Hours and hours that he used to spend in the real world were now spent inside the virtual world of Bladehammer – a computer generated virtual world of magic, elves, trolls, orcs, and most importantly, damsels in distress. And why not? That world was so much more desirable than the hellhole he had outside the game.
His mother had been gone for just over five years. A meth overdose took her out of her misery. Before that, she’d been an escort for Lucky Larry’s Ladies of Leisure call girl service. Them sure was fun times, Barry thought sarcastically. He’d gotten used to turning away the beefy, hairy guys banging on their trailer door at all hours of the morning hoping to see his mother on her day off. Sometimes they showed up with flowers, sometimes they showed up with alcohol or drugs, but she never let them in until they showed up with crisp, straight-from-the-ATM Benjamins. After that, she’d occasionally partake of the alcohol and drugs. Barry thought it must’ve taken away some of the guilt of letting these men have their way with her.
His father was long gone from their happy home, having left the second he found out about her extracurricular activities. Barry thought this was odd because that was exactly how his father had met her. But his dad had chosen to stay close by, Barry was never sure why. Sometimes he wondered if his dad had stayed to keep an eye on them…to spy on them. He never saw his dad even though the man only lived a couple of streets over in the Red Drum Trailer Park.
Anyway, none of that shit mattered when he logged onto Bladehammer and became Tryon the Tyrannical – an Orc from the underground city of Smythehaven. At first, he’d been happy to trot around the virtual playground chopping the heads off dragons and trolls and goblins and such, but that had gotten dull fast. And, since this was an open world land, there were other gamers hunting around and picking fights and such. Fighting real player characters was much more fun than the generic computer generated ones. Their moves were more unpredictable and they died in much more dramatic fashion. Tryon was one of the strongest characters in Bladehammer and had claimed the skullcaps of many an unfortunate game character in his travels.
Soon, Barry discovered it was more fun to seek out the damsel characters and play with them. And after he was tired of them, he would draw his sword and chop off their heads. This too began to lose its excitement after a while. He would often sit around and wait until someone wandered close by and see if he could lop their heads off with one swing. He got very good at it.
Boring.
It was a Friday afternoon when he got off work and found a message blinking in his game email center. The sender’s address was blocked. It was a two-word email and he felt his excitement grow when he read it.
Meet me?
He read the words over and over and wondered if the sender meant in the game…or real life. His pulse raced as he studied the words and he became obsessed with meeting this anonymous player. He wrote and re-wrote his reply so many times he lost count. He tried to sound cool and eventually decided that he couldn’t pull that off and went for the direct approach.
Where?
He expected the reply to come quickly and be some city or town inside the game…but it wasn’t.
That was the first time Tryon the Tyrannical had killed anyone outside the game. It was a feeling Barry had never had before…something between a cocaine buzz and intense sexual energy. It was intoxicating. He began using the game as a way to meet his victims and quickly found that gamers were loners, losers, and geeky idiots. They almost all agreed to meet him in the real world within minutes of meeting him in the game. And they all lost their heads soon after. The bodies of his first few victims went out of town in dumpsters he’d found behind local businesses all over town. Most of them were from places that were several hours’ drive away from Nags Head, so no one was looking for them and their bodies were never discovered.
But that had changed when they found the head of that one girl…what was her name…Sophia? Sophie? Hell, he couldn’t remember. Since then, some alarm company had started offering free security cameras facing the dumpsters – if the business would sign up for monthly monitoring at a very reasonable cost.
Barry went back to chopping off heads inside the safety of the world of Bladehammer. Virtual bodies didn’t need to be disposed of…and the cops didn’t care if you killed an Orc. Then came the itch. He guessed that most serial killers got it, but he didn’t know that for sure. The thrill…the high…he’d gotten from slamming his razor sharp Dadao blade through the flesh and bone of someone’s neck started itching him. He needed something. No, he needed someone. Someone to hack a head off of and dump in the ocean…or a dumpster…shit, no, that was out. It didn’t matter; he had to feed his demons.
And then, he’d watched them prance into Fish Heads all freakin’ drunk and dancin’. Kim was half naked and Dana was tanked. He liked Fish Heads because it was a dive bar and they never carded him. He was pretty sure they knew he was only sixteen, but the douchebags behind the bar didn’t seem to care as long as his tips were good.
It wasn’t a flashy, tourist place with umbrellas and shit in red and yellow fruity drinks. It was a place he could sip a beer and throw back the occasional whiskey without taking too much crap from anybody about smellin’ like fish. The girls were both so drunk they didn’t notice him sitting back at the corner of the bar. They wouldn’t notice him anyway; they were so snotty to him at work…like he was beneath them or something. Bitches.
They plopped down whooping and hollering about some guy buying them drinks. His arms started itching and he realized they were his next damsels in distress. He pictured his extra sharp blade slicing through their skinny necks. Okay, Dana’s neck was skinny, Kim’s, not so much. He could almost hear their severed heads plopping down on the floor, rolling around in the warm arterial spray.
Barry threw back another Jack Daniels and was about to sidle up next to them, when the other dude walked up and sat down between them.
“Freakin’ shit!” Barry swore out loud and slammed his shot glass down.
It was Troy. Damn Troy Bodean from the damn fish shop.
“Hey, bro,” the bartender smacked his hands on the bar. “Easy on the glassware. What the hell, man?”
Barry was jolted away from staring at the two girls and the guy throwing back Corona after Corona with them.
“Ah, man, I’m sorry. Just ready for another.”
The bartender looked him up and down before finally turning the empty shot glass over and pouring him another shot of Jack.
At first, Barry was disappointed and resigned to living another day without satisfying the itch. But as he watched the three of them party late into the night, he began to see a scenario unfold that might be perfect to quench his warrior’s thirst for blood.
4
Jamaica, Mon
Troy thanked Officer Duffy for the ride out to Tortugas Lie Shellfish Bar and Grill. It was one of the finest dive bars in Nags Head and Troy liked it better than Fish Heads anyway. The music was better, the seafood was fresher, and the tab was always a little cheaper. He opened the door to the wailing strains of Tommy Tutone’s song, 867-5309 / Jenny being played by a guy he hadn’t seen here before… but he was doing well enough. The lunch crowd was light with a few fishermen on their way in from the water and the vacation crowd on their way out to the beach.
He plopped down at the bar and before he could place an order, the bartender sat a Corona in front of him with a slice of orange in it.
“Thanks, Rusty.”
“You look like shit.”
“Nice to see you too.”
Troy squeezed the orange into the bottle and pushed it down into the beer. He took a long, slow pull and a shiver of relaxation trailed up his spine. He sat the bottle down and grabbed a menu. Rusty, a bulky, redheaded guy with splotchy tan skin jerked it out of his hand.
“Let me handle that for you.”
“Much obliged,” Troy said as he tipped his hat.
The singer launched into a tourist-pleasing version of Co
me Monday and a couple of random claps resounded around the restaurant. Troy turned around on his barstool to face the kid. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Kid probably don’t even know what the song is all about, thought Troy. But as he drank his beer, he couldn’t help but tap his foot on the stool.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if it ain’t Troy Bodean as I live and breathe,” a ragged voice called from the door.
Troy turned to see a tall gangly figure stooping to come into the bar. The sun silhouetted the man, but he could tell the guy was old. He had a limp that indicated that maybe his left knee didn’t move like it used to...might even be fused. As the man moved closer with a thump-step-thump-step sound, Troy began to recognize him.
His hair was rough and gray and currently braided back into long cornrows that traced back from a long forehead all the way down to his shoulders. Around them, he wore an American flag bandana tied in a band above his bushy eyebrows. He didn’t wear a beard, but his chin was shadowed with gray stubble. A pair of reading glasses, that were clearly too small to be his, perched on his nose…one of the lenses was cracked.
Jamaica Jack wore a denim vest, unbuttoned to show his hard, leathery belly sticking out above his belt. His jeans matched with a pair of old saddle-brown chaps over them. Turquoise American Indian jewelry set in sterling silver clinked on his wrists, fingers and neck. His black boots clomped on the pine board floor as he walked up to the bar.
“Jack?”
“Damn straight, brother,” the man said as he grabbed Troy’s arm and hauled him up off the stool into a bear hug. “It’s been a while, ain’t it? Maybe ten years?”
“Not quite,” Troy pointed to the stool beside him. “The usual?”
“Nah, shit,” Jack held his hands up to protest. “Had to give up the hard stuff a few years back. Started coughin’ up blood and the doc didn’t like that much.”
“Dang, that don’t sound good.”
“Just some acid indigestion. How ‘bout one o’ them sissy beers yer drinkin’?”
Troy laughed and pointed at his bottle when he caught Rusty’s eye.
“Two more.”
“Oranges?”
“Yup.”
“How the hell are you, Troy? What’re you doin’ out in these parts?”
“Doin’ some fishin’ and workin’. How ‘bout you?”
“ ‘Bout the same. I was campin’ out down here not too long ago, but I’m crashin’ in Cape Charles…for now.”
“Campin’ out?”
“Yeah, you know me…ramblin’ man, right? Got a boat, do some tourist fishin’ and shit. Anyway, enough about me. How’s life treatin’ ya?”
Troy gulped the last sip of his beer down and slid the bottle back on the bar.
“Been good, real good.”
“Uh huh.” Jack sniffed and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “And you’re a shitty liar. You look like hell. What’s goin’ on?”
Rusty sat the beers down in front of them. Troy picked his up and nodded to the deck out back.
“Let’s take a walk.”
“Seriously, dude?” Jack looked down at his leg.
“Oh, uh—.”
“I’m kiddin’, Troy. Let’s go.” He smiled and pulled himself up to limp toward the door.
Troy led him out on the deck. A group of college kids were playing volleyball in the restaurant’s sand court, but other than them, the porch was empty.
He filled Jack in on the events of the night before last, partying with the girls, blacking out, waking up on his boat, finding their heads in the lobster traps, and all the blood…so much dang blood.
“Well?” Jack asked as he tossed the orange over the rail of the deck.
Troy waited for the man to ask a more detailed question, but he didn’t. He just stared at Troy as he sipped his beer.
Finally, Troy shrugged his shoulders. “Well, what?”
Jack looked around to make sure no one was paying them any attention. Then he leaned closer to Troy.
“Didja do it? Kill them girls?”
“Hell no!” Troy said punching the man on the shoulder. “You kiddin’ me, man?”
“My bad, bro. My bad. I just know I seen a lot of good men do bad things when they come back from the war.”
“You can put that right out of your head. Cops even gave me an alibi.”
“That’s good, man.”
Jack took another sip of his beer. He traced the label with his thumb thoughtfully.
“So, didja see ‘em?”
“Huh? Did I see what?”
He clapped his hand on Troy’s cheek. “The boobies. Did you see the boobies?”
“The…did I see the… Jack, that ain’t right. The girls are dead.”
“Well, you partied with ‘em, dint ya?”
“Yeah. I suppose so.”
“So, didja see ‘em? Motorboat ‘em? Touchy touchy?”
“No, Jack. I didn’t do any of that.”
Troy didn’t say that he couldn’t remember for sure if he had or hadn’t seen the boobies. But that wasn’t the point.
“Kind of a waste, I s’pose.” Jack tipped his bottle up and emptied it.
Troy saw this and decided to change the subject. “You need another?”
“Does a bear shit in the woods?”
“Let’s head back in.”
Troy turned to walk into the bar. Jamaica Jack grabbed Troy’s shirt and pulled him back. He pulled out a canvas, camouflage wallet and flipped through a few dog-eared business cards. It took a while as he looked over his glasses and stretched his hand out trying to read each one. Finally, he found the one he was searching for.
“Yup, here we go,” he said and nodded, holding the card out to Troy.
Troy took the card and read the front.
MEIRA CARR
PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
It had a phone number and nothing else.
“Tell her I sent ya. She’ll get to the bottom of this thing.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll give her a call tomorrow.”
“And Troy…”
“Yeah, Jack?”
“Be sure to let me know if ya get to see her boobies. Damn, I been wantin’ to see ‘em forever now.”
Troy shook his head and pointed to the door.
“How ‘bout that beer?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
The two of them limped back into the bar to the tune of Take It Easy.
Troy was surprised to see that a stooped gray-headed man now occupied his stool at the bar. He thought for a second about calling Rusty out about letting a straggler hop on a stool that was still an open tab. But there were other open seats, so he decided to let it go. Jamaica Jack obviously didn’t feel the same. He walked up to the old-timer now leaning over some sort of dark liquor drink and tapped him on the shoulder.
“Hey friend, normally I don’t make a scene ‘bout such things, but my friend Troy and I are kinda partial to them two seats.”
“Jack, it’s not a big deal.” Troy pointed to two open spots down at the other end of the long bar. “Let’s just grab those.”
He tapped the man again, but the guy didn’t seem to notice. That’s when Troy heard his voice carrying on and on telling some story about some being toe to toe with a few pirates down in Somalia. Poor Rusty was caught listening to the man.
“At one time,” the man stuck a finger in the air as he slurred, “I had the biggesh damn captain’sh lishence down in the Keysh. So, they all uzhed to call me when they had a load that nobody elshh could handle.”
Troy realized he knew the voice. More than that, he knew the story the man was telling. He’d heard it at least a hundred times.
“There we were headin’ down the Yankshee River...”
Troy had heard the story with various locations filled in for what he could only guess was the Yangtze River in this version. He smiled as he listened to the man carry on with his tale.
“All I had on me wassshh a crappy l
ittle pen knife that was nearly rushhted through. There was ten o’ them and they all had AK-47’shh. We spent a long day shhtarin’ down the barrel o’ them damn things out in the hot sshun on the poopdeck. You know what happened, Red?”
Troy guessed the man was calling the bartender Red. Rusty shook his head and rolled his eyes.
“I don’t, old-timer,” he said swiping the bar in front of him with a rag. “But I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“I had ‘em all—.”
Troy interrupted him filling in the rest of the punch line of the man’s story. “—cowtowin’ to me on the deck by three-thirty that afternoon. All with only a rusty pen knife and a backbone of steel.”
The man turned to look at him. He squinted hard and for a second, Troy thought he might not recognize him. Too much whiskey makes the memory go the way of the Dodo.
“Troy?” the man’s eyes widened as he said it. “Ishh that you? What in tarnation are you doin’ here?”
“Hello, Mel,” Troy clasped his hand on Mel’s shoulder. It was bony and thin…too thin. The man was clearly skipping meals. “I suppose I could ask you the same thing? What happened to being the biggest boat captain in Key West?”
Mel pursed his lips in disgust and flapped his hand as if brushing off the comment.
“That place ishh small cheeshh,” he said.
“You mean small change?”
“You said it.”
“The last time I saw you down there,” Troy said, “you were hangin’ out at Pepe’s braggin’ about a big boat you just got commissioned on. What happened?”
Mel licked his cracked lips. For a second the light seemed to turn on in his eyes and Troy was afraid he might’ve hit a nerve. And then the familiar squinty smile was back.
“Wouldncha know it, I got bushhted by the man for indeshent exposhhure.”
“What the hell?”
“Ya, I know. In Key Wesht of all plashes. It ain’t the same as it ushhed to be, Troy.”
He shrugged his shoulders and pointed to a bottle of Jack Daniels behind the bar.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 91