The stairs creaked as he climbed up to the deck, but when he stuck his head out, he saw that he was alone. He walked out to see that the crates had been sealed again and shoved under benches out of view. The image of Florence McCorker dead and crammed unceremoniously into a wooden box burned in his mind. The fact that they were trying to get rid of her like this was foul play for sure. If they took her body out far enough, it might be eaten and picked clean before anyone found it. The evidence of wrongdoing would be swallowed, literally and metaphorically, by the sea.
He decided it was his duty to make sure that she wasn’t disposed of in that way and whatever fate she came to would surely be discovered by a forensic pathologist. He knew there wasn’t one stationed on Martha’s Vineyard, but there were a multitude on the mainland of Massachusetts. He walked toward the trio of crates, hunched over so he would be hard to see from the dock. He picked up the corner of the first crate and shook it. The sound of metal clanking told him he’d found the guns. He shoved it back into place. He dragged the second crate out. It was much heavier. He was pretty sure this was the right one. He was able to pry the top open a little to see that it was her.
He looked over the railing of the boat and saw that the dock was empty. Fishermen were likely already out for the day, and vacationers probably hadn’t risen for boating yet. He pulled the crate to the edge and tried to lift it up, planning to shove it over onto the dock. His back tweaked and he dropped the crate. It was too heavy to lift by himself unless he pulled her out of the crate. He wasn’t sure he wanted to do that.
He pulled the phone out of his pocket. Time to get some help.
“9-1-1,” the operator said. “What’s your emergency?”
Michael gave a vague story about there being someone in trouble out at the Black Dog Wharf without saying exactly what and hung up before they could ask for more details.
Jed Manning had one foot on the step up to get on the ferry when he heard his cell ping with a message from the police department. All active officers got the text in case they were away from their radios. He almost deleted it, but something made him curious. He jogged back to the car and listened to the dispatcher describe the incident out at the dock. He knew immediately it was Country. He took a deep breath and thought through all of the ways the three crates could come back to haunt him. If he went back and finished the job, sunk the whole damn mess into the ocean, his troubles would be over. He dialed Country’s phone to let him know he was coming.
Michael was about to toss the phone into the water when it rang. The caller ID read: Supercop. His eyebrows rose and he thought, what the heck?
He answered. The man on the other end of the line must have expected to get Country, because he jumped right into the conversation without any small talk.
“Hey, what’s going on out there? Sorry I disappeared but the scene was getting a little hairy.”
“Yup,” Michael said.
“You still on the boat?”
“Yup.”
“Still have the boxes?”
“Yup.”
“Okay, I’m on my way back. We’ll take care of this once and for all.”
He hung up. Hmmm, interesting, Michael thought. So, Supercop is on the way. It didn’t take much of a logic jump to realize the cop was probably Jed Manning. He was dirty and was probably part of the inner circle that put this whole thing together. Michael decided it was time to do something honorable—if he could stay awake.
32
Yer Fired
Troy caught sight of Country’s rusty pickup truck just as his phone rang. Oddly, it was Country’s number that showed up on the caller ID. He thought for sure he’d been made following him.
“Howdy, Country,” he said.
“Well, I reckon that’d make more sense,” Michael Banks said. “But actually, it’s your old pal. I just happen to have your boy’s phone.”
“Michael,” Troy said. “Is that you? Where are you? Why’d you bail out on me back at the boat?”
“That’s just it, young fella,” he said. “I ain’t never made it off the boat. I was locked down in the bedroom.”
“Locked in the bedroom?”
“Yup,” Michael’s voice changed. Now it had a tinge of guilt. “I must’ve had an episode.”
“That’s okay, partner,” Troy said. “What’s goin’ on out there now? I’m on Country’s tail. I don’t know where he’s headin’, but I’m gonna tail him for a bit.”
“All good now. I’m alone out here. But, you gotta get out here and help me. Jed is on the way and I’ve got to get Florence off the boat.”
“Florence?”
“Yup,” Michael said. “McCorker’s wife, Florence. She’s long dead and been shoved into one of these crates.”
Troy’s mind swam. Florence was Buff Summerton’s wife—but of course Michael would know her as Frank McCorker’s wife. She was dead. If they were evil enough to kill her, Prosperity didn’t stand a chance. She was probably already dead.
“Dangit,” he muttered into the phone.
“You okay, Troy?”
“Yeah. It’s just that I was holdin’ out hope that Pros would be okay. Doesn’t seem likely now. I thought maybe Country would lead me to her.”
“Well, she ain’t out here,” Michael said.
Troy watched as Country’s truck zoomed past the pharmacy and took a left turn onto Old County Road. Where the heck is he goin’? There ain’t nothin’ out here.
“Troy?”
“I’m here. Sorry. Country just led me down Old County Road and I’m tryin’ to figure out why he’d be headed out that way.”
“Hmmm,” Michael said. “Not much there. Just a couple of schools and the old Whippoorwill Farm. Other’n that, I don’t—”
“That’s it,” Troy interrupted him. “He’s headed out to the farm. He’s got Pros there, I’m sure of it.”
Whippoorwill Farm was a popular destination for tourists and locals alike offering fresh produce in a farmer’s market type of atmosphere. What most didn’t know was that the farm was built on land that used to be owned by the state. Stuck back in the woods behind the farm’s massive solar panel array, stood the old Galway Prison. It was a shell of its former incarceration glory, now abandoned and condemned.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Michael said. “You think he’s got her stashed at Galway. But Troy, if they’ve killed Florence, you know they’ve probably ...”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
“I know. But I’ve got to follow him out and see. If nothin’ else, I want to see if he’s goin’ to pick up her body.”
“Troy, you can’t do anything for her now. And I need your help out here. If we can take these jerks down for Florence’s murder and their drugs and guns, we get justice for Prosperity.”
“But—”
“And don’t forget, Jed is on his way and I think he might be coming out here to clean up Country’s mess. And that includes me.”
“So, just leave the boat.”
“Not without Florence.”
“Dangit, Michael.”
“The girl is gone, Troy.” Michael’s voice was soft and steady. “They’ve likely already disposed of her, and now they’re getting rid of Florence’s body too. If they do, they win. We’ll have no proof of anything they’ve done.”
Troy gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. Country sped up and put some distance between them. Troy took a deep breath and slammed on his brakes. He turned the car around.
Prosperity Spartanburg lay on her back on the musty old mattress in her prison cell. She had been alone for three days now with no food or water. She knew she could survive without food for much longer, but without any water, she was close to the end of the human body’s limit. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, and she had trouble swallowing. She would be crying if there were any tears left to cry. Country had said he was coming back, but it was obvious now that he wasn’t. On the first two days of her asylum, she would
jerk up at every sound. But now, she didn’t move for anything. Conserve energy, she thought. Save your strength.
She wasn’t sure what she was saving it for, but she knew it was important if she was going to last much longer. A screech and a clang echoed somewhere down below her. But she didn’t move until she heard the footsteps. Country was back. She could hear his heavy boots thumping against the concrete, but then she heard another sound she had not expected at all—flip-flops. Someone was with Country and was wearing flip-flops. She sat up and the rusty springs in her bed squeaked loudly. She froze, but the footfalls never slowed. They hadn’t heard it.
Her back ached and she felt woozy as she rose to sit on the edge of the bed. She had managed to free one of her hands from the handcuffs with spit and blood as lubricants. The other was on too tight to escape, but she had torn a piece of her shirt and wrapped it around her arm to alleviate the tender red ring it had dug into her wrist. As the footsteps got closer, she considered lying back down and playing possum, but with two assailants on the way, she figured it was pointless.
The voices of the two men became clearer as they reached her floor.
“What in the world are we doin’ all the way out here?”
She didn’t recognize that voice.
“Got a special treat for you, T.J. Just you wait and see.”
That voice was Country.
“I ain’t gonna lie, I’m gettin’ a creepy vibe from this place.”
“Yeah. It’s been deserted for a long time. Most folks say it’s haunted, but I don’t believe in none of that shit no how. We use it as a kind of processin’ station.”
“Processing station for what?”
“That, friend, is somethin’ you don’t need to worry yourself about. You’re paid to help, not to ask no questions.”
“Got it.”
The two men came into view through the bars of her cell. Country pulled an old skeleton key from his pocket and shoved it into the lock.
“Well, well, well.” He threw the door open. “If’n it ain’t sleepin’ beauty woken up to give her prince charming a kiss.”
He tugged at his crotch and Prosperity felt a shiver run up her spine. He leaned down and put his mouth just an inch from hers.
“C’mon now, baby,” he said, his voice smelling like vodka and mold. “Give us a kiss.”
She knew she didn’t have much strength and locked up like she was, the gesture would be pointless, but she couldn’t stop herself. She slapped him hard on the side of the face. It was hard to know if the pain she had caused to him was worse than the pain in her hand, but she didn’t care. His chin jerked sideways from the blow and he yelped. He reached up and rubbed his jaw, working it back and forth.
“Bitch, that’s a good way to git yourself punched.”
He raised up his fist behind his head and Prosperity closed her eyes, waiting for the impact. He grunted, but nothing happened. She opened her eyes to see the other guy, T.J.—dark haired, stubbly beard, wiry build, tan skin … a man she might’ve been attracted to in other circumstances—had grabbed Country’s arm.
“I’m sorry, friend,” T.J. said. “I cain’t let you hit a lady.”
Country’s face filled with rage. He ripped his arm from the man’s grip and shoved him hard against the concrete wall.
“I’ll do what I damn well please.”
He lunged, intending to punch him, but T.J. ducked and Country’s hand smashed into the wall with a sickening thud. Prosperity was sure she heard some bones cracking. He screamed and clutched his hand.
“Sonofabitch. You’ll pay for that, boy.”
He jumped at T.J. again and this time was able to tackle him. He raised a hand to hit him, but this time Prosperity grabbed his arm.
“Jesus Christ. Will you two stop doin’ that!”
He freed his arm and backhanded her across the side of her head. She flew backward onto the bed and felt the black circle of unconsciousness start closing in again. No, no, no, she thought. Not again.
“Country,” T.J. said, “I ain’t gonna have no part of this. I’m quittin’ the job.”
With speed Prosperity would not have thought possible, Country kicked T.J. in the head sending him down into a crumpled heap on the floor beside the stainless commode.
The last thing she saw as she passed out was Country standing over him, kicking him again.
“You cain’t quit, asshole. Yer fired.”
33
Body Talk
Country found a couple of mildewed tarps stashed under the tables they had used to process the rifles and heroin. He wrapped Prosperity up first using an extension cord to hold the body burrito together. T.J. was a different story. The kid was skinny, but he weighed more than Country had realized. He tried three different times to push him over onto a tarp, but each time, he felt his injured groin start to protest. To make matters worse, it was starting to feel swollen and tender in a way that made him sure he was getting an infection. He was sure it wasn’t anything a little hydrogen peroxide and some Neosporin couldn’t fix. A quick stop at the drugstore was all he needed. He sat down to rest and laid his head back against the cool concrete wall. He shoved his hand into his pocket to find his baby finger keychain. He rubbed it softly, calling out to the universe for a bit of good luck.
His more immediate problem was the bodies sprawled around him in the ancient prison cell. At this point, he was up two flights of stairs and though he felt reasonably sure he could wrestle the girl’s body down, he was almost certain he’d never be able to get T.J.’s by himself. If only one of the people he’d recruited for this job had come through, he’d be smooth sailing off into the sunset. Damn Troy had flaked on him, old Banksy just had to see what was in the crates, and dadgum T.J. suddenly got morals.
“How hard is it to get good help these days?” he hollered into the air.
His voice echoed, sending a flutter of birds flapping up out of the broken windows. He felt woozy and light-headed. His shirt was wringing wet with perspiration and he was pretty sure his underwear was soaked too, but he didn’t want to check to see if it was sweat, blood, or urine. He’d probably just throw these clothes away when he got home. Mama had left him a long time ago and he’d taken to just replacing clothes when they got too dirty, rather than be bothered doing laundry.
He bolted upright. Laundry. His mind played back at least ten different scenes he’d seen in movies and television programs that showed an inmate pushing a laundry cart through the prison. Most times, there was a fugitive hiding under the piles of clothes. They gotta have them carts here and they gotta have an elevator to get ’em up and down. I can push ’em right on out, he thought.
He pulled himself up using the cell bars for support. His head swam and he turned back to check on his kidnappees. Still out cold. Satisfied, he shuffled down to the end of the hall and found the freight elevator. Inside, rolled to the back, was a blue laundry cart full of musty, mildewed towels and uniforms. He dumped all of them out onto the floor and wheeled the cart back to the cell. T.J. was groaning when he got there, so he kicked him in the head again. The kid went quiet.
It took more than twenty minutes, but he was able to turn the cart over sideways, roll the two bodies in, then flip it back upright. He knew he was bleeding now. His shorts showed the unfortunate blossom of red spreading around his zipper. He pushed the cart onto the elevator and closed the accordian style gate. Grinning at his genius idea, he pushed the red button with the number one on it. Nothing happened.
He tapped it again. Then again. Then he clicked it rapid fire like a cocaine fiend sending a morse code message.
“God dangit,” he moaned. “No electricity.”
He pulled his keychain out of his pocket and threw it as far as he could. It bounced down the hall, sliding over the edge of the stairs, clinking as it traveled down them. Country tilted his head to the side, a new plan forming in his dazed mind. He’d seen skateboarders and bicycle dudes take their rides down the stairs without tr
ouble. He guessed a laundry cart on wheels wouldn’t be no different. Maybe his luck wasn’t so bad after all. He glanced up at the skylights showing a bright noonday sun.
“I’ll be out on the boat before lunch is over,” he said to himself, walking his cart down the hallway. “And there will be four bodies on the ocean floor before dinner.”
Buff Summerton took the stage at the last scheduled rally before the voting would commence. Every sign in the crowd was carefully placed so that no two matching slogans were too close to each other. The sea of red, white, and blue placards swaying in the ocean breeze to the not-quite-perfectly-performed Sousa march “The Stars and Stripes Forever” made the atmosphere crackle with anticipation and power. He felt like he was campaigning for the presidency. The crowd roared as he approached the podium, and shouts of “Frank, Frank, Frank” and “Bank on Frank, Bank on Frank,” rang out across the crowded park.
Winnie, you’ve outdone yourself with this one, he thought, waving and pointing to prominent donors near the front of the crowd. When he finally got the boisterous crowd quiet, someone—an obvious Boonesborough plant—called out, “McCorker for president!” He smiled and chuckled his best self-effacing grin, shaking his head slightly. The roar that followed made him pause. Who’s to say we can’t go for that in a few years? But he knew that was getting a little ahead of the game. Best to get this election behind him and get all their special financing operations cleaned up before they started thinking about the White House.
He raised his hands again, and slowly they calmed to a reasonable level. His speech was a thing of beauty, thanks again to Winchester Boonesborough and his uncanny ability to work a crowd. The words flowed and danced like a song drifting from the sorrow of the new tale they had created about his lovely wife’s sudden passing, to the passion and determination he had for the economy and security of Martha’s Vineyard. If he hadn’t known better, Buff would’ve almost believed the words he was saying into the array of national news microphones. He left the stage after having wiped away some false tears with his handkerchief to the most thunderous applause he had heard today.
The Complete Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Collection Page 125