Trouble in Paradise: A Thrilling Supernatural Mystery

by Lyle Howard

  Crawford smiled. “Well, actually Mr. Von Robles here, records and photographs the amounts, and then dumps the drugs at sea, but it is still a win-win situation. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “But what about your pop, Allen Bushkin, and the girl?” Geiger demanded to know. “They were innocent people!”

  Von Robles slipped his hands comfortably into his pockets. “Ah, but it appears that you did not know Mr. Bushkin very well, Mr. Geiger. There were drugs found on his boat.”

  “But that was just some recreational stuff. Bushkin was no pusher.”

  Crawford stopped juggling the cue ball and walked over to the deputy. “You claim to be an upstanding police officer, Deputy Geiger,” he stated matter-of-factly. “If you had pulled Bushkin over on the overseas highway, would you have thought twice about arresting him for possessing that amount of illegal narcotics?”

  Artie gnawed on his lower lip. “Probably not.”

  “But then what about my father?” Cal interrupted. “As much as I hate to admit it, he’s a harmless old man with blood that’s nearly toxic from alcohol consumption.”

  “Ah yes, the old man,” Von Robles said. “He amuses me. He stumbled onboard the Nocturne in a drunken stupor. When we asked him where he was supposed to be he told us he did not know.”

  “He can never find his way home!” Cal argued. “Artie’s always having to drive him to his trailer!”

  Von Robles shrugged. “He was incoherent. I assumed he was a vagrant.”

  Cal sneered. “So then he fit your criteria as well!”

  Von Robles waved his hand. “He is useless to me. Like the lawyer, his blood is impure.”

  Cal’s eyes narrowed. “What a fucking shame!”

  The captain set the cue ball back onto the table and began walking toward the doorway. “I’m running late. It was a real treat meeting the two of you. It’s a shame you two reprobates had to stick your noses where they didn’t belong!”

  “Do not forget our arrangement, Captain!” Von Robles called out. “I am entrusting my most precious cargo to you!”

  Crawford never looked back at the loathsome foreigner. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you. Just don’t forget your end of the deal!”

  Artie stepped over and blocked the captain’s path, confronting him toe to toe. “You can’t just leave us here, Crawford. I am an officer of the law! We’re not dope smugglers. We haven’t done a damned thing wrong!”

  There was genuine empathy in the old man’s eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure you haven’t, son,” he said, shaking his head dolefully. “And, believe me: I really wish there was something I could do for you. You know, it’s a damned shame. I was really beginning to like you two scoundrels.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, take us with you!”

  Cal put his hand on Artie’s shoulder. “Forget it, Artie. That ain’t the way the government works. We know far too much!”

  Twenty Eight

  It had been over an hour since the Paladin had cast off from the Nocturne, and that would prove to be very fortunate for Oscar Hidalgo and Alberto Alzamora. If the two Columbians had detected the Coast Guard cutter anywhere in the vicinity, they wouldn’t have come within five miles of the majestic-looking yacht.

  Having just completed another successful run to one of the smaller Berry Islands, the mismatched pair of dark-skinned South Americans basked in the glory of another job well done. All the while, the music of Latin musician Ricardo Iorio blasted over the speeding cigarette’s speakers.

  “Two hundred fifty thousand American dollars!” Alzamora delightedly screamed over the roar of the engines. “What are you going to do with your share, Oscar?”

  Hidalgo turned his Orioles baseball cap backwards to prevent it from flying off his head. This streamlined but unobtrusive-colored Apache Cigarette Thunderboat moved like lightning across the top of the water. It had won more than its share of offshore races, and was worth every last penny he had spent on it. “Fine women, Alberto!” Hidalgo answered without hesitation, as he opened up the throttles even more. “Lots and lots of blonde-haired, blue-eyed, big-breasted American women!”

  Alzamora took another long pull from his bottle of Dos Equis as the powerboat literally catapulted itself westward over the inky Caribbean waves. “You’ve been in the sun too long, Oscar! Why waste your money on tits and ass when you can invest in something that will have the girls flocking to you?”

  On the padded console in front of him, the built-in radar pinged, but Hidalgo was unconcerned. “What are we talking about this time, Alberto? A house on the beach, or perhaps retirement on an opulent cabin cruiser to sail the Caribbean?”

  Alzamora belched loud enough to be heard over the screaming engines. “Make fun of me all you want, Oscar, but when your money has all run out, don’t come knocking on the door of my new house for sympathy. I will not let you in!”

  Hidlago tugged his crotch. “Let me tell you something, my friend: if I get to spend my money the way I want to, when it’s gone I won’t have the strength to come knocking on your door!”

  Both men laughed hysterically as the radar began to ping more frequently and a small yellow dot appeared on the outer ring of the screen.

  “What do you make of it, Oscar?” Alzamora asked, pointing the neck of his beer bottle at the monitor. “American Coast Guard?”

  Hidalgo had been well trained in the Columbian navy on the nuances of radar detection. If he panicked every time a blip appeared on the perimeter of the screen, they’d never complete a delivery. “It’s too large for a cutter and too far from the American coastline. It could be a navy ship, or a small tanker ... or...”

  Alzamora wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. “Or?”

  “Or a large yacht, Alberto! Just the kind of ship your prosperous dreams are made of!”

  The fever of the hunt shone in Alzamora’s eyes, like a junkie in need of a fix. “We should check it out, Oscar! Don’t you think so?”

  “Are you sure? South Beach is just waiting for us in all of its pastel splendor!”

  Alzamora ran his fingers through his thick black moustache and nodded. “But a yacht could be as gratifying as a house! Why pay for something when you might be able to get it for free?”

  While still holding onto the steering wheel with one hand, Hidalgo pointed down at the hidden storage bin beneath the floorboards. “Okay then, let’s do it right! Get out the equipment!”

  Much to Hidalgo’s dismay, Alzamora excitedly threw his unfinished beer into the ocean spray before the smaller of the two Columbians ever got a taste.

  The lanky Alzamora peeled back the dark blue carpet at the seam and removed a small panel of the fiberglass floor, revealing a cache of arms that could have supplied a small army, which was how Hidalgo and Alzamora thought of themselves. They were soldiers of fortune, fighting a war against poverty ... their own.

  Automatic rifles, handguns, hand grenades, throwing stars—everything needed to launch a full-tilt assault on an unsuspecting group of rich American touristas. This would be a fitting climax to their already triumphant morning! Alzamora clipped a few grenades to his belt, pulled out an assortment of handguns, a submachine gun and a few throwing stars for both men to share. Sure, it would be sloppy, but it would get their message across loud and clear.

  For whoever was on the yacht, their vacation was over!

  Twenty Nine

  Cal was squirming to free himself from the two foreigners who were restraining him, while two more guards tore off Artie’s shirt and began strapping the deputy onto a stainless steel table. The two men holding Cal back were both bigger than he was and both sported swollen eyes and bruises covering the majority of their faces. At this particular moment, it gave Cal little satisfaction to know that because of their last confrontation he had been the author of most of their injuries. All he could hope for now was that he would get the opportunity to write the final act.

  In typical Geiger fashion, Artie kicked and clawed and bit at any foreign appendage that got within
range. It was obvious that his captors were having a difficult time subduing him, but they were under Von Robles’ strict orders not to leave either prisoner attended to by less than two men. Especially the bartender; he had instructed guards. He fascinated Von Robles ... and for good reason. Von Robles wanted to save him for last.

  The fact that none of the henchmen ever reached for a weapon told Cal that their instructions also included that neither prisoner was to be seriously harmed … yet. Von Robles had to figure that, since the Nocturne was miles from anywhere, his prisoners had nowhere to escape to.

  With one wrist strapped to the table, Artie still managed to dish out a healthy portion of suffering himself. Far from inept, every time the deputy would get anywhere near the strap to unbuckle it, one of the guards would bear down and manage to connect with a good combination of their own.

  Watching the trio wrestle around the table, it was hard to believe that this wasn’t a reenactment of a “Three Stooges” short. All that was missing was a bit of hair pulling, a few eye gouges, and even the occasional nose tweak. If only it could have been that comical...

  The men guarding Cal shoved him toward a second table, making sure to steer clear of the buffoonery on the other side of the sterile-looking cabin. He continued to tussle with his captors, but only because he knew that was what they were expecting from him. But, in truth, Cal’s mind was elsewhere...

  While Artie was doing a masterful job of distracting everyone, Cal was preoccupied with locating the whereabouts of anything that might prove useful to him. On a small steel table in the corner, he noticed a coil of surgical tubing, a jar of rubbing alcohol, and what looked to be either a pair of long-necked forceps or surgical scissors—he couldn’t tell which, but either one might prove practical later on.

  “You tiring them out yet, Artie?” Cal grunted as one of the guards bent him over the table and pressed the side of his face against the cold, silver surface.

  Geiger was at the head of his table with his captors jockeying for position at the opposite end. “Sure, I’ve got ’em right where I want ’em. When you gonna stop farting around over there and give me a hand? I’m starting to break a sweat!”

  Cal’s right arm was twisted behind his back, causing the tattoo of the dancing girl on his bicep to contort into an immoral pose while the left side of his face was mashed hard against the steel slab. As he surreptitiously brought his knee up beneath the table, Cal wondered what the chances were that these foreigners who had only stepped foot on American soil the one time understood English. “You boys planning on letting me up anytime soon?”

  The two guards chuckled and spoke to each other in a language that sounded to Cal as lumpy as clam chowder.

  Cal’s words came out through gritted teeth “Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

  Even in the throes of his own battle, the deputy managed to glimpse his friend’s leg emerging from beneath the table.

  “You’re not gonna try something stupid, are you Cal?”

  One of the guards was pressing down so hard on Cal’s spine, he thought it would snap. “Stupid is my middle name, Artie. Just keep your guys dancing for another second or two,” Cal grunted.

  There was a chilling serenity in Cal’s tone that told Artie something undeniably cool was about to happen. The deputy had always suspected there was more to Cal Mackey than met the eye, and now he was about to witness it firsthand...

  With blinding agility, Cal’s left hand slipped over the edge of the table and down to his pants leg to withdraw the first of the two double-edged knives from its sheath. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see that both men’s bloated lips were curled into gratified grins—their hideously swollen eyes looking much like those fake plastic ones you might purchase at a costume shop the day before Halloween.

  With the precision of a gem cutter and the speed and expertise of an Olympic wrestler, Cal corkscrewed himself away from the table, pirouetting to his left with the jagged edge of the blade trailing in his hand, slicing through the air in a wide sweeping arc. To say that the guards were caught by surprise would have been an understatement. Where mere seconds earlier they had been sporting a pair of goading smiles, they now shared four grotesque ones. The knife didn’t tear at their throats as much as it slid hideously through the tissue and muscle. Instead of pearly white dentures peeking through these new sets of lips, chunks of paper-thin derma and fibrous sinew spread out of the toothless red gashes.

  The one closest to Cal was the first to react. His hands went immediately to his throat, clutching and pawing in vain at the percolating incision. It was a good ten seconds before the second one realized that he too was dying. He reached for his neck but his fingers went inside, buried to his second knuckle, covered in ooze and gore. He pulled frantically at the skin, trying futilely to seal closed the yawning wound. What had started as a trickle had turned into a full-fledged tidal wave. Blood was spurting everywhere, covering everything in red from the tiled walls to the stainless steel fixtures. The life-giving fluid that Von Robles deemed so valuable was gushing wastefully, like a pair of lawn sprinklers gone haywire.

  The two goons still trying to pin Geiger down were totally unaware of the expeditious and violent downfall of their associates until one managed to blurt out a bone-chilling howl that sounded more animal than human. In the millisecond it took them to react, it was already too late.

  With brutal speed, Cal pulled out the second knife and both were hurtled through the air, whirling end over end across the room. Left handed or right handed— it didn’t matter—both were thrown with the accuracy of a professional. The first one to reach its intended target struck the guard standing on the left side of the table dead center in his heart. The blood-pumping muscle was impaled without resistance, like a shish-kabob skewer piercing a cherry tomato. His death was instantaneous, not even giving his brain the time to send a message to his hands to attempt to remove the knife. With a look of twisted agony on his face, the burly man took two involuntary steps backward and fell to rest awkwardly face-up on the operating table.

  The second blade went directly into the remaining henchman’s gullet, the handle sticking out of the front of his throat and the tip of the blade protruding from the back of his neck. There was more groping and bellowing from this goon as he began staggering in an ever-widening circle, both hands twitching around the knife’s helve. As hard as he tugged on the blade, he only managed to tear it out an inch. There was no strength left in his arms as blood cascaded down the front of his rumpled striped shirt. Bubbles of spittle gurgled out of his mouth as he collapsed into a convulsing heap beside the exit.

  It was almost over before it had started. There were no words to describe the absolute havoc that Cal Mackey had wrought in fifteen seconds. It had come back to him the same way most people would think about breathing ... with no conscious thought at all. He stood like a granite monument in the midst of the carnage, every muscle in his body taut and mobilized; his eyes wide open, but only able to see into the past. A past he had tried so very much to keep there.

  Across the room and still tethered to the table by the single leather strap, Geiger stood mystified. He was bare-chested, unable to speak, looking over the crumpled body lying on the table in front of him in hung-jawed amazement. “Jeez, Cal,” he finally managed to stammer, “no wonder you’ve never lost at darts!”

  Cal stared down at his blood-spattered hands like they belonged to someone else. “We’ve gotta get out of here, Artie. Gotta see if anyone else is still alive.”

  Artie unbuckled the strap. “Sure, pal. The last thing I wanna do is argue with you!”

  Cal gestured to the small table in the corner as he began rummaging through the pockets of one of the dead guards. “Get me some of that stuff over there.”

  Geiger grabbed the alcohol, the tubing, and the forceps and handed them to Cal. “You gonna be alright?”

  The bartender fumbled with the top to the bottle of alcohol. It was the same twist top that he had ope
ned on countless fifths of liquor, but suddenly it was like trying to remove a child-proof cap. His hands were shaking so hard, you could’ve put a set of castanets in them and danced the flamenco.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Geiger offered.

  Cal held out his stained hands and let his friend douse the caustic-smelling alcohol all over them. The red turned to pink as he began rubbing his palms together. “I swore...”

  Artie shook his head. “Not now, Cal. We can talk about it later...”

  “I swore I’d never...”

  The deputy grabbed his torn shirt off the table and handed it to his friend. “I’m here for you, pal. No need to explain anything now. Let’s just get out of here in one piece, and then we can talk about it later.”

  Cal wiped his hands frantically. It seemed to him that his hands would never come clean. “We’ve gotta find the others!”

  Artie nodded. “That’ll be my job.” He raised an eyebrow. “I’m assuming that with everything else that I suddenly don’t know about you that you can fly that chopper Von Robles keeps parked up there?”

  Cal was talking, but his thoughts continued to vacillate between the threatening images from his past and the present. “I’ve got a notion it’s not a AH-64A Apache, but if it’s got rotors I’m sure I can fly it.”

  Artie surveyed the massacre around him. “I don’t know what kind of helicopter it is, but regardless we don’t have much time. These guys can’t go missing for long...”

  Cal was just about to retrieve his knives from his victims when the graceless sounds of a foreign voice called out over a recessed loudspeaker. Neither man understood the bulletin, but it was easy to translate the importance of the message. It wasn’t Von Robles’ voice, but there was dire urgency in the tone. Something was definitely up. It almost sounded like a call to arms, but how could they have known so fast?