by Vince Milam
Bo. Bo Dickerson, alive, in a head-butting battle with a dog. Outside the cemetery walls of the Saint Augustine Church in Beaufort, South Carolina. Mouth open, I was too stunned to move. Bo turned his face in our direction, forehead still in playful combat, smiled and winked. The grip of a pistol showed above the back of his jeans waistline, the long barrel and silencer outlined against his butt.
“He’s funny!” CC said. She tugged me toward the two.
He stood, head cocked, arms outstretched.
“We’re going to hug, goober boy. But don’t squeeze too hard. Tender mercies, my brother. Be tender.”
Hug we did, the medical wrappings around his midsection and left shoulder felt under his shirt. A sob, short, loud. Bo pressed my face against his neck, muffled any subsequent explosions of emotion. A gentle rock back and forth. Unreal. Unreal and lifesaving and too joyful to absorb.
CC untied the dog, and Bo addressed her. “I’m Bo.”
“Case likes you.”
“I like Case.”
“I’m CC.”
“I know. Case has told me about you. But he didn’t tell me you were as beautiful as a princess on a mountaintop.”
She laughed. Tinker Juarez stood on his hind legs, tried licking her face. Bo’s shirt collar wiped tears.
He pushed me away, held my shoulders. “We gotta boogie. Depart. Pronto.”
“How? How did you . . . ?”
He interrupted me. “Later. Let’s go. Now.”
We did. Bo grabbed his rucksack from the sidewalk, and the four of us, quick pace, moved toward water. Three blocks to the waterfront park, the Ace nestled among sailboats and cruisers.
A short mile later, we motored into the cuts and sloughs of the Harbor River, wove our way north. CC sat in the foredeck lounger, eating pralines. Tinker Juarez stood sentinel at the tip of the bow, nose to the wind.
Bo entered the wheelhouse. “It spins and it tumbles, does it not?”
“Life?”
“What else, my cretinous Georgia peach?” he asked. “What else?”
Chapter 42
Rhythms of water, tides. Shorelines passed. We took our time, no rush back to Charleston. Stops to walk, stretch our legs. Bo hung out in a hammock he’d purchased somewhere, napped, recovered.
We caught up after our Beaufort departure. I pressed for clarity, answers.
“Let’s begin with the dead body we left behind.”
“A Russian. With her gun at her side.”
“That’s the one.”
We spoke in low tones, the wheelhouse door and windows open. CC nibbled her pralines, watched wonders drift past.
“It’ll keep the local constabulary plenty busy. Intrigue. Mystery.”
“I don’t know, Bo.”
“They’ll figure a Russian mafia hit. I like CC. Her world abounds with joy.”
“And we wash our hands. Cruise away.”
“Already happened, old son. It lies behind us.”
“A dead Russian lies behind us.”
“The question is, what’s before us? There lies the true intrigue. What’s for supper?”
The Beaufort incident. Disappearing in our wake.
“Grilled pork chops. Tell me about the infamous Battle of the Dismal.”
“Soon enough. This magnificent specimen before you is at less than full strength. I require rest.”
And so he hung his hammock on the foredeck, under the tarp, next to CC and the lounger. They chatted, soft, Tinker curled at CC’s feet. Bo drifted off, mouth open.
Dusk found us pulled up in a slough off the South Edisto River, alone and isolated. CC took Tinker for a shore romp, always within close distance of the Ace. New rule. The two-burner grill fired, pork chops and veggies prepared, a drink poured.
“The Dismal battle,” I said. “I knew you were killed. Too much of your blood. Knew it.”
“You truly dislike mystery, don’t you?”
“Don’t start.”
He fished around his rucksack, produced a pipe and some weed, sat sideways across his hammock.
“I’ll burn through this while CC is on shore.”
“Bo.”
“Dog on a bone, brother. You won’t let it go.”
“Bo.”
A lighter fired, he took a deep hit, held it, exhaled through his nostrils. “Knew they were coming, of course. My cameras.”
“And?”
“So I sashayed out for observation.”
“How do you sashay in a swamp?”
“A challenge, admittedly.”
“I bet.”
“Observed Angel and his little party. When they, or rather Angel, cut the lines to my preventative measures, it struck me as less than hospitable. Truly.”
His trip wires. It was a Delta member move, cutting them. An invasive move.
“You talk with him before it went down?”
“A bit. While he hid and his henchmen established an offensive perimeter.”
“And?”
“And it’s good. Good to see you, goober. Here on the Ace. Feels positive, fresh.”
“Bo.”
He took another hit, lifted his chin toward the pork chops. They required flipping. CC laughed from the shore. Tinker barked. I turned the meat, stirred the sautéing vegetables, sipped Grey Goose, and smiled. A bucolic scene, quiet.
“You wish gory details.” His foot pushed off the deck, swung the hammock. The day’s warmth began departing. I went belowdecks and brought back old blankets for the four of us.
“I saw remnants of the gore. Tell me what the hell happened.”
“He prattled on about helping him. South America. Join the revolution. Now there, sadly, is an underused word. Prattled.” He twisted, groaned from the pain, called to CC. “Where’s your goat?”
She stopped and tilted her head. “Goat?”
“Your goat. Tinker Juarez.”
She laughed and laughed. “He’s not a goat!”
“Are you sure?”
More laughter, a declarative statement launched. “I like you, Bo.”
“I like you, CC.”
“He’s not a goat!”
“Maybe you’d better ask him.”
She laughed again, found a stick, and threw it for Tinker. Bo eased back around.
“Lead flew. I got popped. The side and shoulder.”
“And?”
“And I crawled into the water, planned on circling. Take out Angel.”
“But you were too shot up.”
“A development I quickly ascertained.”
“I bet.”
“I crawled to another island. Stripped to my skivvies, used my clothes to stanch the bleeding. Traveled that night, swam the Ditch, made my way to the old farmhouse. And the old pickup.”
“So now you’re at your farmhouse. Bleeding like a stuck pig.”
“Got a South Mills veterinarian to stitch me up.”
“A vet.”
“Told him I’d die if he didn’t take action. Probably true.”
“A veterinarian.”
“Former 82nd Airborne. He didn’t ask too many questions. He understood, my brother. Understood.”
“How you doing now?”
“No vitals struck. Lost a lot of blood.”
“Not what I asked.”
“My animal physician—and we could unpack that designation—even gave me pills. Antibiotics. Pain. All good.”
“Back to how you’re doing now.”
“It hurts. But I can move. However, my break-dancing career is on hold.”
CC and Tinker scrambled up the short gangplank. The pork chops sizzled, supper ready. We ate under the stars. CC regaled us with what she’d recently experienced with Tinker. Conversation flowed, laughter genuine, love permeating. I cleaned dishes and insisted Bo relax on the hammock. CC and Tinker put to bed belowdecks. I made the day’s final Grey Goose and settled near Bo.
“The Russian,” I started.
“She who no longer walks among us?”
“One and the same. How’d you find her? Or find me?”
He lit another bowl of weed, wrapped a blanket around his shoulders, and adjusted, with evident pain, in his hammock.
“Found you easy enough. You’re not the sly bumpkin you make yourself out to be.”
“Do tell.”
“Rested at the vet’s place a couple of days. Then back to the Dismal. The Ace, strangely enough, was gone. Disappeared.” Another hit of weed with obvious discomfort during the inhale. “Considered a tear in the fabric of time and space.”
“Of course. Always a possibility.” Man, I missed him.
“But dismissed it for the far more probable scenario of a lonely man captaining his yacht down the Ditch.”
“We just missed each other.”
“Ships passing in the night,” he said.
The Earth had settled back on its axis. Bo conversed, projected, and all was right.
“And then?” I asked.
“The aforementioned conveyance. My pickup. Headed south.”
“Why south?”
“You’d head in the direction of home. Family.”
“Maybe I didn’t want to backtrack.”
“Maybe you told yourself that.”
Tinker groaned as he shifted on his bed of blankets belowdecks. CC woke and asked if he was happy. I padded to the top of the short flight of stairs and spoke softly. “Everything’s okay, CC.”
“I know. Good night.”
“Love you.”
“You too.”
The Ace shifted as I made my way back to the lounger. Frogs called, stars filled the sky. A couple of pralines remained. We shared. Pecan pralines—fine and sweet.
“So you found me,” I said.
“No. You suppose a predestined path plays with all this? Etched in cosmic stone while we pretend it’s free will?”
“What do you mean, no?”
“Cosmic stone. Not a bad name for a rock band.”
“Bo.”
“Found this tub. The Ace. New Bern. The proprietor of the little docking area said you’d left a note. Back soon. So I waited.”
“Then followed me. Why?”
“To cover your back, dumbass. Angel still roamed.”
To cover my back. Shot to hell, his boat burned, with minimal possessions. And one focus. Cover my back.
“Know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’d do the same for me.”
And I would. Bo, Marcus, Catch. Anytime, anywhere.
“And what did you surmise from observing Case Lee, Esquire?”
“Tedious. Your chosen lifestyle. Glad you picked up CC. It adds brightness. Color.”
“Sorry I bored you.”
“I also picked up the trail of your Russian amore. As you departed Charleston.”
“Nika was in Charleston?”
“Quick as a drugged sloth, you are.”
Bad, bad news. If she could do it, others could. But she had the whole clandestine services of Russia behind her. Not a likely support mechanism for a plain-vanilla headhunter.
“She tracked you. I tracked her. And kept an eye out for Angel. I’m keeping this simple for you. How’s Marcus?”
“How’d you know I’d gone to Montana?”
“I’m begging here. Fire a few synapses, Mr. Lee.”
Well, he had a point. Thinking Bo dead, sending Mom into hiding. Where else would I have gone?
“You could have called me. Or did you enjoy having my heart ripped out.”
A major bone of contention. He could have called, shown at one of my stops. Or warned me Angel might head for Montana. It irritated.
“I hunted. Angel, remember? On your trail. I didn’t want you breaking your tedious patterns. Speaking of which, he’s still around.”
“No, Bo. No, he’s not. But you could have announced your presence.”
“He’s not?”
“And CC’s life was just on the line.”
“A failing on my part. Didn’t see that coming. Sorry.”
“She’s the one person on this planet not in the mix. Uninvolved.”
“I know. I tailed the Russian to the graveyard but couldn’t move fast enough to cut her off. Sorry, old son. I mean it.”
My anger at CC’s place in all this dissipated. Bo was Bo, and he clearly had not intended for the final act to play out the way it did. But emotions whirled, and I was going to have my say.
“Back to my feelings, my heart. Shitty thing to do.”
“Keeping low moved your Russian friend into a pattern. Your pattern, her pattern. This Oklahoma lad at the tail end.”
“Still sucks.”
He shifted, cautious. Eased into a better position. “My apologies. But the righteous path, the sure way, led elsewhere.”
“Why not shoot her and be done with it earlier?”
“Wasn’t sure of her intent. Had an inkling, strong, but wasn’t sure. What happened to Angel?”
“It tore me up thinking you were dead.”
“Understood. Sorry. Now Angel.”
My turn, and I plodded through the whole Montana affair. He didn’t interrupt once, listened, eyes closed. Between sips of Grey Goose, I revealed details.
“Love?” Bo asked.
“It’s what he said.” Angel’s sick rationale.
We sat in silence. A ship’s horn sounded, miles away.
“I like the bulldozer bit.”
“I didn’t like any of it.”
“And Catch has always been a helluva shot.”
“Let’s not critique the event, okay?”
He groaned again, shifted. I found another blanket and laid it across him. He’d settled for the night. I rested a hand on his ankle, squeezed. “Thank you, Bo. Thanks for covering me. For taking care of the Russian.”
He wiggled the ankle I grasped.
“Thought maybe I’d see light, or a tunnel, or wash with universal warmth.”
“At the veterinarian’s?”
“Yeah. Nothing like that. But not lonely. I wasn’t alone. Felt it. I’ve thought a lot about that.”
“I think a lot about it, too.”
“Going to sleep. Vaya con Dios, Case.”
“You too, my brother. You too.”
Epilogue
Winter, full force. At least full enough for south coastal Georgia. Sweater weather, the days short. I holed up, moored at small towns, and moved every few days. Ridgeville, Hickory Bluff, Jekyll Island. Good days, uneventful, although I remained armed and alert.
Executive Decisions emailed and offered a new gig. Something to do with the sapphire trade in Southeast Asia. Claim jumpers, theft, murder. I declined.
Bo stayed in Charleston a few days. Mom did her best and tried placing him on some variant—the Bo variant—of the straight and narrow. To no avail.
“Ma’am, I just don’t clean up all that well,” he’d told her. Mom sighed agreement.
He called Marcus, a conversation filled with joy and, at the end, critique from Montana. Bo countered with philosophical positions based on parts unknown. Ten to one Marcus made himself a drink after the call.
When he called Catch, it had been short and sweet and unexpected.
“Very good,” he’d told me. “Pacific Northwest.”
“You’re heading Catch’s way?”
“Señor Hernandez. Conquistador strain. Nestled in the dripping conifers of Portland.”
“Should I alert the state of Oregon?”
“You should celebrate, my friend. A new adventure awaits.”
I had a glass of wine with Mom’s female selection for me. A nice woman, kind, but no sparks flew from either side. I did commit to a more social existence. Reached out, called people. Chatted.
Special Agent Abbie Rice. The phone atmosphere was relaxed, easy. She bugged me again about partnership. I bugged her about finding the bagman for the bounties. Good-natured, and I expressed an interest in sharing wine with her and her partner next time I visited the DC area.
<
br /> Irene Collins. A simple chat, noncommittal on both sides. Pleasant, no grating interludes. I promised to keep in touch.
Oh, and Jules. Sent her a note. Redheaded stranger alive and well. Staying low for a while.
She didn’t reply.
Bo had departed; time for the pain of goodbyes with Mom and CC. Mom claimed complete befuddlement at my rejection of her matchmaking choice.
“No rejection, Lola Wilson. Just no fire.”
“You can build a fire, son of mine.”
Mom and CC joined me at the dock. The Ace idled, untied. A big hug and kiss for Mom, and I promised a near-future return trip. Then CC. She always cried. My heart always ripped.
“You remember the one big thing, CC?”
She looked up from the hug and cast a small smile. The offshore breeze ruffled her hair, flyaways stuck to her tears.
“You love me. More than the sun.”
“And?”
“More than the moon.”
“And?”
“And more than the stars! That’s a lot!”
“And always will, my love. I always will.”
Thank you for reading The Suriname Job!
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Also, be sure to check out the books in my good versus evil Challenged World series. Come celebrate remarkable characters who band together to confront dark supernatural forces.
The Unknown Element
Pretty Little Creatures
Gather the Seekers
Again, thank you so much for dedicating the time to spend with me and Case in The Suriname Job. Here’s hoping you and yours are doing well. And remember, we’re all in this together.
Sincerely,
Vince Milam
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