Caribbean Rain

by Rick Murcer

  Peeking into the hole, he felt relief, then his anger rose. Relief that the authorities weren’t there because of his nocturnal and early morning activities in the rainforest. Illegal activity was always hard to explain, even in the name of science. His anger spiked at the balls of the man standing outside his door. The son of a bitch was just as responsible as his leg-spreading ex for the year of misery that had accompanied their divorce.

  He leaned away from the door and let out a slow breath.

  Once, he and the man on his veranda had been fast, tight friends. The kind of friend you could call at two thirty in the morning when you had a flat tire, and he’d get out of bed to help. The kind you’d consider dying for, because to lose a friend like that would rip a hole in your soul that might never be woven back together, at least completely. Hell, he had even been the best man at his unfortunate wedding. But that time was over. His love for this man had been replaced with a hate that seemed impossible to placate.

  Time to find out what this piece of shit wanted, and then he could get back to the single thing that kept him from going absolutely mad. Although if he took a poll, most would label him that already.

  Gripping the brass knob, he pulled the door open.

  His visitor stood with his hands behind his back, and his gray eyes regarding Samuel up and down. It had been a long time since they’d met alone. At the fencing club, once in a while on campus, even in El Yunque, but in this setting, it’d been years. He imagined what it would be like to run him through. It would not be the first time his mind had gone there, especially in light of recent developments.

  “Hello Samuel. You’re looking good. Did you lose some weight?”

  “Why are you here? I tolerate you in public, but this, well, this is crazy on your part.”

  “Perhaps. However, the trip to your door was necessary.”

  One lunge and this rotten prick would be just another unfortunate statistic of random violence.

  “Necessary? Like giving me a hard row to hoe with that last Katana we were bidding on? No wait, maybe it was the porking of my wife and letting me find out about it by ‘accident’ that brings you here today. Or giving me static about my research. Am I getting warm?”

  His eyes were seeing red, and he was scarcely maintaining a semblance of civility. The gray eyes of his visitor never wavered, never turned away.

  “Ah. I get it. You’re here to give me your condolences on the loss of my mother a few months back.”

  “We never did talk about that, but no, that’s not exactly it either. Although you’re in the ballpark with that one, as they say. It seems I didn’t see your name on the guest list for my own mother’s funeral. At any rate, I came here to warn you, then I realized that wouldn’t do. Because once the FBI got here, you and they just might put two and two into some formula and figure it out.”

  “FBI? Why would they come here? And figure what out?”

  “Let’s just say I have sources, and I can’t allow anyone to get lucky when I’m so close.”

  Samuel never saw, let alone anticipated, the incredibly quick move by his uniformed visitor. But he felt it. The Katana disappeared between the fifth and six ribs, gashing his heart. His visitor pulled out the blade as Samuel Crouse went to the floor, finding it strange that he couldn’t breathe.

  Looking up, he saw the flash in the late morning sun and barely felt the smooth metal as it entered the right side of his neck.

  ***

  He pushed Samuel’s headless body back inside the front door, careful to avoid the blood that seemed to paint the doorjamb and the floor in a garish red. Using the Katana, he wedged Crouse’s severed head next to his right hand, then lifted the hand so that it was resting on the top. He laughed. It looked like a man stroking his faithful pet. Wiping off his sword, he double-checked for blood splatter, and then he closed the front door. He walked back to his car, whistling an old Puerto Rican love song.

  Chapter-55

  Fifteen minutes later, Manny was standing in front of the Baño de Oro pool. The green circle had a calming effect on his psyche, and thank God something had. He noticed the old fishery tanks on the right side of the trail and thought they resembled the pictures he’d seen of old Mayan ruins as they were discovered. He’d read somewhere that the tanks represented an ill-fated attempt at introducing trout to the La Mina River. It didn’t make sense to him, but he was no biologist.

  Crossing the short, wooden bridge hanging over the stone embankment glistening with the trickling waters of the La Mina, perspiration ran freely down his back. He hesitated before he finished going completely across. Manny leaned on the railing, taking in the exotic vision surrounding him again. No wonder people enjoyed camping in El Yunque. No predators large enough to harm a human, warm nights and days, lush trees, and an array of flowers ranging from striking reds to subtle pale yellows made it a true paradise.

  Predators.

  Except there had been a predator, hadn’t there?

  The worst kind—human.

  And this one knew his way around the rainforest and had tainted paradise with his personal concept of . . . of what? Pleasure? Recreation? Justice? Whatever it was, and for that matter, whoever he was, needed to be dealt with. But how? They’d better figure that out quickly.

  Maybe people were right. The reason this planet was going to go to hell in a handbasket was because of the pervasive attitude that people were entitled to everything their hearts and minds could dream up. He didn’t know what was worse—the want or the people who satisfied it.

  Finishing the walk over the bridge, he proceeded to the camping area where Caleb Corner had breathed his last. Five minutes later, he stood outside the still-present, yellow police tape and scanned the killer’s ‘altar,’ if that’s how the killer thought of it. The dark burgundy stains had been mitigated by the rain and conditions of the rainforest, but they were still plainly visible. At least four people had died here, and the killer had gone to great lengths to accomplish that. It’s one thing to bring them all in one spot, he even understood that, but to take the four victims back to their campsites and set up the morbid displays was more than compulsive. All except Caleb. Manny had thought it was personal, that maybe Caleb knew this man, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe the killing had more to do with the act than anything personal. Hell, it could even be both.

  The phone vibrated in his pocket, and he ignored it. Whatever it was could wait for a few minutes. He was getting close.

  He ducked under the tape. Beneath the tree, the area was raised, about two feet by the growth of the root system. To the left, the clearing was disturbed, like it had been scraped, but nothing struck him as odd. He turned back to the right, and saw that some of the brush had been uprooted underneath one of the plush plants, displaying a patch of bare soil. That looked unnatural.

  What the hell? Why hadn’t someone gotten pictures of this?

  Frowning, he pushed back two of the wide leaves to get a better look. The markings resembled a rectangle. The kind you’d find . . . where? He couldn’t place it just yet.

  Walking back to the middle of the clearing, he stopped and looked intently at the altar, then back to the right, then back to the altar.

  Where four people had died.

  My God! That was it. The unsub had taken the campers back to their campsites because he didn’t want anyone to know about this spot until he was ready. If that were true, the killer wanted, or needed, more time. But for what? And what did that have to do with anything?

  There’s more. What am I missing?

  Then, as if his mind were guided by divine inspiration, it all made sense. The killer had evolved to this point, no question. So that meant he was deep in the game. And that always indicated a message, a communication to confound the cops and elevate the ego of the killer.

  Glancing back at the moist, bare soil and its relationship to the tree, he eyed the dirt, then he did it again.

  He walked around the two areas from every angle. He wasn�
�t getting it. Then Manny remembered something he’d read once: when in doubt, go up.

  Grabbing a thick vine covered with green moss, he put his foot on the strong roots of the Palo Colorado tree, boosted himself up to the next vine, and found another foothold. He pulled several more times and found himself about twelve feet above the ground—where the message the killer had left became as plain as the sun in the sky. A rough semblance of a block number “2” extended from the base of the tree to the cleared soil. He reached for his phone, took two pictures, and put it back in his pocket. He smiled. Sophie’d be proud that he figured out how to use the camera.

  Climbing down, he took out the phone again to call Alex and tell him to get pictures of the new crime scene from above, and that he was going to the other three sites to do the same. Unless he’d missed his guess, the order of the killings would have corresponding numbers. He had no idea what the numbers would represent, but when they got together, it just might come to them, and that’s all they could hope for.

  Alex’s number rang once then went directly to voicemail.

  Damn it. The reception was still spotty up here.

  “Alex. Listen, I need you to get pictures of the murder area from the top, maybe ten or twelve feet up. I know it’s weird, and I’ll explain later. Just do it. Thanks.”

  Stuffing the phone back in his pocket, he turned to the trail leading back to 191, so he could get to the other two campsites and the tower.

  They were close to discovering what was next, and if Josh and the others had any luck, maybe even who. Nothing like good police work, and a trance or two.

  He turned the bend and stopped in his tracks. One of the biggest men in the Caribbean stood with his legs spread apart and wearing a wide, white grin that reminded him of Eli Jenkins.

  Fogerty.

  “Agent Williams. Good ta meet ya, mon. I’m Braxton, and I’m here ta send Mr. Fogerty’s regards.”

  Chapter-56

  Watching the episode unfold in front of him, Fogerty rolled the window up in the Mercedes and began to tap the Beretta on his leg. His anger expanded to a near inferno. He’d sent three of his best to get rid of Ruiz and whoever had been standing guard at the detective’s house, and this was what he got for his trouble.

  Ruiz gets out of the back, steals a cruiser, and almost makes it to the Federal Building before one of the morons working for him blows out a tire on Ruiz’s ride.

  Ruiz didn’t die right away, giving him time, in all likelihood, to implicate Fogerty for numerous felonies. Not a pleasant situation for him or anyone else Ruiz might have mentioned.

  He tapped the gun faster. He’d deal with the incompetent hit team later but, for now, he had to think about what was best for him. Having contingency plans was a way of life in this business. He had several, and he was going to execute one.

  It’d be just a matter of time before his house in Barbados was crawling with cops from every drug agency in the world, in spite of his monthly “contributions” to the local government. Especially when they find the body—and they were going to find him—of the undercover FBI agent he’d killed in the limo. He wasn’t sure how Ruiz had found that out, but he had. Funny how life works. He’d eliminated the chink in his security armor, but now it would lead to more trouble than he’d dreamed possible. It might even shut him down. The gun moved even faster.

  Marriage, once again, was responsible for causing him great difficulty.

  Losing Amanda had brought him here, and just as he’d always expected, she’d be a major problem to him and the business one day. That day was here. At least Williams and the FBI had been right about her murder not being a message or retaliation from his competitors.

  Give the man a cigar.

  Even though the money end was where his first thoughts had migrated, she was his daughter and, in his own way, he’d miss her. Hell, maybe even find some time to grieve. But wasn’t there a time for everything? He’d find time for that later. He had more pressing matters.

  Fogerty cracked the window again, just as the Traverse carrying the Feds streaked to the east—no doubt, to the rainforest. They’d probably figured out that he knew where Williams would be; maybe Ruiz told them that too. But they’d be too late. Braxton didn’t make mistakes.

  He was going to miss Braxton. He’d been his best number one. But he did hire that piece of shit Domingo. Besides, money could always buy another best number one. Always.

  He’d drive south, then pick up Highway 1, and eventually drive west to a place only he knew about. Well, he and the sexy realtor who had brokered the deal, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t be speaking to anyone, ever.

  After a couple of days, he’d take the yacht over to St. Thomas and then skip to Antigua, where they ask even fewer questions than Barbados, and have a meeting with his “suppliers” to get the train back on the track.

  But first things first, he had to make sure Braxton had accomplished his mission before an anonymous call to the proper authorities would end the big man’s life of crime forever.

  Pulling off on a side street, he cruised into the parking area of a large drugstore chain, went in, and came back out with two pay-as-you-go phones. Just as he was getting into the car, he heard the quick blat of a siren. A very close siren. He spun around just in time to see two white SUVs leading three SJPD cruisers into the parking lot.

  Four plainclothes cops sprang from the first SUV.

  “Randall Fogerty. You’re wanted for murder, extortion, and bribery. Put your hands on your head and face the car,” ordered the agent on the right.

  Usually prepared for the worst, he hadn’t seen this coming and was frozen in place.

  How did they find me? I changed cars twice and I was the only one to know it.

  For a brief moment, the thought of blowing his brains all over the parking lot wore an intoxicating appeal. If he went to prison, he might last two days. He might not last that long if he were housed in one of the local jails. But then again, that’s why he paid those leaching attorneys all of that damned money—to keep him out of jail. Besides, he wasn’t one of those noble types who’d rather die than bend to the system. He was a survivor.

  “Last request, asshole,” yelled the agent.

  By this time, there were fifteen cops surrounding him with raised weapons. He swore he heard each cock of the hammers.

  Fogerty put the phones on the roof and raised his hands over his head.

  “Certainly. No need to get nasty. I’m cooperating.”

  Just then, one of the phones began to cascade from the roof of his vehicle. He instinctively grabbed for it.

  “He’s reaching for a weapon,” screamed a voice.

  The last thing he heard was the roar of gunfire as he slammed against the Mercedes. Then he slowly sank down the door.

  Chapter-57

  “Any reason Fogerty can’t do that himself? I’m a pretty social guy, and if he wants to say something to me, I’m all ears,” said Manny.

  “Oh. No doubt wid dat, Agent, no doubt. But it be da damnedest ting. He don’t like people so much, so I got de job.”

  Doing a quick inventory, he felt the Glock in the small of his back instead of hugging the left side of his chest. He’d changed holsters when they got to Puerto Rico because of the weather.

  Can I move that fast?

  The huge man leveled his arm, revealing one of the largest handguns Manny had ever seen. It looked like a .50 caliber Desert Eagle, but he was as close to it as he cared to be.

  “Before you tink ‘bout gettin’ stupid, mon, I tink dis big ol’ boy would send ya hafway to Sint Martin, yes?”

  “I suppose that’s true.”

  The big man stared at him, shifting his gun to the left hand. Braxton rolled his head to one side, then the other. Manny felt like he was being sized up for a meal.

  The rainforest had grown quiet, and the smells that he’d thoroughly enjoyed during his trek on the trail had turned sour. Amazing what a little stress and anxiety can do to
the human senses.

  The day was getting longer, and the sweat ran more freely down his back and arms as he continued to match gazes with Fogerty’s lackey. In his mind, whoever twitched, blinked, or even belched, lost . . . except . . .

  “I don’t suppose you were sent here to give me an ass-whooping. You know, to teach me a lesson, then report to that piece of shit how I moaned and begged. Hell, you could even do a video. If that’s it, let’s get to it. I’ve got a bigger piece of shit to deal with, the one that killed Fogerty’s daughter, and I’d like to get to it.”

  “You be right on a ting or two, Agent. I was sent to make tings hurt for you, no doubt, den, put dis cannon to dat head, and see how many pieces dat slick brain of yours make in da process.”

  There it was again. Manny had read much about the expressions a face can make stimulated by the subconscious. Micro Expressions was a fairly new technology based on the slow-motion analysis of videos recorded when people were relating facts about a particular incident. But some people had a natural ability for it. The theory said that if you instinctively knew someone’s motivation, could always tell when someone was lying, or even had a natural dislike for another without a concrete reason, that maybe you had the gift.

  Braxton’s face was giving him away. There was almost a smile at the corner of his mouth each time he spoke, like he knew something Manny didn’t. Not unusual for cold-blooded killers who enjoyed their work, but this expression was different. And his eyes. They sparkled more than they should. He sensed no real dread in them. Most people who had been in shoes like Braxton’s would have no compunction for regret, but the corner of his mouth and the lines running across his forehead said differently. And his dialect had slipped, ever so slightly, but it had. Maybe he had some formal education.