She moved her flashlight down the woman’s body and knew immediately how long she’d been there. Three weeks. Her kelly green, polyester polo shirt had a bright yellow logo that read: Martha’s Maids … just like Prosperity was wearing. It was the last maid who had worked here before her. The one the old guys down at the Tail Spinner had been so desperate to replace. Jesus, she didn’t quit, Prosperity thought. She found their shit and they killed her. A chill raced up her spine. If she found the room and they murdered her, she needed to get the hell out of here right now. She dragged the blanket over the body and bolted out the door. She ran through the narrow hallway, her shoulders banging against the sides. The fear icing into her made her tremble so hard she tripped when she reached the hidden door.
Reaching out her hands to catch herself, she fell straight into someone’s arms. The hair on the forearms and heavy black watch told her she’d fallen into a man’s arms. A man who clearly smoked a lot. She was surprised she could smell the smoke over the odor coming from the room behind her.
“Alright, alright, alright. Looky what we’ve got here. Second maid I’ve caught snoopin’ around this month,” the man drawled.
He was wiry and tall and had thick brown waxy hair that looked like it might be a toupee. His mutton chop sideburns were a slightly lighter color than his hair and stretched all the way down to his crooked jawline. A mustache that Sam Houston would be envious of stretched across his upper lip and down to his jaw so that it almost joined his sideburns. A wrinkled, yellow-stained v-neck T-shirt drooped down on his chest, where scraggly tufts of hair tried to escape it. There was something familiar about him, but she couldn’t place it. When he grinned, she saw his teeth matched his shirt’s color and he was missing a random one here and there. He leaned close to her and her fight or flight mechanism finally woke up.
She tried to run, but his grip was like a vice, and he shoved her back into the secret room. He slammed the door behind them and she let out a blood-curdling scream.
He cackled in a high-pitched voice and said, “Give it all ya got, sweet thang. It’s all soundproof down here. Ain’t nobody gonna hear nothin’.”
She screamed again and again until she felt his bony hand smack the side of her head. The flickering fluorescent light slowly disappeared as she blacked out.
6
Gone Baby Gone
Troy eased the bug into the circular driveway and parked it out front. He tossed the keys onto the driver’s seat and imagined a butler coming to take it to the garage.
“Sure is somethin’ how the other half lives,” he said, jogging up the steps to the double front door.
He reached forward and took the massive antique brass handle of the door on the right. Turning and pulling, he was caught off guard and almost fell over when the door didn’t open. He tried the left door more cautiously and found it, too, was locked.
Peering in through the tall, narrow windows beside the door, he could see through to the living room. No movement. No Prosperity. But after thinking about it for a second, he realized if he were a young woman alone in a house, he would lock the door too. He pushed the button and heard the doorbell chime inside.
He waited a few seconds and saw no evidence that Prosperity was coming to open it up. He knocked a couple times and rang the doorbell again. Nothing. He walked back down the steps and looked up at the windows, thinking she might’ve opened one while she was cleaning or something. Everything was closed and looked empty. Strange. A breeze kicked up and brought the smell of saltwater drifting into his nose.
“Ah, yes,” he said. “The beach. She’s headed down to do a bit of loungin’ before breakfast.”
He flip-flopped his way around the house and squeezed through the hedges lining the back yard. A stone path led him around and down past the deck to the dunes that kept the ocean from attacking the house. There was a couple running with a golden retriever, an old man wearing a pair of speedos that threatened to make him a nudist, and a woman lying on a towel with a hat covering her face. Even from this distance, Troy could see by her build and pale skin that the woman under the hat was not Prosperity.
“Well, dang,” he muttered as he turned up the steps that led to the raised deck on the back of the house.
He half expected that when he reached the top, he’d see her sunning herself in one of the beach chairs that he had slept in more than once during his stay. But they were empty as well. He scratched his beard and thought he might trim it up a bit today. He thought he must look like a mountain man out of his element with the scraggly thing covering his chin. Padding his way across the deck, he found the porch screen door open and walked to the sliding door.
Luckily, it was open, too, and he slid it back to feel the rush of cool air inside the living room. He stepped into the same empty house he’d been living in since Clarice had left to save the whales.
“Honey, I’m home,” he called.
His voice echoed off the walls, and the surf crashed outside. He waited, but heard nothing. She didn’t answer and he didn’t hear footsteps. His internal danger sense perked up, and he slid his two bags of groceries onto the kitchen counter. He slipped off his flip-flops to mask his steps and started a search of the cavernous mansion.
A thorough search of the house left Troy to believe that Prosperity had gone somewhere. Maybe she’d decided to take a walk down the beach, or maybe she’d taken a cab out to get something she needed to clean, but it was obvious that she wasn’t here. There were no signs of any foul play, no signs of struggle, or of her being dragged away kicking and screaming. Yet, for some reason, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t quite right. Maybe it was just his recent past and the shady characters he’d been around that were spooking him.
So without proof of any dirty deeds, he decided to make some kind of breakfast out of all the things he’d brought back from the market.
He didn’t start to worry again until the twilight began to settle over the beach. He’d filled himself up on the food and popped a couple Coronas waiting for her to return. But now that it was getting dark, he started to entertain the very real possibility that she’d changed her mind about staying here and had left. That didn’t bother him so much as the fact that she’d left without her car. Maybe she’d be back for it tomorrow. As he opened his fourth beer and walked out onto the deck, he thought he could hear a scream. He jogged back into the house and ran from room to room, not worrying about being quiet this time.
“Prosperity?” he yelled. “You here? Where ya at?”
He skidded to a stop in the middle of the upstairs hallway and strained to listen. Nothing. Nothing but the muffled sound of crashing waves and the occasional seagull.
“Dang imagination playin’ tricks on me,” he said to the empty hall.
Convinced that she wasn’t in the house after all, Troy made his way back out to watch the moon rise, and fell asleep in a wooden deck chair without a cushion.
Prosperity screamed again against the duct tape covering her mouth. It was muffled enough that she could barely hear herself. But against the odds, she had heard the distant, ever-so-faint sound of the front door opening and closing and then a few minutes later the back door. Troy was here. She yelled until she was hoarse and began to cough and hack. It was no use. Even if she didn’t have the tape covering her mouth, the man who had kidnapped her told her the room was soundproof. Somehow the sounds of the doors had vibrated into the cellar, but her voice would never make it past the cold, concrete walls. Tears began to trickle down her cheeks in the dark.
When he’d left, her kidnapper had turned the light off and now that the sun had gone down, it was pitch black in the hidden room. She had never been afraid of the dark before, but this might change her mind.
Troy woke to the feel of raindrops stinging his face and the sound of a rough surf crashing against the shore. He didn’t remember the forecast mentioning a storm, but then again, he didn’t remember watching the news, either. He padded barefoot into
the dark house and clicked on a few lights.
“Prosperity?” His voice echoed into the dark halls.
He tilted his head up at an angle and listened. Nothing but the sound of the rain picking up and spattering against the massive windows on the back of the house. A stray lightning bolt arced down from menacing clouds out over the water. Troy walked into the kitchen to discover that he’d already eaten the last of the breakfast food and more importantly, he’d drunk the last beer.
He took out his phone to check the time and his stomach growled. He didn’t have her number, didn’t know who to call to get it, and wasn’t even sure if there was any reason for concern yet. And it was half past suppertime and there was nothing to eat in the fridge. He searched for the car keys for a minute, then remembered he had left them in the bug and headed to the door with a new plan: get some grub and some beer and then run by the police station. He figured maybe he’d ask them what their thoughts were on the subject. He wasn’t exactly sure how he’d frame that conversation, but he thought he’d work it out on the way. One thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want to put himself in the precarious “person-of-interest” spotlight just yet ... if there was anything foul going on.
As he closed the front door, he could’ve sworn he heard a distant voice screaming. But he knew that was just his imagination again. There wasn’t anyone in the house. He knew that for sure.
He pulled the car out of the drive and headed into town, leaving the phantom sounds of distress behind.
7
Black Dog Tavern
“C’mon, woman. Git this thang into gear and let’s haul ass.” The woman with the platinum hair hanging in ringlets over her deeply tanned face reached out and slapped the nearly identical looking woman on the back of her head.
“Quit yer fussin’,” the second woman grunted. “This thang don’t hardly git outta second gear no more.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Cause you done let the oil run out and the engine’s almost burnt up.”
The first woman, who was sitting in the passenger’s seat of the pale blue 1971 Ford Maverick, scowled at the woman driving.
“Well, they oughta have a light or a buzzer or somethin’ that goes off when it needs oil.”
The woman driving pointed in the general direction of the speedometer. “You mean like that one?”
“You just shut up, Ellie Mae.” She harrumphed and crossed her arms.
“I’m just sayin’ it ain’t gonna go no faster, Daisy Mae.”
“Fine then, just get us there fast as you can.”
As soon as the words were out of her twin sister’s mouth, Ellie Mae Gallop slammed on the brakes and squealed to a stop at a green traffic light.
“Are you frickin’ kiddin’ me?” Daisy Mae Gallop had barely gotten her arms untangled enough to stop herself from flying forward into the dashboard. “What in the hell was that for?”
“You don’t tell me what to do. I done took it long enough. I ain’t takin’ it no—”
She was interrupted by the car behind them slamming into their back bumper. This time, Daisy Mae was caught in even more surprise and her forehead jerked forward and thunked onto the glove box. It flew open and promptly spilled out a generous portion of marijuana.
“Holy dayum hell, Ellie Mae.” Daisy Mae put her hand on her left eyebrow and found that it had split open slightly and blood was trickling out. “How in the world you expect me to make any money tonight with this knot on my head?”
“I didn’t do nothin’!” Ellie Mae yelled and held her hands out wide. “It was the jackass behind us. And besides that, you don’t make no money anyhow. I’m the one payin’ all the bills.”
Daisy Mae opened her mouth to answer, but at that exact moment, a frantic middle-aged man tapped on the driver’s side window. He held his hands to the sides of his eyes and peered inside.
“Are you okay?” His voice was muffled through the glass.
Ellie Mae cranked the window down four inches. It had never opened any farther than that.
“Whadda you want, you dumbass?” she asked through the narrow opening.
“Let me at him,” Daisy Mae said, nearly climbing across Ellie Mae’s lap. “Hey, you sumbitch. Look what you done to me.”
The man put the fingers of his hands on his bottom lip. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I ... look, I didn’t know you were going to slam on your brakes. I mean, the light was green.”
“Mister,” Ellie Mae reached through the window and grabbed the man by his wrist. “You have done put an end to my sister’s illustrious dancin’ career. How the hell’s she s’posed to feed her boy now?”
His look of shock deepened and he blinked his eyes much faster than Ellie Mae thought was humanly possible. “Oh, Jesus. Is it her neck? Her back?”
She had just opened her mouth to finish the line from the Khia song she had danced to more times than she could remember. But before she could belt out the refrain, Daisy Mae cried out, “It’s my neck and my back! And I can’t feel my legs.”
“What? Oh, God. Oh, God. We’ve got to get an ambulance out here.” The man pulled his cell phone out and started to dial.
“Ain’t nobody got time for that,” Daisy Mae moaned. “No, we gotta get to the hospital. But you better follow us. Yer gonna need to talk to the police and my lawyer once we get there.”
The man’s expression went from flushed to pale to green.
“I just hope she ain’t paralyzed for your sake, Mister,” Ellie Mae said.
The man burped once and then vomited all over the window that Ellie Mae was now suddenly thankful did not roll all the way down.
“What the hell is wrong with you, dude?” she demanded.
“I can’t do this,” he said wiping his mouth. “I have a family, a wife, two kids, a dog. Oh, God, my house. I’ll lose the house and all of my retirement.”
“Now just hold on a sec.” Daisy Mae rubbed the back of her neck furiously. “Maybe we can work something out, off the books.”
A glimmer of hope twinkled in the man’s eyes. “Off the books? Yes. I like that. Off the books. What does that mean?”
“How much money’s in yer wallet?” Ellie Mae asked him.
“Money? In my wallet?”
“Ooooh, the pain,” groaned Daisy Mae.
“Oh, I uh,” he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket.
He opened it and several receipts fluttered out and fell to the ground. He bent down to pick them up and shoved them in crumpled balls back into his wallet. Behind them, Ellie Mae could see several one-hundred dollar bills peeking out. She reached her leg across the bench seat and kicked Daisy Mae in the leg.
“Ow, shit,” she cried. “What’d you do that—”
“Mister, you better hurry,” Ellie Mae blurted out over her sister. “I think she’s gettin’ worse. Give us what ya got and we’ll make do with it down at the hospital.”
He reached in and pulled out the bills and slid them through the window. Ellie Mae counted them out. Four hundred dollars. Dayum, she thought. That’s more than Daisy and I can make together on a good Friday night.
“Ain’t much,” she said tucking the bills away in her bra, “but I guess it’ll have to do. Now go on. Git outta here.”
The man nodded so that his hair flapped up and down over his eyebrows. He turned and ran back to his car, jumped inside, and screeched his tires as he jerked his car into reverse, pulled around their rusted Ford, and took off.
“Nice work, sis,” Ellie Mae said with a sly grin. “Whaddya say we make a pit stop at the Black Dog before work? We got some spendin’ money now.”
“Hot damn,” Daisy Mae said, dropping her hands from her neck. “That’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day.”
Ellie Mae put the car into gear and pushed the gas pedal. It jerked once and backfired as they started rolling. When she tried to pull it into second gear, it refused to go.
“Well, shit,” she looked at her sister. “We’re los
ing gears fast. We gotta work out some new wheels.”
As she said it, a bright red convertible Mazda Miata whooshed by them. Two younger blonde girls sat inside, hair whipping around in the wind. As they passed the blue Ford bucket of bolts, the driver of the red sports car raised two middle fingers to them. The passenger was crouching in her seat in a half-standing position. Before Ellie Mae could ask what the girl was doing, she jerked her pants down and mooned them.
“Screw you,” Daisy Mae yelled over her through the crack in the driver’s side window.
The smell of vomit wafted in and she cranked the window up as fast as she could.
“You remember when that was us?” Ellie Mae asked with a sigh.
“Sis, that wasn’t ever us.”
“Shut it and pull yer pants up,” Ellie Mae said. “I need a drink.”
“Now that’s us.”
Troy Bodean knew the Black Dog Tavern was his kind of place as soon as he saw it. A blue-gray weathered sign simply declared the place, The Tavern. Above it on the beam holding the sign, stood an iron black dog. Beyond that, he could see the spindly spires of dozens of ridiculously expensive sailboats pointing into the sky. A chalkboard sign out front spelled out a few drink specials in multi-colored chalk. 2 for 1 Corona Lights, the first line said. Troy smiled, clapped his hands together and rubbed them briskly, and then pulled open the heavy door.
The jangly sound of a nearly in-tune guitar pierced the dinnertime din. Waitresses scurried back and forth from the bar to scattered tables. They held baskets of sizzling seafood and fries and balanced full-to-the-rim pints of beer on round black trays. For the first time since he’d been on Martha’s Vineyard, Troy relaxed.
“Sit wherever you like, cowboy,” a waitress called to him as she bustled past.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 111