Dinero Del Mar (The Drifter Detective Book 5)

by Garnett Elliott

  But the Cisneros estate had turned into the haunted house his mind only hinted at before. A crystalline spider hung from the dining room ceiling, big as a chandelier. Skeletons danced around the couches in the living room, and the trailing, vaporous-white outlines of ghosts flitted past doorways. The urge to get out under open sky hit him with a panic. He leapt for the front door, shouldered it, and ran down the colonnade. Instinct made him veer around the house and toward the beach.

  Overhead, stars crawled in a mauve sky. Their light reached down and struck his shoulders with pebble-hard force. His boots kicked up sand, slowing him. He had the nightmare sensation of not being able to run fast enough, but a glance over his shoulder showed no insects in pursuit. He'd escaped the manor and its horrors. Out beyond the dunes, the Gulf surged as a single dark shape, the rhythmic breaking of its waves becoming a machine's hum. The noise drew him. He could think more clearly now, as he slogged toward the surf.

  The pilings of the large dock he'd seen before rose from the water. But it wasn't a dock: it was the blunt-nosed prow of a U-boat, beached like a whale. The conning tower had a hammer and sickle painted beneath the swastika. He remembered reading somewhere that fifty U-boats remained unaccounted for after the war, and it made perfect sense one of them would wind up here, on Texas shoreline. Fascinated, he sat down and curled his knees against his chest to watch.

  The hatch atop the conning tower screwed open. A trim officer sheathed in a black kriegsmariner uniform wriggled out, binoculars dangling from straps around his neck. It was Karl Doenitz himself. After him came rank after rank of German seamen. They leapt down from the sub into the surf, splashing. Doenitz paced before them, hands in pockets. He barked for order; the men formed a line. Doenitz told them, in coarse English, that they were to march as infantry into the depths of Texas and take Austin with a surprise attack by morning. Civil defenses, he assured, would be overwhelmed.

  As he spoke, more Germans came pouring out of the sub. The lines moved forward to accommodate them, and soon, Jack found himself surrounded by wet boots and pant legs. None of the mariners-cum-soldiers seemed to notice him. With Doenitz at their lead, they marched smartly around the manor and off into the night.

  Jack turned back toward the beach. The sub was just a dock again. He decided to wait and see if any more ghost-armies would appear. He'd wait all night if he had to, though the concept of time now seemed meaningless. There was only the ocean's movement and his own breathing, which was more or less in synch.

  After a while came the scrape of feet against sand, drawing close. He looked up to see a feminine shape blotting out the stars. She wore an animal mask in the style of an ancient Egyptian headdress, with a crocodile's snout and a lion's mane. Eyes of lapis lazuli regarded him.

  "So that's what all that racket was about," said a disembodied voice.

  "What happened to him?" said another.

  "I think I know. During the séance, he must've snuck into Ma's room."

  "Do you think he …?"

  "That's why he's this way now. Look at his eyes. He must be on one hell of a trip."

  "We should get rid of him. This is the perfect opportunity."

  "I'll do no such thing. If you want to kill him, it's on your conscience."

  "Why so squeamish all of a sudden?"

  "It's not what we agreed to."

  "Alright, then. I think I saw a stick, over there …"

  The crocodile woman slipped from view. Moments later, he felt something hard strike him on the back of the neck. For some reason he tasted metal and orange rinds.

  "Is he out?"

  "I can't really tell. Help me drag him into the surf."

  "I told you, the murder part is your show."

  "Goddamn coward."

  Through a red spider web, he saw the woman stoop over him. Hands grabbed his leg above the boot. A grunt. He was dragged a short distance onto wet sand.

  "Help me. He's heavy."

  "That would make me an accessory."

  "What the hell do you think you are now?"

  "Fine. If it'll shut you up."

  Somewhere, just above the level of consciousness, Jack's brain perceived what was going on. He tried to struggle, but the blow had left him sluggish.

  "He's not all the way out."

  "So let's hurry and get him into the drink."

  "Look there. He's carrying a gun. Just shoot him and get it over with."

  "Too much noise. Also, this way makes it look like an accident."

  A snort. "Two 'accidents' in as many days? Don't you think the cops will be suspicious?"

  "They'll be suspicious no matter what, with all the money involved. Now help me pull."

  A pair of hands seized either leg. Jack slid into the water on his back. It felt cool, but not bracing. When he tried to open his eyes he caught a glimpse of the crocodile woman, up to her knees in the surf. The silhouette of her grotesque head spun like a record on a turntable. Dizziness forced his eyes shut. He heard cursing, and a wave washed over him. Salt water shot up his nose.

  Two years before, thugs had tried to drown him in a motel swimming pool. The memory caused panic to lace up and down his limbs, but he forced himself to stillness. Even in his addled state, he realized that struggling would just make them hit him again. Or hold his head underwater.

  "There. A little further and the undertow will take him out."

  "My suit's going to be ruined."

  "Poor baby."

  A swell caught Jack, lifted him. Behind his shut eyelids, he was watching a game of Snakes and Ladders being played on an imaginary board. The snakes came in a rainbow of wriggling colors. The ladders writhed, too, and the little cardboard pieces, sliding around on their own, were all people he'd known from childhood.

  "Okay, that's far enough. Turn him over and let's get out of here."

  He sucked in a breath as the board disappeared. Hands flipped him onto his stomach. The change in position brought water folding over his face, his ears. All he could hear was the muted crash of waves. He let himself float like a dead man, arms outstretched. Let the current catch him and drag him, away from his would-be killers. Not too far, though. The current would get stronger and he wouldn't be able to swim back. Go floating right out into shark territory.

  The throbbing pain that had paralyzed him before now kept him conscious. He swiveled his face up and took another breath. Pesky, that need for oxygen. Hopefully no one had seen him do it. With his left arm submerged he did a sidestroke. A big swell hefted him toward the starry sky. Despite the circumstances, he couldn't recall a time he felt more peaceful. Floating in the Gulf, under the influence of God knows what. A big mansion stuffed with scheming rich people somewhere behind him.

  He swam on.

  * * *

  A rat-like face regarded him from the crest of a nearby dune. It had a pink nose and a plate of beaded armor covering its head like a helmet. The black eyes watched with reptilian calm.

  By degrees, he realized he was no longer hallucinating. The rat-face belonged to Texas Charlie, or an armadillo just like him.

  Sunlight speared down and burned the back of his neck. There was a steady pain there, pounding. He lay on his side. His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with boles of hot cotton.

  "Hell of a hangover," he said, and laughed. He ran his tongue over cracked lips, but there wasn't enough moisture left to spit.

  He got to his knees. The motion brought gray spirals swimming across his vision, and he dry-heaved for a horrible minute. When it passed, he fought the urge to lie back down on warm sand. He needed water, and soon. The pounding in his neck radiated out to his whole body. He reached behind and touched the spot where he'd been struck, bringing molten pain. His fingertips came away with flecks of dried blood.

  Probably a concussion. Wonderful. He checked his watch, and found the minute hand had stopped moving. It wasn't waterproof. But the sun was already high enough for noon, or a little later.

  The armadillo watche
d him sway to his feet. He'd lost a boot and a sock to the Gulf. A panicked pat-down reassured him the Colt was still there, though. He turned around into the wind and saw the beach less than ten feet away. The sight of all that rolling, watery motion made him nauseous again. He managed to cough up some bile on his second round of vomiting.

  "Get moving, old hoss," he told himself. "Nothing else for it."

  He kicked off his other boot. The seawater had already ruined it, anyway. One foot bare, the other in a salt-crusted sock, he trudged up the tall dune. The armadillo rolled into a little ball when he got close. He thought about stooping down, picking him up, but at the dune's crest he saw the dark outline of the Cisneros manor only two hundred yards away. Its closeness hit him with a dull shock. He would've figured he'd floated half the distance to San Isabel during the night. Had he swum in a tight circle? Or had the current been weaker than his assailants thought?

  Either way, he didn't have that far to go for water.

  Halfway down the dune he stopped. The manor was no safe haven. Someone in there would be surprised to find him alive.

  To hell with it. He still had his gun.

  Walking briskly in his depleted condition reminded him of that last march from Stalag Luft Three when he and hundreds other POW's had to hoof it several miles to the town of Sagan. Flatbed trucks waited there, ready to haul them to France like cattle. Of course, he'd been hungry then, not thirsty. And the weather had been cold.

  He reached the side of the manor and circled around to the rear. A figure sprawled on a lawn chair atop the back deck. Phil, sunglasses shielding his eyes and a wine bottle in one slack hand.

  Jack scuttled up the steps. Phil was snoring. He wore a smoking jacket with a peach ascot, and his young, unlined face looked serene.

  "Wake up." Jack prodded him with a bare foot.

  Phil stirred. He woke snorting, almost dropping the bottle. Jack grabbed it from him and took a short jolt. Sweet dago red. He swirled the wine around his parched mouth and spat it out.

  "Jack? Where have you been? My God, you look like the wreck of the Hesperus."

  "I took a swim. Where's Ma?"

  "Inside. When I couldn't find you after the séance, I—"

  "Save it." Jack handed him the bottle. "What time is it?"

  Phil glanced at his LeCoultre. "A little after two."

  "Jesus. I need water, pronto."

  "I'll ring for the butler."

  "Get it yourself, goddamn it." Grayness was starting to swirl in around his temples. He felt nauseous again and sat down on the deck.

  "Alright. Hold on."

  Phil left in a flutter of velvet, to return a minute later with a bottle of seltzer and a tumbler. Jack shot the glass a quarter-full. It took all his will to keep from gulping. The cold fizz tasted like ambrosia.

  "Can you tell me what happened?"

  "Your sister tried to kill me. I think. She and Dessau have plans for Ma."

  "What're you talking about?"

  Another measured sip. "Ma's 'spells' are from taking LSD. I found some in her room last night. My guess is Dessau's been giving it to her, telling her it's to stir up creativity."

  "I've read it has the potential for that."

  "It stirs up something, alright. I took a dose by accident. It knocked me clear out of my mind, and someone—Marta, I reckon—clubbed me on the head and dragged me into the Gulf, trying to drown me."

  "Marta?" Phil shook his head. "She's always been cold, but a murderer …?"

  "Attempted, anyway." Jack turned around and pointed to the back of his neck. "I didn't get this tripping over a dune."

  "Good Lord."

  "It's bad, isn't it?"

  "I'll get some iodine. And an ice-pack."

  "Wait a second. We got more important things going on, right now." Jack drained the tumbler and shot it half full. "You said the attorney, Emmett, was invited to the séance' last night. Did he talk to either Marta or Dessau?"

  "They had drinks together, just before they entered the tower."

  "I bet they did."

  "What are you driving at?"

  "It's all about your mother's will. Emmett's probably in on it, too. But look, I'm too damn thirsty to explain everything. Ma's in danger. Let's round her up, get her the hell out of the house and someplace safe. Like a police station. No one's going to try anything once we get the cops involved."

  "Ma doesn't like being told what to do."

  "Let me do the talking. She'll listen." Jack swallowed more seltzer. "Are you drunk?"

  "Just a little."

  "Don't we make a fine pair? Help me get up."

  Phil grabbed him by the wrist and pulled. Jack got to his feet, the gray mist clouding his vision again. But it wasn't as thick as before. He took another cautionary sip, wary of his stomach rebelling. The water stayed down.

  "Alright. Let's go inside."

  The manor's interior felt cool and still after being out on the windy beach. Phil called for the servants and instructed them to find Ma, while he searched the ground floor. Jack settled into a chair in the dining room, attacking his seltzer with increasing confidence. After several minutes the servants came down from their respective floors: no sign of Ma.

  "Jack," Phil's voice rang out. "Get over here."

  He found Phil in the study, pointing at a paneled wall where stuffed goshawks, owls, and a wild turkey perched from various mounts. Below them lay a glass gun cabinet, opened and empty.

  "My father's old fowling shotgun," Phil said. "It's gone."

  "Did you find Ma?"

  He shook his head.

  "The servants didn't, either. So she's not in the house."

  "There's still the old tower."

  The throbbing in Jack's neck went cold. "I'm getting a funny feeling."

  "I am, too."

  "You got any more guns?"

  "Just the one. I don't know how to use a shotgun, anyway."

  Jack drew his Colt and checked the barrel for seawater. While he did so, Phil stepped over to a display of swords and old coats of arms. He took down a spiked ball dangling from a length of chain.

  "What the hell's that?"

  "A conquistador's weapon." Phil's eyes grew dream-like, hefting the thing. "I used to swing it around as a kid."

  "You are drunk."

  "Just feeling cautious."

  "You want to call the cops while I check the tower?"

  "It'll take them at least thirty minutes to get out here. I'll come with you."

  Together, they went through the front doors and turned down the veranda. The gate to the tower was shut, but no longer padlocked.

  "Someone's in there." Jack nodded at the structure. "How far does that go up?"

  "Four flights. There's a room where they conduct séances at the top."

  "Four flights. Peachy."

  Jack opened the gate. No one had oiled the iron hinges recently, and a screeching sound made him grimace. "They could hear that in Amarillo," he said, peering inside. Un-plastered stone formed a square chamber, with narrow windows and a staircase hugging one wall.

  Phil stepped past him, holding his spiked mace at the ready. "Slow down," Jack said. "I've got the gun, so I'll take point. Don't swing that anywhere near me."

  "This is exciting."

  "It's dangerous, is what it is."

  "What if Ma's not at the top?"

  "Then we take your coupe and go looking. Come on."

  The stairs rose narrow and steep, built to more medieval sensibilities. After a series of turns, the steps angled up to a trapdoor in the ceiling. Hard to imagine a well-heeled procession making their way up there to talk with dead folks, but the tower did have a certain atmosphere. Jack stayed close to the wall. His legs felt none too steady after that knock on the head.

  He was dizzy by the time he reached the trapdoor. Phil, his eyes goggling like a kid's, opened his mouth to say something. Jack shushed him. Colt in his right, he eased his left shoulder under the door and pushed it up a crack
. Just a finger's width, but through it he could glimpse the legs of a table, several chairs, and a pair of women's feet in silk slippers. Above the ankles hung the hem of a red kimono.

  "Ma?" Jack said, pushing the trapdoor all the way open.

  She didn't answer. Ma sat at a round table draped in black velvet, with several chunks of quartz crystal at the center. Behind her gaped a large arched window, glassless, admitting a flood of dazzling blue. The light silhouetted Dessau's thin form. He stood in a nearby corner, arms folded. What Jack could see of his face looked pinched and grim. Ma was cradling a piece of crystal, watching the sun wink off its surface with the comprehension of a toddler. She'd been doped again, he felt certain.

  "Drop it," came a voice beside him.

  He gave his head a slow turn. The twin barrels of a shotgun stared ten-gauge holes at him, tight in the slender hands of Marta Cisneros. Her dark hair veiled her eyes.

  "I drop it, sweetheart, it might go off," he said. "How 'bout I just put it down?"

  "You do that. Is my brother with you?"

  "No. He's in the—"

  "You better not hurt him, Marta," Phil's voice floated up. "Or Ma, either."

  Jack winced. Marta took several steps back, motioning with the shotgun for Jack to set the Colt down. When he'd done so, she called out: "Come on up, Phil. I won't hurt anyone if you do what I say."

  Jack stepped aside so Phil could climb up. When Marta saw the spiked ball and chain dangling from his hand she let out a titter.

  "I bet you're surprised to see me alive," Jack said.

  Dessau cleared his throat. "I don't know what you're talking about. And neither, I'm sure, does Marta."

  He'd lost his German accent. Jack ignored him, keeping his eyes on the gun. Even if she'd loaded it with birdshot, two barrels at this range was more than enough to splatter both him and Phil over the walls. "You shoot us, everyone in the house will hear."

  Marta shrugged. "I'll give the servants a stern talking to, afterward."

  "What's going on?" Phil said, his voice trembling. "Why'd you take dad's gun? And why is Ma up here in this … state?"

  "Simply a creative exercise—" Dessau began, but Marta cut him off.

  "I brought the gun in case Lucas showed back up. Or you came bumbling around. As to what's happening, why don't you ask your friend the 'tile-layer'? I'm sure he's got a couple theories."