The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection

by David F. Berens

  Buff almost hung up. “Country, I don’t know what kind of drugs you’re strung out on, but you better get cleaned up and fast. You’ve got a delivery to manage in two days and you need to be sharp. So get some goddamn coffee or something and call me back when you’re—”

  “Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Frank.” Country slurred.

  The vein in Buff’s neck throbbed and his pulse raged in his ears. He wanted to reach through the phone and beat the man to a pulp.

  “If you’ll listen for a second, I’ll explain.”

  “If you don’t say something absolutely freaking brilliant right now, you’re going to want to disappear and hope I never find you,” Buff said through gritted teeth.

  “It is brilliant.” Country sounded like the guy in the movie who looked inside the Ark of the Covenant. “I’m gonna make the drop with Santa Claus and conk him on the head. Then I’ll drop him overboard with the body. The police will think he fell asleep when he was disposin’ of the girl.”

  Buff’s anger was replaced with utter confusion. “Country, I hate to break this to you, but Santa Claus is not—”

  “Not the Santa Claus, you idiot,” Country interrupted him. “Banksy. He’s got that narcosleepiness thing or whatever. He falls asleep standin’ up. He’s the perfect patsy.”

  Buff shook his head. He gave up trying to figure out what he was saying. Whatever happened, he needed to be sure his name was far away from the whole thing.

  “Country, I don’t give a rat’s ass how or what you do,” he said, but if you screw up this drop and the cleanup of your mess down in the cellar, I’ll be going to jail, but it won’t be for that. It’ll be because they found me with my hands around your cold, dead throat.”

  “So, you’re sayin’ my plan is okay?”

  Geezus Christ, Buff thought as he hung up the phone.

  Buff walked into the kitchen as he dialed Jed’s number to check the status of today’s rally security, but it went straight to voicemail. He grabbed a glass from the cabinet, ready for a stiff drink, but never got to pour one. He was about to leave an angry message when he glanced out the window and saw his wife lying on her stomach on a deck chair by the pool—topless. For her age, Florence was a shapely woman, meticulous in diet and fitness, so being sans shirt was not in itself cause for anger. No, Buff did not care if she paraded around the house naked in front of him. In fact, he might like it if she did it more often. What he did care about was the fact that she was doing it in front of their pool boy—a kid who was everything Buff used to be: young, tan, fit, thick haired, and good looking.

  The hair on the back of Buff’s neck stood up as he watched her stir her drink seductively and arch her back raising her chest up off the chair. The yoga-like posture threatened to expose all of her and Buff felt something pop in his temple. He was sure he’d blown a vein. He glanced over at the kid and for a second, his ire settled back into a manageable rage. Actually, watching the boy drag the net back and forth through the water calmed him a great deal. He chuckled as he realized the guy wasn’t looking at Florence at all. In fact, he was downright ignoring her.

  Poor Flo, he thought. Just don’t have it anymore, do you? Apparently, Florence came to the same conclusion that she wasn’t attracting the appropriate level of attention to her display, so she did what any self-respecting woman would do in the situation—she rolled over. At the sight of her surgically enhanced breasts and their dark brown points jutting skyward, Buff’s anger went nuclear. The kid, also noticing Mrs. Summerton’s lily white chest on display, took a wrong step and missed the side of the pool with his foot. He lost his balance and fell with a splash into the cool blue, freshly swept water.

  Buff slammed his empty cocktail glass into the sink, shattering it into a million pieces. He took two steps past the kitchen table, grabbed the back of one of the chairs, and in one fluid motion, heaved it through the sliding door that led out to the pool. A shower of tiny pieces rained out onto the concrete in a violent explosion of glass.

  Florence bolted upright and grabbed her towel to cover herself twisting her ankle and wincing in pain.

  “Christ, Buff—I mean, Frank. What the hell was that all about?”

  He stomped out onto the pool deck, intending to grab the kid, but he had pulled himself out of the water on the far side of the pool. Buff was a strong man, but was never agile. He was a lumbering football lineman of a man, while the pool boy was a lithe, sprinter type. Seeing the angry husband stalking around the pool, he took off running. He bounded past Florence and in a leap and a pull up, he had scaled the privacy fence in one motion. He was over and running down the driveway when Buff reached the gate.

  “You’d better get the hell out of town, kid,” he shouted after the kid, huffing and puffing with exertion. “Don’t ever show your face here again unless you want it blown off your head!”

  “He didn’t do anything, Buff,” Florence shouted.

  Buff turned around, deep in the flowing red rage he had experienced all too often back in the war. Rational thought was long gone. The urge to let the wave of anger express itself was intoxicating.

  Florence saw it in his eyes. She started walking backward, then her ankle gave out again—definitely a sprain—and she stumbled as she tried to get away. The backhand that struck her jaw was the hardest swing Buff had ever taken at anyone in his life. Florence Summerton’s chin racked sideways from the impact and ended up perpendicular to her face. It was a brutal, vicious hit and Buff got a rush from the shock he saw in her eyes. She fell backward onto the ground, towel flung to the side, her bare breasts exposed again.

  She held up a hand, but Buff ignored that. He reached down, grabbed her arm, and jerked her up to stand next to him on wobbly legs.

  “You’re a whore,” he growled at her. “You were always a whore. I should’ve realized you were never going to change after your little fling back in Maryland.”

  During Buff’s last deployment to Afghanistan, Florence had apparently decided to seek solace in another man’s arms. Upon his sudden discharge, Buff showed up at the house to find her in her canoodling with the gardener. Why is it always the damn help? I should have known that’s what she was up to when we hired the pool boy, he thought. He dragged her by the arm to the edge of the pool, terror flashing in her eyes now.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a squeal of pain. Her jaw was definitely broken or dislocated, or maybe both. And after all of this, after all they had been through together, after being caught flashing her body to the damn pool boy, she folded her arms to cover her breasts.

  “You … bitch.” he said. “You love your damn pool so much. You can have it.”

  He flung her into the deep end. She screamed and bobbed up and down for a second, her arms churning the surface. He watched as she tried to push up off the bottom, but her ankle wouldn’t support her. It was all over in less than thirty seconds. Her body floated to the top.

  “Pool needs cleaning,” Buff said to no one. “Too much trash in it.”

  He stared for a long moment at his wife’s lifeless form drifting in circles in the center of the pool. Now that he’d had a few minutes to calm down, he realized that he had overreacted. He dialed a number on his burner phone.

  “Jed,” he said. “We’ve got a little situation here.”

  He described what had just happened and blamed Florence’s demise on a bad fall into the pool. He’d tried to save her, but she was drunk and drowned. He knew Jed would understand that was a slightly skewed version of events, but it didn’t matter. The man was his foot soldier in this war and would do whatever it took to protect his leader.

  “Well,” he said, “looks like we’ll have an extra crate for Country to drop.”

  Buff tilted his head to the side. Not a bad solution. Has to be done.

  “And speaking of Country,” Jed continued, “I’m thinking we need to do something about him, too. He’s headed off the de
ep end and I’m not sure he’ll make it back.”

  “Any ideas?”

  “Someone has to take the fall for all of this. Why not him? I can work the drop to look like Country was dropping off his own dirty work and then sink his boat ... while he’s on board. A tragic accident that couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”

  All the loose ends tied up in a single outing, thought Buff.

  “And I’ll come along and discover the dastardly plot against you. The sentiment for you and your loss will swing the vote hard in your favor.”

  All the loose ends wrapped up in a win.

  “I like it. Make it happen.”

  He hung up the phone and decided to pour another cocktail. He sipped his scotch and wondered idly if his mistress would be back on schedule.

  Part III

  Low Tide

  “When the tide is low, don’t you know, don’t you know.

  There ain’t nowhere to go. No. Nowhere to go.”

  -Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood

  25

  Finding Prosperity

  Troy woke up to find the hazy Sunday sun of dawn beaming through the windshield of Michael Banks’s retired police cruiser. He had circled the island of Martha’s Vineyard three times in search of a place to catch a few minutes of shut-eye. He had no money in his pocket, and even if he did, he would have spent it on something besides a room to crash in for just a few hours.

  With no place nearby to go, he decided to park at the one place on the island that was open twenty-four hours and would likely have other people sleeping in their cars—the hospital parking lot. He had found a distant parking spot, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and drifted off to the sound of the waves crashing across Beach Road.

  He rubbed his eyes and glanced down at his cell phone. There were three missed calls from Country. He jerked upright and clicked the number. Last night he had been lost for what to do next, and this call, like a bolt out of the blue, seemed to be telling him the way.

  Country picked up on the first ring. “Damn, cowboy. I been callin’ you all mornin’.”

  “Sorry, man,” Troy said. “Had a long night. What’s up?”

  “You remember that job I was tellin’ you about?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I got one before that. It’s kinda like a test,” Country said. “If you pass the test, you git ta move on to the big time. Got something to get rid of and need some help doin’ it. Whadda ya think?”

  Troy’s heart raced and he felt his breath pumping quicker in his chest. This was his chance. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought this job had to be related to Prosperity's disappearance. He figured Country was asking him to help dump her body. He shuddered at the thought, but he had to know. If that’s what this was, he had to go along. If for no other reason, to know for sure that she was … he stopped the thought before it got too dark.

  “I reckon I’m in,” Troy said. “What is it? And when are we goin’?”

  “What it is, is for me to know and you to ... well, you ain’t never gonna find out. And as for when, what you got goin’ on right now?”

  Troy looked around the sparsely populated parking lot. An ambulance rumbled past him and turned into the emergency room lane.

  “Not a thing.”

  “Then meet me at the dock.”

  “Black Dog?”

  “Yup.”

  “On my way.”

  Troy hung up and immediately dialed Michael’s number. No answer. He called again. Still nothing.

  “Dangit,” he muttered putting the cruiser into gear.

  He wasn’t sure if he was excited or sick, but at least this would tell him exactly what was going on. And if he couldn’t save Prosperity, he felt sure that he could follow Country’s trail and connect it all to Winchester Boonesborough and Frank McCorker—formerly known as Buff Summerton.

  Prosperity heard a distant door clang before she could open her eyes. Her head hurt fiercely and she could feel the cottony effect in her brain of a mild concussion. She tried to raise her hand to rub her head, but it jerked to a stop. She slowly opened one eye and saw that she was handcuffed to the bed in the same prison cell she’d been in before. The door was closed and probably locked this time, but even if it was wide open, she couldn’t get to it. She pulled against the handcuff to find it was locked tight on her wrist, and she had a raw, red ring just below the palm of her hand. It burned, and blood welled to the surface. Tears began to run down her cheeks, and her stomach growled. She was ferociously hungry and felt weak from dehydration.

  Footsteps and an odd sliding sound grew closer. A long shadow appeared on the floor ahead of the strange sounds. Prosperity laid down on the bed and closed her eyes. She thought it would be best to pretend to be asleep. Through a narrow slit between her eyelids, she saw Country appear outside the bars of her cell. He was huffing and puffing, and eventually she realized he was dragging a large canvas bag of some kind. From the sound of his breathing, a very heavy canvas bag. He pulled it up to the door of the cell and dropped the end of it. He thrust a hand into his pocket and yelped.

  Though she couldn’t tell exactly what had caused the pain, it was clear he was having some kind of distress in his ... crotch. She twisted to see a little more of what he was doing, and her handcuffs clinked against the metal bed. She clamped her eyes shut and held her breath. She waited for him to say something, but he never did. She heard the sound of a key clinking into the lock. He turned it and the door screeched open. She heard him drag whatever the bag thing was into the cell, grunting and groaning as he came. She risked a peek and saw that he was sliding it against the far wall. When he finished, he stood up and cracked his back.

  “Good riddance,” he said, and kicked it unceremoniously.

  He turned and clomped out of the cell, locking it as he left. She listened to his echoing footsteps fade into the distance, and when she was sure he was gone, she sat up. Now that she could see the bag with her eyes open, she knew exactly what was inside. From her work at the morgue, she was ninety-nine percent sure it was a body. But whose?

  She stretched her arm out and reached for the bag. Her fingertips brushed the bag, but she was too far away to grab it. She turned and put her leg out and easily hooked her foot on the middle of the bag. She tried to drag it toward her, but it wouldn’t budge. It was too heavy. She thought about it for a second and thought if she could get both feet on it, she might be able to move it. She inched across the floor and laid her feet over the bag. She steeled herself for the effort and curled her heels back toward her butt. The canvas was slick and her feet slipped off. She needed to reach farther over to the other side of the bag. She regrouped and caught her breath, a sheen of sweat starting to cover her skin. With a deep breath, she stretched until her shoulder felt like it might pop out of joint, but instead of that happening, her slick wrist pulled halfway through the handcuff. With one more quick tug, this time on her hand, she was able to wrench it out and she was free. She rubbed her wrist and sat up on her knees over the bag.

  She pulled the zipper, and her fears were confirmed. There was a dead woman in the bag. She clearly hadn’t been dead long, but she was starting to bloat. Prosperity had seen a few cadavers in her school labs, but none of them were murder victims. This woman, whoever she was, was dressed like she had been out boating: white one-piece swimsuit, navy and white striped cover-up, wide-brimmed floppy sun hat, and Gucci sunglasses. The only odd thing was her flip-flops. They were royal blue. No woman with this amount of taste would mix royal blue and navy blue. She pulled the hat off the woman’s head and was struck with a sudden wave of familiarity. She knew her. She wasn’t sure exactly where she knew her from, but her face was definitely one she had seen before.

  “So,” a voice startled her and she jumped back from the bag. “You’ve met Florence? Good. Y’all are gonna be sharin’ a grave.”

  Country was standing at the door. She had no idea how long he had been standing there. She had been so intent on che
cking out the body, she hadn’t heard him come back. He unlocked the door of the cell and swung it open.

  He lunged at her, and she jumped backward away from him. Her head, already suffering from a concussion, maybe two, banged against the steel commode. As she blacked out, she had two thoughts. First, she thought, I’m buying a helmet. Second was Florence … I knew I recognized her. She was Florence McCorker. She had met her once at a rally picnic serving beers in plastic cups to the potential supporters of Frank McCorker. What the hell had happened to her? And what the hell did he mean about sharing a grave with her? She blacked out before she could think about it anymore.

  26

  Bank On It

  Troy’s cell phone rang and he picked it up as he turned onto State Road heading toward the Black Dog Tavern and ultimately the dock behind it. He thought it might be Country calling again, but it turned out to be Michael.

  “Sorry, partner,” Michael said. “I was on the other line taking a call from your pal, Country.”

  Wow, that was some serious synchronicity, Troy thought.

  “Oh?”

  “Ah, yup. Apparently, he’s in need of a few extra hands on deck for his job today and decided a retired, out of shape, narcoleptic police officer was a good choice.”

  Michael laughed and Troy couldn’t help but join in.

  “Well, he’s already recruited a washed up, unemployed, homeless former soldier, so why not complete the pair?”

  Michael laughed again, “I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about on the boat ride.”

  “You mean all three of us will.”

  “Troy, you know I can’t be involved in this mess. Hell, I’m already getting stiffed on my pension. If something like this goes down and I’m involved, I’ll be shit out of luck.”