The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “Good morning, Samantha,” the thief said, no longer using the voice modulator.

  She had seen through the disguise from last time and knew who her attacker was… there was no sense in hiding it now. The thief walked around in front of her. Samantha’s eyes were open, but her lids were heavy. She was sweating profusely and looked impossibly thin for the few days she’d been refusing to eat or drink anything.

  “Water?” The thief held out a small canister.

  “Screw you,” she said.

  “As you wish,” the thief said, taking a long drink and making a show of enjoying the cool water.

  “Why’re you here?” she asked through cracked lips. “Why’re you doin’ this to me?”

  “Because the unfortunate events of late have brought me into a situation,” the thief said, “a no-turning-back kind of scenario where I must now do something with you.”

  Samantha shrugged. “But, I mean, the whole thing? Why Tayler? Why the painting?”

  “It is really simple,” the thief said, “in fact, it’s so simple that I cannot believe no one has figured me out, Samantha.”

  The thief took a long gulp, emptying the container, and threw it across the floor. It rattled noisily in the metallic room and finally spiraled to a stop in the corner.

  “Our friend Tayler was getting all the attention,” the thief said, “and everyone was so quick to tell us how wonderful Tayler was this, how amazing Tayler was that, how incredible Tayler’s painting was the other… frankly, I was getting sick of hearing all about him.”

  “So, you killed him,” Samantha spat out the words in disgust.

  “In a manner of speaking,” the thief said with a laugh, “I suppose you could say that’s what happened.”

  Samantha’s face wrinkled in confusion. A soft knock rattled the door and she jumped in surprise.

  The thief called over his shoulder. “Come in, father.”

  The garage door slid up and an older man waddled in. He didn’t look anything like the thief at all… Samantha wasn’t sure how this man could be her captor’s father. He was holding a shotgun with the stock sawn off. He had a second hanging on his shoulder. He tossed the first to RayRay, who caught it with ease… clearly not blind.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been smokin’,” she said, “but that dude don’t look like he’s your daddy.”

  “Ah, Samantha-san,” the thief said, and smiled at the man, “that is because he is not my biological father. My parents are incarcerated for being lying, cheating thieves.”

  “Like you, RayRay?” Samantha said quickly.

  With her last comment, she spat at RayRay. There couldn’t have been much liquid left in her body, but she’d apparently been saving that one for him. He stepped to the side quick as a cat, dodging the loogey. He laughed as the sudden realization began to spread across her face.

  “You can see?” she asked in something like a mix of disbelief, amazement, shock, and anger.

  “Yes, Samantha-san,” he said and nodded, then took off his dark glasses. “I most certainly can.”

  “It’s a miracle,” the older man said from the corner. “God has blessed you, son.”

  “This is true, father,” RayRay said to him, “much like He brought the painting to us as well.”

  The older man walked over and hugged RayRay and the thin sliver of light from under the door hit his face. Again, RayRay laughed as the recognition made her mouth drop open again.

  “The janitor,” she said, “from the Jepson. That’s yo father?”

  “Yes, Samantha-san,” RayRay said, smiling. “Bobo is indeed my father… my foster father.”

  “Thas some effed up shit, ya know.” Samantha looked like she was going to pass out again.

  RayRay leaned closer to her and breathed heavy on her cheek. “Just like the effed up shit I saw when you let me touch you for your sculpture,” he whispered in her ear. “Now you know I could see you the whole time.”

  The girl shivered and gasped. “Oh, hell no.”

  “Oh, hell yes,” RayRay said and his grin became something altogether more salacious and evil. “Perhaps I’ll see it all again before we are through here today, Samantha-san.”

  “So, you could see the whole time?” she whimpered.

  “Not exactly.” RayRay rubbed his eyes between his thumb and forefinger. “I cannot explain it, but the fumes from my glazes… they did something to my eyes.”

  “It’s a miracle straight from God,” the older man said.

  “So, God wanted you to see, so you could kill Tayler?” Samantha asked.

  “No,” RayRay retorted. “It is not a gift from God! It is a curse.”

  “How could it be a curse, son?” the older man asked in apparent shock at the statement.

  “Because it has diluted my sense of touch…” RayRay said, and his voice caught in his throat.

  “Huh?” Samantha asked.

  “My hands, my fingers, the tools with which I was able to accomplish so much…” he said, “are ruined. I cannot sculpt like I did before.”

  “Why donchu just close your eyes, dude?” she asked, her shoulders shrugging.

  “Alas, I did try that, Samantha-san,” RayRay said, and wiped a tear from his eye, “but that did not work. It was as if one sense had been turned on, while another – my exquisite sense of touch – had been turned completely off. My art, my lifelong passion, my money-making ability, was gone in a matter of days when my sight returned.”

  The storage unit fell quiet. The older man walked over and put his hands on RayRay’s shoulders.

  “It’s okay, son,” he said quietly, “God brought us the painting to take care of us.”

  “And a dead artist to boot,” Samantha sneered.

  “Silence!” RayRay’s voice edged into anger… a quiet anger both deadly and calm.

  “None of that’ll matter once we get rid of you, little girl,” Bobo said, a smile forming on his face.

  “What do you have planned, father?”

  “Don’t you worry about that, son,” Bobo said to RayRay. “You took care of Tayler, now I’ll take care of his girlfriend.”

  “So, it’s true?” Samantha asked RayRay. “You killed Tayler?”

  RayRay nodded. “I never intended things to go this far… but my parents – my real parents – have legal fees you could not imagine.” He paused and inhaled. “Bobo has been good to me, and SCAD has been good to me,” RayRay said, “but now that I don’t have money coming in for my art, I cannot possibly pay their lawyers and keep myself enrolled in the college.”

  Samantha shook her head as he paused again and shrugged. “But that might not matter anyway. Once it is discovered that I can no longer make art, I will likely be expelled or asked to leave.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t do that, would they?” she asked.

  “I am sure they will when my grades fall low enough.”

  “But RayRay,” she said quietly, “you killed Tayler… he was your friend. How could you?”

  His eyes, his working eyes, began to well with tears.

  “I had no other choice, Samantha-san,” he said in a whisper.

  “RayRay,” she said, “murder ain’t a choice.”

  “Well, this looks like a super-fun kind of party,” came a voice from behind the sliding door as it slammed upward, “but I’m thinkin’ we should take it somewhere else. Anybody?”

  In the doorway stood the silhouette of a man wearing a cowboy hat.

  In his right hand he held a gun.

  44

  Bang, Bang

  Troy Clint Bodean threw the door open as fast as he could. He’d listened outside the door long enough to know he could hear more than two voices inside, but he wasn’t completely sure whose voices he heard. He definitely heard Samantha talking, and he was glad to know for sure she was still alive. So, this was a rescue mission and not a retrieve-the-body mission. God knows there had been enough of those back in Afghanistan.

  He didn’t have much o
f a plan, but he knew waiting was not an option. Now that he’d heard Samantha alive, he was goin’ in. The start of his grand plan was to take ‘em by surprise. They weren’t likely to expect anyone to come barging in, so at least he’d have that going for him.

  He carefully grabbed the bottom of the garage door that stood between him and Samantha’s captors with his left hand, and with his right hand clicked the safety off on the Beretta M9, and pointed it in the general direction of the voices inside. He took a deep breath and jerked the door up as fast as he could.

  What he saw inside was surprising… sort of.

  The first thing he saw was Samantha, strapped to a broken wooden chair with duct tape.

  The second thing he saw was Bobo Gladmore, his elderly janitor friend from the Jepson. Bobo was blinking his eyes, his left hand held up in front of them to shield them from the light streaming into the storage unit, his right clutching a small, stubbed shotgun.

  The third thing he saw was RayRay Tishomura, the blind – or formerly blind – Japanese sculptor kid.

  And finally, the fourth thing he saw was the matching shotgun RayRay was aiming at him. Troy had a split second’s thought to dive back through the opening and run, but he’d be a sitting duck to two shotguns blasting at him… and he’d be leaving Samantha to be murdered for sure.

  “Fellas,” he said slowly, “let’s be reasonable. I don’t want no money. I don’t want no paintin’. All I want is to walk outta here with that there girl.”

  Troy lowered the pistol, but didn’t engage the safety. Bobo and RayRay did not lower their guns.

  “Come on in, Troy,” Bobo said, “and lemme have that gun a’ yours.”

  “How do I know you ain’t gonna shoot me?”

  “You don’t Troy-san,” RayRay said through a grin, “but it seems you do not have much choice now, do you?”

  “That there is a great point,” Troy said. He took a step toward Bobo. “Sami,” he said glancing over at her, “you okay?”

  “Little weak,” she answered, “pretty damn thirsty. Hungrier than a—”

  “Shut up, wench,” RayRay barked, and slapped her.

  Troy flinched and noticed Bobo did the same.

  “Ain’t no cause for violence, RayRay,” Troy said, holding up his hands with his index finger pulled away from the trigger. “I’m just gonna hand over this gun and let’s do a little talkin’. You down for that?”

  “You hand over the gun,” – RayRay nodded toward Bobo – “that’s where we’ll start.”

  Troy flipped the gun over backwards so that the muzzle end was pointing at him. He stretched his hand out and offered it to Bobo. The older man took it from him and tucked it into his belt beneath his belly.

  “Why, Bobo?” Troy asked quietly.

  “Hell,” Bobo said, shrugging, “I gotta take care of my son.”

  “Your son??”

  “Foster son,” Bobo said, and smiled at RayRay. “His folks are away… in prison.”

  “That’s enough!” snapped RayRay, who raised the end of his shotgun to point at Troy’s face.

  “Whoa, now, pardner, – ” Troy lifted his hands to surrender – “let’s not get reckless with that thing.”

  “Why not, Mister Troy?” RayRay sneered. “I have been watching you, and it is clear no one will miss you when you are gone.”

  Ouch, Troy thought, that was a little too true to be anything less than painful.

  “Well,” he started uncertainly, “I made a few calls before I came out here. The police are on the way with a big ole’ bunch of cavalry to take you fellas in.”

  A flicker of fear flew across RayRay’s face, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

  “Bullshit,” he said, huffing out a laugh. “If they were coming, they would’ve been here by now. And besides, there is nothing to connect me or my father to Tayler’s murder.”

  Troy swallowed. “So you did do it?”

  “I did,” RayRay said, “and the only people alive who know that are now standing in this room.”

  Something about that statement made Troy’s hair stand on end. It was true. The evidence of RayRay’s guilt was solely in him and Samantha… and Bobo. He tucked that bit of information away to use later.

  “When I walk out of here, Troy-san,” he continued, “I will be walking out of here free from all this business, two-hundred thousand dollars richer, untethered from this murder, and on my way to Japan. I will be across the ocean before anyone knows I am gone.”

  Bobo’s mouth dropped open with a smacking sound. “Japan? But son—?”

  “Shut up, old man!” RayRay’s tone had changed so much, he almost sounded like a different person. “You have served your purpose.”

  Troy brought back the info he’d tucked away.

  “That’s right, Bobo,” Troy said, “and now he’s gotta get rid of you too. You heard him, the only people alive who know he’s guilty of the murder are me, Samantha… and you.”

  Bobo huffed. “Well sure. But he knows his father would do anything to protect him.”

  RayRay swung his shotgun slowly around to point it at Bobo.

  “Son?” the old man said, his face twisting into confusion.

  “I am not your son,” RayRay said menacingly.

  “But… but…” Bobo stammered, “I helped you. I made all this possible.” He stared, distraught. “It was me who dropped the pills in Tayler’s drink, and me who let you into the Jepson that night. I was the one who arranged the buy and the drop… And it was me who got rid of the damned painting, for God’s sake…”

  Troy’s puzzle pieces began to click into place. Bobo had access to the museum at all hours of the night. It was clear he’d been the one to open the doors and let his son into the building… Troy was there that night, and he just ignored the old man coming in… well, not really ignored, but the old guy would’ve been invisible… mopping, or sweeping, or packing artwork in the back. And as for an art student leaving the museum at night? It happened every single day. RayRay and Bobo would’ve gone completely unnoticed at the Jepson.

  As for the murder, Tayler was drugged enough to feel drunk as hell. And in his party mood that night, letting RayRay in for a drink would’ve seemed completely normal. No alarms would go off in his head, no warning bells would ring… his buddy just wanted to help celebrate. And RayRay would be strong… really strong, from working with heavy sculptures. Lifting up a comatose Tayler would’ve been easy enough to do.

  “So, you killed him and stole the painting the next day,” Troy said. “A pretty clever plan. But how did you know the painting would go up so much in value? Or was that just a guess?”

  “That would be my fault, too.” Bobo raised a hand. “I overheard at least five different phone calls to the director at Jepson about the painting as soon as it was hung. Somebody’d seen it in the paper or something, and they had to have it. Then another, and then another. It was a bidding war. And then RayRay said that if we took Tayler out—”

  “You mean, killed him?” Samantha blurted, cutting him off.

  “Well… yes,” Bobo continued, “RayRay said that if the artist was dead, the painting’s already high price would rise even higher.”

  “Thank you, Professor LeFleur,” RayRay said.

  “You’re a sonofobitch,” Samantha growled at him.

  “I believe you mean a rich son of a bitch, Samantha-san,” RayRay said, smirking.

  “Which returns me to my original point,” Troy interjected. “Why don’cha just take that money and roll on out of here – head on back to Japan – and you’ll never hear from us again. Off scot-free. Ain’t that right, Sami?”

  Troy looked at her and a groan escaped his throat. Samantha was gearing up for a tirade. Clearly she wasn’t going for the idea.

  “I hope you die, RayRay,” she said through gritted teeth, “and if I ever get outta here, I’m gonna tell every cop I can find that you done it and that you should burn in hell for it.”

  “Dangit,”
muttered Troy.

  RayRay leaned his head back and began laughing. He laughed so hard that his eyes began to water, and that gave Troy time to think. He glanced at Bobo and figured the old guy to be much less of a threat than RayRay. He’d deal with the kid first, and then take care of the old man.

  He inhaled slowly and took a quick, quiet step toward RayRay, which also put him one step closer to Samantha. He’d noticed that the chair she sat in was broken and apparently duct-taped back together… not the most solid solution. In his mind, he was thinking that he’d grab the gun in RayRay’s hand… hopefully faster than the kid could pull the trigger… and then kick her chair over. At that point, she’d be lower to the ground, and maybe – a big maybe – out of the line of fire of the dueling shotguns. This would all go a lot smoother if he had a distraction.

  And as if he’d wished it into existence, his distraction came at the door of the storage unit.

  “RayRay, what the fuck?” yelled someone.

  They all turned to look.

  What happened next took at least ten seconds to transpire, but in Troy’s mind, it slowed wayyyyy down.

  45

  The Last Campaign

  Troy’s head swung around in slow motion to see the person who’d yelled through the door. Alain Montgomery stood to the left side of the opening. In what might’ve taken a few tenths of a second in real time seemed to take a few minutes to Troy. He wondered if this was some kind of holdover from all the combat situations he’d seen back in the sand-covered streets of the forgotten Middle East.

  Not taking any time to thank the government for his new ability, he lunged at RayRay. The kid was swinging the end of his shotgun around toward the door and almost got it pointed at Alain. Troy grabbed the barrel with his left hand and swung hard at RayRay’s chin. He seemed to notice this was happening and fired his gun. It went off a bit early and buckshot peppered the side of the unit in a spray of deadly pings. The blast was so loud in the steel-walled room that Troy almost didn’t feel the searing pain burning into his left hand. He didn’t let go of the barrel though, and jerked it down as hard as he could, and as his fist connected with RayRay’s chin, he felt the kid’s grip go slack and the gun wrench free from his hands.