, Becky,” he said quietly. “You may resume your turn. But don’t forget that Alain’s mage is no longer in your party.”
“I know that,” she responded. “He got butchered by that troll back there.
“What do you wish to do with his body?” RayRay asked, picking up a special keyboard to make a note.
“Burn it,” said Samantha, who’d been studying the map in front of them. “If we leave it here or bury it, the undead will just turn him and use him against us.”
“What?” Alain looked up from his rolling.
“Sorry, dude.” Samantha shrugged her shoulders. “Nothin’ personal.”
RayRay cocked his head. “It’s true, Alain. The undead would come for him for sure. He is too powerful to remain dead.”
“Ugh.” Alain pursed his lips. “Fine. Do it.”
“I cast fireball on his body,” Samantha said.
RayRay handed her a die. “Roll for damage. If it’s a seven or better, he is fully consumed beyond resurrection.”
Samantha took the die and rolled. It was a seven.
“Thanks a lot,” Alain groaned, and crumpled the character sheet of his thirteenth level mage. “I’ll remember that.”
Samantha winked at him. “I know you will.”
“Oh, my, gosh,” Becky grunted, “can we just get on with the quest for cryin’ out loud?”
The F-art Group – as they called themselves – was a group of students all in their Junior years at SCAD… except for Becky, she was a Sophomore.
Alain Montgomery – the brown-haired Harry Potter-esque looking kid complete with thick round glasses – had founded the group during his second year at SCAD as a way to insulate himself from the incessant critique of the other students. It was an easy way to say, who cares, I still have friends, when someone tore down your work. Which was often, as Alain wasn’t much of a painter… and that was putting it mildly.
RayRay was blind. And Japanese. He had jet-black anime style hair, pale skin, and pale, milky eyes. He’d come to SCAD to develop his considerable skills as a sculptor, and by all accounts was well on his way to becoming a great one. His skill was all the more incredible due to his completely useless eyes… which were really odd to look at, as RayRay had originally refused to wear dark lensed glasses to hide them.
After just a week of RayRay being in the group, his friends had conspired to fix the uncomfortable situation. Becky had snuck into his dorm room one evening while he was showering – offering her an unfortunate glance at RayRay in all his pale nakedness – and stolen his glasses. Jogging out into the hall, Samantha and Alain waited with a similar pair of frames that had blacked out lenses. They popped the lenses out of the other frame, and thankfully they fit into RayRay’s. Then Becky replaced them in his room. She’d originally frozen thinking herself busted when he stepped from the shower into his room with no towel and no clothes – a sight she would shudder over for months – but then she relaxed remembering he couldn’t see her. She stood dead still until he went back in the bathroom to brush his teeth or something, and dropped the newly darkened glasses back onto his bedside table.
They all thought he might know the truth about the lenses and had played along just so he wouldn’t creep them out anymore.
Becky, the youngest of the group, was the girl who blended in… Little Miss Average. Just average in every way. Brownish hair, brownish eyes, cute smile – but not uniquely cute – and a pretty average talent at painting. She would pass her classes, but she certainly wouldn’t set the art world on fire.
And then there was Samantha. Young, beautiful, flawless black skin, smart, and talented. She’d come to SCAD to… well, no one in the group knew her story. But after she’d been there a year it was clear she had exceptional talent for fashion design. She was already getting offers from desig
n houses in New York and Los Angeles, and most of her class professors really liked her and pushed her to break barriers and scoff at convention… to trust her instincts, as they had proven time and time again to be fantastic.
This unlikely group of friends had originally convened at a local coffee house to sip at ubiquitously pretentious cups of java in tall paper cups with cardboard sleeves, but after they’d discovered RayRay was a long-time role-playing campaign master, they’d convinced him to take them through an adventure. He’d dug out an old campaign from the nineties called Dragon Reign, in which the group must rescue a white dragon, make an alliance with the dragon army that the evil wizard Reign is building, and convince them to rise up against their evil leader.
They’d completed this campaign in forty-eight hours and they were all hooked. Since then, they’d been meeting every Tuesday and Thursday night to play. They all had several characters, and could perform different roles as needed across different campaigns. The current quest had them on the hunt for a massive troll treasure that would make their characters rich beyond their wildest dreams. Which RayRay would most likely not allow to happen… thus, Alain’s mage had to die.
“Hey,” Alain said as he finished rolling for his characters equipment, “does anybody wanna get a pizza?”
“Only if it’s veggie,” said Becky.
“I could eat some too,” Samantha chimed in.
“Veggie?” Alain grimaced. “What’s wrong with you people? I was thinking meat-eaters.”
Samantha cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, hell no. I ain’t eatin’ that greasy mess. You knock yourself out, but get me ‘n Becky a veggie lovers.”
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 71