The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  “But as bad as it sounds, I’m clean of it all. There’s a lot of stuff the police have that shows it wasn’t me. You can check it all out if you want.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Yeah. Guess there won’t be a second date after all.”

  “Let’s not be hasty,” she said, but a wall had clearly gone up between them. “I’ll check all this out at the police station tomorrow and give you a call. I know Darla pretty well. She’ll show me the files.”

  For a few minutes, they said nothing and she waved the waiter over for the check. It looked like she was calling this date to an end. Troy felt his stomach lurch as he swallowed the last Corona. He knew he was going pay for the curry in his belly. His cell beeped and he looked down to see a message from Barry.

  -Shrimp done. All yours delivery boy.

  “Okay, well,” Troy stood and opened his wallet. “I’ve got a delivery I gotta get out of the store. Maybe look up that stuff and call me tomorrow?”

  “Deal.”

  He put two twenties down on the table and tipped his hat to her. He turned and walked out wondering if she would ever call again. He found himself hoping she would.

  7

  Peace and Blessings

  The Decharmarnel RV Park was always home to a flood of tourists who drove their mobile homes around the country and found this ocean front location to be a fantastic place to stay. But there were a fair number of trailers that were not going anywhere anytime soon. Semi-permanent tin cans of redneck living crowded row after row of the trailers sporting satellite dishes, clotheslines, picnic tables, portable grills, an occasional pirate flag, and sometimes…chickens. Pets weren’t strictly allowed, but there always seemed to be a dog or cat poking around looking for scraps left on tables in the early morning and late at night. Troy eased his borrowed truck into an empty gravel spot at the front of the park. It was dark except for a few flickering fires smoldering around him.

  He almost stepped on a shaggy golden retriever lying under a charcoal grill licking the metal legs. He had a flashback to Afghanistan, but couldn’t quite remember the story that went along with the memory. The dog looked up at him and sniffed at the cooler he was carrying with Trixie Cameron’s five pounds of shrimp inside.

  “Sorry, buddy. Can’t give you any now, but I’m bettin’ if you hang around long enough, there’ll be some shells scattered about.”

  The dog snorted and went back to licking the grill. Troy pulled the slip of paper out of his pocket and found the lot number of the grieving mother’s trailer. He ambled down the rows of RV’s nodding to various vacationers, squatters, and vagrants huddled around campfires and picnic tables. The strong odor of citronella wafted out from every direction almost cancelling out the smell of the tide. Troy thought more than once about telling these people that citronella had almost no effect on the bugs that were biting them…but he never did. Let them have their false sense of security.

  When he turned the corner of the second row, he was shocked to see the…contraption…sitting in the spot Mrs. Cameron had scribbled on the piece of paper. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t what he saw. An over-the-cab RV with no sign of its original paint showing, hunched in the space on four rusted wheels. None of them even had a dry-rotted tire to give it the impression that it might ever move again.

  The sides of the trailer were hand-painted in wild blues, oranges, yellows, greens, and reds with stars, swirls, circles, diamonds, spots, paisleys, flowers, and hearts. On top of the trailer was a pile of junk that seemed likely to start falling off and crashing to the ground any second now. Ladders, crumpled metal barrels, an old grill, the remnants of a crib, a crutch, two bicycles both missing their tires, a couple of suitcases – the Samsonite kind – and various unidentifiable hunks of rusty metal perched precariously on top of the vehicle.

  The passenger’s side of the windshield was also painted over with a yellow and purple peace sign. The view into the driver’s side was obstructed with a velvet painting of Jesus. Troy tipped his cap to the smiling image and took a long slow breath.

  He walked to the side of the trailer and rapped his knuckles on the door through a torn screen. He could hear the sounds of music drifting through the open windows and Bob Marley told him not to worry ‘bout a ting.

  “Hold your horses. I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” Trixie’s voice echoed from inside.

  The sounds of someone stomping through the trailer and maybe throwing things out of the way rattled around, as she got closer to the door. She jerked the door open with a loud squeak and a bang as it flung to the side.

  “What is it?”

  She stood in the doorway, one arm propped above her head leaning against the doorjamb. Her eyes were bloodshot and her hair was a rat’s nest. She didn’t look anything like she had earlier when she came by to order the shrimp. Also gone were the black jeans she’d had on, replaced by a pair of rebel flag boxers. They hung loosely on her hips threatening to fall to her ankles. The tank top was skewed to the side, one shoulder hanging off. It was like that scene from Flashdance, but on acid.

  “Got yer shrimp.” Troy held up the white Styrofoam cooler and shook it a little.

  Trixie Cameron struggled to make sense of what he’d said. Troy could almost see the fog in her mind trying desperately to clear. She stoned out of her gourd, he thought.

  “You know…for the memorial gatherin’?”

  Something seemed to click and she smiled.

  “Right, right,” she said.

  She didn’t make any move to take the cooler, invite him in, or send him away. She just stood there smiling oddly.

  “So…I’ll just leave this on the table?”

  “Oh, yeah. Right.”

  She pulled her arm down and waved it behind her into the trailer.

  “C’mon in. Everybody’s done left, but we can sit a while if you want.”

  “Maybe I’ll just leave the shrimp and let you be.”

  She grabbed his elbow and tugged him inside.

  “No, no, no. Don’t do that,” she whined. “I wouldn’t be able to eat all that shrimp by myself and it ain’t a night to be lonely neither.”

  Troy groaned as he stepped up the aluminum stairs into the Grateful Dead caravan vehicle. Inside, he found almost exactly what he expected. Trixie had lain down on the Aztec pattern sectional sofa…or at least it had been a sectional at one time, but the shorter section was missing. The tank top had slipped dangerously down off her shoulder and exposed most of her leathery left breast. She had her legs crossed in a strangely demure fashion and was holding a cigarette lightly between her lips.

  “Came up a little late, did ya?” she winked at him as she asked.

  “Uh, yeah.” Troy cleared his throat and sat the cooler down on the kitchen counter, which incidentally, was in the same room as the living area. “Actually, I can’t stay. Got a…um…previous engageme—.”

  “Mhmm.” She interrupted him and pointed toward the kitchen table. “Hand me that lighter, would ya?”

  Troy grabbed the lighter and flipped it over to her. He clapped his hands together and edged backward toward the trailer door.

  “Okay, then, enjoy yer shrimp.”

  “You wanna beer? I got Coronas in the fridge left over from the party…er, I mean, the memorial.”

  Troy glanced down at his wrist where he hadn’t worn a watch since Afghanistan.

  “Nah, it’s gettin’ late.”

  “Hell, Troy, we both know you ain’t got nowhere to go. Yer just scared of what might happen if you stay.”

  She tugged on the edge of her boxers and what might’ve been the ears of a rabbit tattoo peeked out over the waistband. There was no sign of a tan line and Troy wondered how long she’d spent in the tanning bed over the course of her life.

  “Well, maybe just one.”

  “That’s what I’m talkin’ about.” She flicked the lighter and her cigarette flared to life in a puff of smoke.

&nbs
p; Troy opened the refrigerator and, sure enough, there were a couple of Corona longnecks left in a wet cardboard container. He pulled them out, found a bottle opener lying nearby on the counter, and popped the two tops off. He almost asked for an orange slice, but then realized he hadn’t seen anything else in the fridge besides the beer.

  He took a swig of his and handed the second one to Trixie. The beer hit his stomach and it made a strange groan, but then quieted quickly. She took a long slug of hers and patted the couch indicating that he should sit down. He scooted down to the end as far from her as he could and sat. She licked her lips and puffed the cigarette. She didn’t say anything, but leered at him under what she must’ve thought were sultry eyes. Troy couldn’t help but think of the drag queens back in Savannah.

  “Dang shame,” he said finally.

  “What’s that?” she arched an eyebrow.

  “Ya know. Kimberly…and Dana.”

  For a second, she just stared. She looked for all the world like she had no idea what he was talking about.

  “The murders.” Troy reached up and tipped his hat back as he said it. “Your daughter and Kim. It’s a dang shame what happened to ‘em.”

  She shook her head and suddenly seemed to realize what he was talking about.

  “Oh…oh yeah. Damn shame.” She took a sip of her beer and an odd look clouded her face. “Can we not talk about that tonight?”

  “Sure. I just thought on their memorial night—.”

  “I get it. Yer just tryin’ to change the subject.”

  Troy opened his mouth to ask exactly what subject he was avoiding when his stomach rumbled again and a sharp pain stabbed him in the gut. He slowed his breathing and realized he was sweating a cool sweat. His mouth wanted to clench shut, but worse than that…so did his bowels.

  “You got a bathroom in here?”

  “Down the hall, only door on the left.”

  “Much obliged.” Troy started to stand up and felt a heat in his bowels that could not be a good sign.

  “You gon’ be all right?” Trixie asked, apparently just starting to notice his distress.

  “Yeah, yeah. No problemo,” Troy said realizing that there was definitely going to be a problemo.

  In between pains, he was able to clench enough to stand safely. He shuffled down the hall and hurried into the tiny bathroom.

  “Light a match,” Trixie called from the living room.

  Troy spent the next fifteen minutes with his knees pressed against the bathroom door in a stall the size of those he thought belonged on an airplane or a Greyhound bus. It was then and there that he swore off any Thai food for the rest of his life.

  He flipped the knobs of the sink to try and mask the sounds with running water, but when he twisted them, nothing happened. No water. He thought about coughing a few times, but that might be worse. Eventually, he decided relieving the horrible pain in his belly was more important than any embarrassment he might feel from the noises he was making. The smell was awful, so he reached up and opened the sliding glass window next to his head.

  “You okay in there?” He heard Trixie call from down the hall.

  “Yup. Right as rain.”

  When he was sure his stomach had emptied itself into her pint-sized commode and he’d exhausted her meager roll of toilet paper, he reached behind him and pushed the lever. Nothing happened.

  “Oh, dangit,” Troy murmured.

  He’d forgotten that for some reason, the trailer had no water. It wasn’t going to flush. Times like these back in the war, he’d had to make snap decisions. It was either fight…or flight. He wasn’t going to stay and fight this out with Trixie, so he decided on the latter. Popping the screen out of the sliding window, he elbowed himself through and landed softly in the gravel below. He tiptoed around the front end of her wildly painted trailer.

  Inside, he heard her banging on what he guessed was the bathroom door.

  “What the hell is goin’ on in there?” he heard her shout. “Just come on out and we’ll-oh…my…God!”

  The gig was up. Troy began to jog away and rounded the front end of the trailer when the side door slammed open. Catching sight of him, her face twisted in rage.

  “There ain’t no water in here, you sonofabitch!”

  Committed to his plan of flight, he took off running as fast as his bad knee would let him. He didn’t turn back, but he could hear her shouts echoing through the Decharmarnel RV Park. As he passed the first trailer in the row, he stumbled over the lazy golden retriever he’d seen licking the grill earlier. His knees hit the gravel and he rolled to keep from falling directly on the dog. It ambled over to him and licked his cheek.

  “Sorry ‘bout that, boy.” Troy patted the dog on the neck. “Peace and blessings to you, buddy, but I gotta be goin’.”

  The dog seemed to shrug its shoulders and lay back down.

  8

  The Thrill Is Gone

  Barry Olsen Barron was just about as bored as he’d ever been playing his game. He slammed the VR goggles down and shut the game off. The mayhem and rampaging and violence in the exquisitely rendered world of Bladehammer just didn’t…do it for him anymore. No matter how hard he tried, he kept picturing her face…the girl from the gaming store. He wondered if regular people would imagine dating her. He was imagining something much darker. He opened his mom’s piece of crap laptop and logged onto the neighbor’s Wi-Fi. Idiot never changed his password and Barry was able to connect for his VR game and any surfing the net he needed to do.

  He clicked over to Supersharp.com, a website he’d used before and scrolled through the pictures of various knives and swords listed for sale. He’d found that a Dadao or a Chinese saber worked best for his work down at the pier gutting and slicing the massive fish brought in from the deep ocean. Anything smaller was done as easily with a smaller blade. And he found that a really sharp Dadao would cut through a neck in one swipe…but it had to be really sharp. He’d worked his last one so much that it went through Dana and Kim’s neck without hesitation. He grinned at the thought.

  A few pages later, he clicked on a beautiful blade made of heat treated high carbon steel and a red and black leather wrapped grip. It was hand forged, so it was a custom piece. He scrolled to the bottom.

  “Sheeee-ittt,” he said as he saw the price button. “Two-hundred and thirty-nine damn dollars? It ain’t made of damn gold.”

  He almost slammed the screen down when he saw the consignment button at the top. That’s the ticket, he thought. Maybe get a used one and tune it up.

  With a few more clicks, he found it. The blade looked good enough, no serious gouges, nothing too bad. The leather grip was shredded and dangled off the hilt in several places. No biggie there. He figured with a couple good days work, he could have it looking new and sharp as a mother. The price button said sixty bucks, but on consignment deals, you could enter a bid. He tapped a few keys and entered a bid of forty-five. He smiled as he pushed the send button and the whoosh sound indicated his bid was in. Nothing to do now but wait to see if he won the auction.

  “And now I’m bored again,” he muttered to the empty trailer.

  He jumped when his cell phone rang. He looked at the number and didn’t recognize it.

  “Damn sales calls.”

  He didn’t answer, letting the call go to his voicemail. After a minute, the phone chirped to let him know he had a message. He tapped a few buttons and the message played back.

  “Good evening, Mista Barron,” a deep, resonating voice boomed. “This is Sam DeFur. I’m the Chief of Police here in Nags Head and I’m lookin’ into the disappearance of the two girls you worked with at the Fish Company.”

  Barry’s pulse quickened and he wondered how the hell the cops had traced the killings back to him. Shit, he thought as he began to plan a mad dash out of town.

  “Now, we know it’s been hard on all you kids, but we don’t have a whole bunch of information and we’re tracking down everybody who knew these two fine young ladi
es.”

  Barry’s heart slowed a little. It didn’t sound like the chief considered him a suspect…yet.

  “It would be a big help if you could talk to us about the last time you saw both of them. We know you were working the night they were killed, but there might be something they said to you, or you overheard that would lead us in the right direction. Anyway, give me a call down at the station and we’ll talk.”

  The line went quiet, but didn’t disconnect. The chief inhaled on the line.

  “Barry, we know that you’re probably still shook up about this, but we need your help. We got nothin’.”

  Then the call was ended.

  Barry wondered if the chief was playing him. Did he know something? Was he a suspect? Was he being played here? He didn’t think so. He wondered if not calling the man back would make him look guilty though.

  He resolved to call the chief tomorrow and by then, he would have a complete story worked out about leaving work that night, coming home, and playing video games all night. Maybe he could even get Riley to say she’d been online with him. Thinking of her, he looked down at his phone. The time read: 10:01PM She’d said not to call after ten…but it was barely after. He texted her.

  -Ok to call you?

  He waited for a minute. Nothing. He figured she was probably not going to text him back when his phone dinged.

  -Yeah, but just for a minute. I’m about to go to bed and I think my mom’s on the way home now.

  He felt his pulse quicken again.

  -Can you get online?

  -No, I’m grounded. She won’t give me the Wi-Fi password.

  -Shit. I can prob figure it out. What’s her birthday?

  -Already tried that.

  -Anniversary?

  -That too.

  Barry thought for a second.

  -Your birthday?