Trouble in Paradise: A Thrilling Supernatural Mystery

by Lyle Howard

  “Oh, and Alexi...” Von Robles added nonchalantly.

  The bodyguard shifted the load on his shoulder as he turned back to face his employer. “Yes sir?”

  Von Robles’ black-hearted scowl turned his face malevolent. “I want him cut him up and disemboweled first. Working with the smaller pieces will make your job much easier!”

  “Where are you taking him?” Becky cried out.

  Von Robles motioned for his men to leave before turning his attention back to the girl. “Do not worry, Rebecca! My men will dispose of your friend with all of the respect he deserves. He will be given a proper burial at sea, I promise you!”

  I believe you about as far as I can throw you!

  “And what about me?” she asked.

  Von Robles dragged a metal stool along the floor, its legs scraping along the marble like fingernails on a blackboard.

  “As for you,” he said, taking a seat where Becky could easily see him. “You are a perfect...”

  Gregor’s voice boomed over a loudspeaker somewhere above Becky’s head. “Sir, I think you need to return to the surveillance center right away,” he broadcasted in their common vernacular.

  Something’s up. Whatever’s going on, there’s panic in that guy’s voice.

  “Not now,” Von Robles snapped up at the intercom. “I am busy!”

  “I really think you should see this, sir…”

  Von Robles let his head hang down. What was happening all of a sudden? Years at sea without strife, and now, one short trip ashore, and everything was coming apart at the seams! “What is the problem, Gregor?”

  “Sir, the radar is out,” came the response.

  Von Robles tilted his head backward and sighed. “And what have you done to rectify the situation?”

  Becky studied the man perched in front of her. I hope whatever’s happening means big trouble for you, buddy!

  “I have already checked the main circuitry, came the voice over the speaker. “The board has been sabotaged. The capacitor is missing.”

  Von Robles looked up to the ceiling as if to say “why me?” “Our friendly commando?”

  There was a pregnant pause while the speaker hissed with static. “Most likely, sir. We won’t have another until the supply ship rendezvous.”

  “Any other catastrophes you would care to enlighten me on, Gregor?”

  The technician’s voice crackled over the speaker. “Without the capacitor, sir, all of our surveillance systems are starting to short circuit. The thermal imaging is only working intermittently; both the short and the long range scanners are all but useless, and the satellite location transponder has gone dark.”

  Von Robles rubbed his temples in frustration. “Have you notified the supply vessel of these problems?”

  Gregor’s voice sounded tremulous. “Well, if we had a working radio...”

  Becky listened carefully to the gibberish and evaluated the tone of the speaker’s voice. Something about the radio. That much I can understand!

  “The radio is gone too?” Von Robles groaned.

  Something he hadn’t planned on.

  “All the electronics are shorting out, sir. We did manage to contact the supply ship a few minutes before the radio went down, but I do not know if we will be able to find the precise rendezvous point. It will be up to them to locate us.”

  Von Robles drummed his fingers on his knees. “Do they have an extra capacitor chip for us?”

  Gregor was happy to be able to finally deliver a bit of good news. “Yes sir, they do!”

  Von Robles shook his clasped hands at the ceiling. “Well, amen to that!”

  Amen. That’s got to be the same in any language. They must have figured the problem out. Damn!

  “They wanted to speak to you, sir. They did not sound pleased. They wanted to know what happened…”

  Von Robles looked up at Becky and frowned. “I am afraid you are going to have to save your questions until we meet again, Rebecca. I am needed elsewhere at the moment.”

  Becky strained her eyes to the left as he stood to walk away. “Don’t rush back on my account!”

  Von Robles laughed as he opened the door leading out into the corridor. “You and I are going to have a good time together, Rebecca,” he chuckled. “I just know we are!”

  Becky closed her eyes as she heard the steel door bolt shut behind her. It was the metallic sound of subjugation—the sound that nightmares are made of.

  He’s going to kill me. I just know he is! Slowly. Painfully. Just like he killed Allen!

  Now that her table had been repositioned, and Bushkin’s body had been carried away, she could see where the tube that had been ripped from his ankle led. While Becky never considered herself one of the most observant people in the world, something she now noticed struck her as peculiar...

  As her eyes traced the length of tubing that snaked along the floor and ran up the far wall, everything she could see—every piece of medical equipment, every glass beaker, each computer terminal—was appropriately labeled in Von Robles’ native language. This was as it should be...

  And while it was certain that she couldn’t read any of the foreign text, when she spotted the large pouch of fresh blood where the draining tube had terminated, dangling from a hook on the wall, she wondered why the word “CONTAMINATED” was printed on the bag in English...

  Twenty

  Geiger looked at Cal as though his friend was insane. “What do you propose to do with that thing?” he asked, watching Cal coil the rope around his arm.

  Having traded places with Geiger, Mackey spread his feet to steady himself against the constant rising and falling of the hull. “Just hold the damned boat steady and I’ll show you!”

  Off to the east, even though they couldn’t see her, the Nocturne had to be growing closer by the minute. To their west, a fleet of supertankers heading for destinations unknown plowed through the dark green waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Whatever you’re planning, I don’t like it, Cal!” the deputy screamed from behind the wheel of the Bayliner. “Why don’t we just turn around and head back to the Shack? We can call the Coast Guard from there! If we continue after these goons, they’re gonna be waiting for us, for sure!”

  Cal checked the knot where the rope was attached to the hammer. It felt strong enough, but who knew if it would support his weight? “Just keep your eyes on the swells, partner! This has gone way beyond just sneaking aboard their boat to find Ernie, Bushkin and the girl! The minute they jumped you, it became personal!”

  The morning sun was just beginning to warm the sky and dry out their clothes when Geiger started hooting and pointing at the horizon. “Check it out!”

  Mackey shielded his eyes with his hand as he stared out over the water’s sparkling surface. “Is that who I think it is?”

  Geiger was bouncing on his toes, peering over the windshield of the boat. In the distance he could make out a white and orange vessel bearing down in their direction. “Looks like the cavalry to me, pal! We may not have to do this on our own anymore! Hoo-man, they sure are a welcome sight, aren’t they?”

  The salt spray had already begun to dry and crust into a fine white powder on Cal’s tired features as he laid the rope down at his feet. Coincidence? Cal didn’t believe in coincidences. His eyes narrowed. Where had they come from? How had they known?

  Twenty One

  The knife-like bow of the Coast Guard cutter, Paladin, sliced through the emerald water. Patrolling out of the Key West Station, the eighty-foot vessel and her hand-picked crew scoured the Florida Straits and Gulf of Mexico in search of illegal drug traffic. It was a time-consuming mission that offered very little reward and even less recognition.

  Captain Daniel Wolcott governed over his crew like a fair-handed autocrat. He was a no-nonsense, career sailor, who at one time would rather have been commanding the bridge of a destroyer in the Persian Gulf than patrolling the shoreline of Florida. But the fifty-two year old Wolcott realized very quic
kly, that this was the front line in a war too, and his pledge to defend his country from invasion was no less important on this battleground.

  As he adjusted the focus on his binoculars, he reached down and pressed a button on the intercom. “Preston, this is the captain. Have you been able to notify the contact?”

  A voice crackled out of the small speaker. “Negative, sir. Either their equipment is out, or they’re choosing not to respond.”

  Wolcott pressed the button again. “Keep trying, Preston. Sound off as soon as you hear something.”

  “Aye-Aye, sir.”

  The captain let the binoculars dangle around his neck. “What do you make of it, Tim?” he asked his second in command standing beside him.

  Lieutenant Tim Crawford shrugged. “Not exactly the kind of boat I’d wanna haul drugs in, skipper. That thing couldn’t outrun a rubber duck in a bathtub!”

  Wolcott chucked. “Eloquently put, Lieutenant, and I’d probably have to agree with you. Think we should leave her alone?”

  Crawford rubbed the stubble on his face, as the warm sea air blew through his wavy blond hair. Investigating a non-responsive ship this early in the morning would only mean less time for him to enjoy his bacon and eggs. “I don’t know, skipper. It’s your call. If you want to check her out, then fine. I’m guessing’ they’re probably just a couple of amateur fishermen out for some dolphin or grouper, who forgot to turn on the radio. How many times have we seen that movie before?”

  The captain nodded in agreement and pressed the intercom button once more. “Belay that last order, radio room. Consensus says they’re just out for a beautiful morning’s worth of fishing and forgot to turn on their radio. Forget about ‘em. We’ve got a job to do, Preston, so sing out when you get a signal.”

  The voice from below acknowledged his orders. “Aye-aye, Captain.”

  * * *

  “Do you think they see us?” Geiger shouted over the drone of the outboard engine.

  Cal wasn’t sure. “I can’t tell! They don’t appear to be speeding up toward us.”

  The deputy slammed his fist on the chrome steering wheel. “I’m gonna kill Bushkin, if I ever lay my hands on him!”

  Mackey smirked. “Or at least buy him a lifetime supply of batteries!”

  “What should we do?” Geiger yelled as he tried to keep the bow pointed in the general direction of the luxury yacht.

  Thinking quickly, Cal headed for the cabin.

  “Where you goin’ man?”

  Cal slid open the bi-fold doors to the small compartment below. “Didn’t you say Bushkin had a flare gun down here?”

  “Yeah,” Geiger said triumphantly. “Back behind the tool chest; a gun and two flares!”

  Cal rummaged through the clutter until he found what he was looking for. “They look pretty fresh!” he called out.

  “Well, just in case, I wouldn’t load it down there! The way everything else seems to work onboard this boat, you’ll probably blow a hole in our bottom!”

  Cal grabbed the gun and flares and headed back up. “I think we need to get closer.”

  Geiger shook his head. “Just shoot the damned thing, will ya? I just wanna get home and lick my wounds! This has been one helluva night!”

  Cal loaded the first flare and, aiming the gun into the western sky, pulled the trigger. The flare popped and fizzled in the barrel of the plastic gun.

  “Wouldn’t it just figure! God damn that lawyer!” Geiger cursed.

  Cal broke open the breach, spilled out the worthless flare, and reloaded the gun. “Keep your fingers crossed,” he screamed as he shut his eyes and pulled the trigger again.

  With a puff of smoke, a bright orange spark arched upward towards the clouds. Like a poor imitation of the sun, it hung there momentarily, until gravity took hold and it began to float aimlessly toward the choppy sea.

  * * *

  “You see that, skipper?”

  Wolcott looked over his shoulder through the window of the bridge and pointed in the direction of the distress signal. “Fifteen degrees to port, Ensign Stewart,” he commanded the seaman who was manning the throttles.

  “What do you make of it?” Crawford asked, tipping his binoculars up to his face.

  Wolcott grabbed onto the railing as the cutter turned the few degrees to the left. “I don’t see any smoke, and they don’t look like they’re taking on water. Could be just a problem with their radio,” he said, slipping on his sunglasses to mask the glare coming off the water. “Let’s check it out. Ten minutes, and we’ll be on our way again.”

  The lieutenant checked his watch and frowned. They were on a tight schedule. “Whatever you say, skipper…”

  Twenty Two

  The sleek white cutter, Paladin, with her bold orange stripes, dwarfed the bobbing Bayliner as she pulled alongside. Outside her bridge, Wolcott and Crawford stood indifferently while the mooring lines were tossed overboard. They had been through this drill a thousand times before... usually drunk fishermen who have either run out of fuel or were experiencing some sort of engine malfunction. There wasn’t a weekend that didn’t go by without at least one of these alcohol-induced, time-wasting episodes cropping up. They were a thorn in the side of the captain and crew, and a waste of the American taxpayer’s money.

  Artie Geiger waved gleefully as the first rope landed by his feet.

  “Secure it to your stern cleat!” a faceless voice called out through a bullhorn.

  Geiger dragged the line to the rear of the boat and did as he was told.

  As a host of swift-winged seabirds darted overhead, Cal struggled to hold the Bayliner steady. The wake being stirred up between the two ships was making the smaller one pitch like a cork in a Jacuzzi.

  “You spot fishing equipment anywhere, captain?” Crawford asked.

  Wolcott looked down into the bouncing boat. “Well, if they’re not fishing, what the hell are they doing this far out at sea?”

  The lieutenant pointed down at the black man straining to tie the stern line. “Look at the way they’re both dressed, sir. Why the camo? Seems a bit strange, wouldn’t you say?”

  The captain licked his lips. He loved the salty taste they had out here. “What’s your guess, Crawford? Smugglers?”

  The lieutenant chuckled. “If they were smugglers, I doubt they would have tried to flag us down, Captain!”

  Wolcott slipped his binoculars off his neck and slid them into their case. “Yeah, you’re probably right, but I want them brought to my cabin anyway ... and have the boat searched. If they find anything—anything at all—I wanna know about it.”

  * * *

  Mackey and Geiger were led through what seemed to be miles and miles of twisting steel corridors. Down ladder after ladder, it was like descending into the bowels of an enormous metal whale. Guarded front and rear by recruits shouldering rifles at the ready, the two men couldn’t help but feel that they weren’t being escorted to a meeting where cake and ice cream would be served.

  “I’ve never felt so welcomed in my life,” Geiger whispered.

  “The way we’re dressed, I’m surprised they didn’t shoot us on sight,” Cal murmured out of the corner of his mouth.

  Inside of the cramped, dimly-lit captain’s quarters, Wolcott leaned back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head, with a plume of smoke drifting up aimlessly from a hand-rolled, confiscated Cuban cigar. Lieutenant Crawford stood diligently by the cabin door and opened it when the lead guardsman knocked.

  For a drawn-out moment, Wolcott just eyed the two men, spinning his cigar between his lips, savoring the sweet taste of the sun-dried leaves. He studied their features, their builds, the peculiar way they were dressed. He made eye contact with each of them, trying to assess their inner strengths and weaknesses, looking for the slightest sign of disadvantage in either man. He reached over onto his desk and poured himself a tall glass of ice water, making sure that a few extra cubes of ice tinkled into the glass. He held it to his lips and took a long pull, letting a
few drops intentionally spill onto the desk blotter. It was an old interrogation trick, but neither man cared. Neither man broke eye contact.

  “Se habla Español?” Wolcott growled around his cigar.

  Cal and Artie looked at each other like a pair of mutes. They were beginning to enjoy this. From the moment they both set eyes on Wolcott, they had been sizing him up too. Their mutual opinion? He was so caught up in playing the iron-handed lord of the ship, you probably couldn’t pull a pin out of his ass with a pair of pliers!

  The captain looked past the two men blocking the view of his lieutenant. “That’s all the friggin’ Spanish I know, Lieutenant. What now?”

  The lieutenant shrugged.

  “How about inviting us to sit down?” Cal suggested brusquely.

  Wolcott’s eyes narrowed. “You must really think you’re the cow’s teet, don’t you, boy?”

  Mackey looked at Geiger. “Did he just call me ‘ ‘boy?’”

  Artie spoke in his best sounding Ebonics. “I just hopes he wasn’t talkin’ to me, man!”

  Wolcott began to gnaw on the end of his cigar. “I don’t like being played the fool by either of you!”

  Cal gave the captain his fifty-dollar smile and apologized in his own inimitable style. “We weren’t playing, Captain.”

  The back-handed apology went right over Wolcott’s head. “What were the two of you scrubs doing this far out? Why the distress signal?”

  Artie put his hand on the back of one of the chairs in front of the captain’s desk. “You mind if we sit? My legs are killin’ me!”