The Girl Who Wants

by Amy Vansant

  Sonuva—

  Tyler rolled behind a tree and heard another object strike the trunk behind him.

  What the hell?

  A throwing knife.

  Possessing no knife-tossing talent of his own, he refrained a moment from removing the weapon. Peering around the tree, he spotted a small figure tucked behind another trunk, fifteen feet from where he stood.

  Even in the dim light, he recognized the outfit.

  The housekeeper.

  It had to be.

  The sun took its last gasping breath and dipped below the horizon. Tyler slid his night vision monocular from his belt and scanned the trees.

  The housekeeper had disappeared again.

  Is she some kind of knife-throwing ghost?

  Tyler pulled his silenced .22 Ruger from his waistline. Even silenced it would be loud enough to catch the attention of the big guy at the front door, but dropping the housekeeper would buy him time to paddleboard the hell out. If he could paddle with the wound, which, if he took the knife out, would probably leave him bleeding like a stuck pig.

  I’d leave a trail. They’d know I came by water so I couldn’t do it again...maybe I should make a false trail...

  Tyler caught a flash of movement in the trees. A crop of goosebumps ran along his arm.

  This bitch is crazy...

  He crouched, leveling his gun at what he felt certain was a knee poking from behind a tree.

  He didn’t want to waste noise on such an uncertain shot, but—

  “Beatriz?”

  The voice came from Tyler’s left.

  Shit. More of them.

  He flicked his attention in that direction. The goateed man who’d confronted him earlier appeared at the forest’s edge, backlit by the glow of the hotel’s porch lights.

  The woman spoke, her voice closer than Tyler ever imagined she could be.

  “William, take cover—”

  Tyler’s attention returned to the tree he’d been watching. The housekeeper bounced from her cover, three trees closer to him.

  It’s now or never.

  He squeezed his trigger.

  The woman yelped and dropped.

  Gunfire popped to his left and Tyler rolled behind his tree, putting it between him and the man.

  Great. This one has a gun.

  The big guy would no doubt join in soon. They’d made enough noise to wake the whole neighborhood.

  Tyler glanced in the direction of the water.

  I have to make it to the paddleboard.

  He could be half way down the river before the blond with the gun figured him out.

  Tyler glanced at the still body of the housekeeper, feeling confident he’d hit her in the chest, solid.

  This was his chance.

  Run.

  Tyler sent a smattering of shots in William’s direction and bolted for the water. Crashing through the tangle of underbrush like a panicked deer, he ignored the sting of the thorny weeds tearing at his legs. He stumbled. Something tightened around his ankle. It felt as though someone had lassoed his feet.

  No—

  Falling like a felled tree, he jerked his leg against the restraint and felt it snap...

  Not a rope.

  The vine tore away in time for him to find his feet. He was moving again.

  He spotted the blue paddleboard as another pop of gunfire exploded behind him.

  Too late, sucker—

  Something struck his neck.

  Tyler stopped. He raised his hand, fingers crawling across his collarbone.

  Oh.

  He inhaled. Air stuck in his throat. He tried again. Something bubbled and coughed like a coffee maker at the end of its brew cycle.

  I’m drowning.

  Tyler looked at the paddleboard, surprised to find he hadn’t fallen in the water beside it.

  But the water...?

  His fingers felt a familiar shape protruding from his throat.

  Metal.

  He turned and shot as he fell to one knee.

  Tyler jerked the knife from his throat. He gulped air.

  Heaven.

  Feeling renewed, he took another breath.

  Nothing.

  He was drowning again.

  Tyler poked at his wound in his throat. He tried to stretch it open, searching for a way to clear his pipe for air.

  Darkness bled from the edges of his eyes, closing in. He reached for the silver throwing knife on the ground in front of him.

  Maybe I can cut a new hole—

  The darkness closed in. The knife disappeared.

  Blind, his fingers scrabbled across the earth, searching for the blade.

  His face hit the mud.

  &&&

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Get back!”

  Mason wrestled Shee from Martisha’s front step as she struggled against him. She gripped the handrail.

  “She shot herself!”

  Mason eased but refused to release her. “What?”

  She pushed him to arm’s length, panting. “Martisha shot herself. No one’s shooting at us.”

  “You saw?”

  She nodded and pointed to the window where she’d been standing. Mason climbed the stairs and peered through. Shee slipped her hand past him to try the knob.

  It turned. She pushed the door wide.

  “Judas Priest,” muttered Mason, his gaze rising to the mess of blood and grey matter on the ceiling above the woman on the sofa.

  “Get inside before the neighbors see,” said Shee, entering. He followed and she shut the door.

  “Give me a second to clear the house,” said Mason.

  He moved from room to room as Shee walked to the back of the sofa, ignoring his orders. If someone was in the house, she figured the gunshot would have brought them running.

  The ragged-edged hole in the top of Martisha’s skull left little room for interpretation.

  “Definitely dead,” she said as Mason returned.

  He grimaced. “Hard to miss at that range.”

  Shee put her hand on her hips, her gaze sweeping the small cottage. The air smelled stale, as if the house had been sealed for some time. A thick coat of dust covered every surface.

  “There’s got to be something here. Something she came back for.”

  Mason nodded to Martisha. “I think we’re looking at what she came back for.”

  Shee wandered into the bedroom, finding it cramped with oversized furniture. Draping a shirt over her hand she opened drawers, finding them, like the closet, largely empty. The woman had been living at the Loggerhead long enough that most of her clothing had migrated there. She found a brown file box on the floor of the closet and flipped through tabs with titles like “paystubs” and “taxes.”

  One of the 1099s from three years earlier caught her eye.

  Mason walked into the bedroom as she stood, still scanning the document in her hand.

  “She used to work at the Navy Consolidated Brig, Chesapeake,” she said.

  “As a nurse?”

  “I guess so. Doesn’t say.”

  “Does that mean something to you?”

  She shook her head. “No. But it’s interesting.”

  “Is it? Doesn’t your dad have a habit of hiring vets? Maybe she’s a vet, too.”

  “True.” She folded the document and slipped it in her pocket. “Nothing out there?”

  He shook his head. “Nothing except a dead woman. We should go.”

  “Leaving the scene of a death. We have to stop meeting like this.” Shee pulled open the bedside table drawer and pushed around the contents. She plucked out a rolled piece of lined paper and unraveled it to reveal a pencil sketch of a middle-aged man with a goatee. Mangled holes edged the top as if it had been ripped from a larger notebook, the ragged bottom implied the torn sheet had once been larger.

  “That looks like William,” said Mason.

  “Who?”

  “William. He works at the hotel. You haven’t met him?”
/>
  Shee pushed the drawer shut with her thigh. “No. Great. I haven’t even won Croix over yet and now there are more people to meet.”

  “Maybe Martisha had a crush on him.”

  “Is he handsome?”

  “Not my type.”

  Shee shrugged. “Either way, maybe he knows something. Let’s go.”

  They made their way back to Mason’s truck, Shee grateful the fallen night would cloak their exit. The last thing she needed was neighbors identifying the truck to the cops when the body was found.

  Shee’s phone rang and she glanced at the caller ID.

  Angelina.

  She answered. “We’re on our way back—”

  “Beatriz is dead,” said Angelina. “We need you here. Now.”

  &&&

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  By the time Shee and Mason returned to the hotel, two bodies had been laid on a plastic paint drop cloth, side by side on the king bed of Captain Rupert’s old room.

  Shee stared at the woman who’d been making her bed only a day before. Beatriz’s long, honey-brown hair had been neatly displayed over each shoulder, partially covering the bloodstain on her shirt.

  Shee motioned to the male body beside the housekeeper.

  “Who’s this?”

  Angelina stood with her hand over her mouth, as if it were the only thing keeping her from screaming. Her mascara pooled beneath her eyes. No attempt had been made to fix it.

  She lowered her hand and licked her lips. “No idea—other than he killed Beatriz.”

  “She got him first?” asked Mason.

  Angelina nodded and motioned to the man’s neck.

  Shee moved to get a better view of the wound. The stranger’s skin appeared ashen, his camo gear covered in darkening blood. She spotted the tear in his neck the moment she rounded the bed. Her eyes widened. It looked as though an animal had tried to chew off his head.

  “My God, what did she do to him?”

  “Throwing knife. William thinks he was digging at the wound, trying to breathe.”

  “William? He found them? Where is he?”

  “He found them in the woods next door. He’s checking for more now.”

  Shee pulled the small rolled sketch from her pocket.

  “Is this him? We found it at Martisha’s.” She unrolled it for Angelina to see.

  Angelina squinted at the sketch. “That’s one of the Captain’s.”

  “Mason thinks it looks like William.”

  “It does. You haven’t met him?”

  Shee set the picture on top of a corner bookshelf and it rolled itself tight like a threatened armadillo. “Do you trust him?”

  “He came with a personal invite from Mick. He tried to save Beatriz...” Angelina motioned to the bodies. Her head tilted.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Captain liked copying his drawings out of books. I don’t remember him ever doing a live portrait.” She opened a drawer in a small bureau against the wall to retrieve a pad of paper. She flipped through a few of the pages, unveiling sketches of people and landscapes. The paper was the same as the sheet with William’s portrait, all boasting a similar style of tight crosshatching.

  “Any idea why Martisha took this one? It was in her bedside table, like it meant something to her.”

  Angelina ran her knuckle under her eye, but the mascara had re-dried and she did little to erase her raccoon mask. “Maybe he gave it to her as a gift? She was his nurse. I guess she wasn’t there to ask?”

  “She was there,” mumbled Shee.

  “So you did talk to her?”

  “She shot herself before we could.”

  Angelina gasped. “You found her dead?”

  “Something like that.” Shee’s lips pressed into a tight knot.

  Cough walked in, frowning at the bodies.

  “Is that Beatriz?”

  Angelina nodded.

  He clucked his tongue. “I’m sorry to see that.”

  “I should head outside. Maybe get a bead on William,” said Mason.

  Shee looked at him and sighed, certain this had to be the worst vacation Mason had ever taken. “This isn’t your war.”

  “It is now,” he said without looking at her. Instead, he locked on Angelina. “Where’s Archie?”

  “The dogs are in my room. It’s unlocked if you want to let him out. Down the hall, last door on the left—”

  He shook his head. “He’s safer there for now, if you don’t mind.”

  Angelina shrugged and shook her head.

  Mason turned and headed toward the lobby.

  “Be careful,” Shee called after him. She cringed.

  “I sound like his mom,” she muttered, lowering herself into the cushioned chair in the corner of the room. She dropped her head into her hands. Fatigue poked at her muscles and hung from her eyelids like monkeys, dragging them down. Her head throbbed in time with her heartbeat.

  She leaned back to address Angelina as the doctor inspected the stiffening remains.

  “So we know whoever is after Dad, they’re sending more people. They know he’s alive.”

  Angelina nodded. “No doubt, thanks to Martisha. They could know almost anything.”

  Shee looked at Cough. “How’s Mick?”

  His attention absorbed by the horrific wound on the stranger’s neck, the doctor was slow to answer. “Um...oh. He’s fine. I changed out his IV. His medical cabinet was locked but I had a spare. I’ll give you guys a crash course on what to do until you can hire a new nurse.”

  Angelina shook her head. “How can I bring someone else into this death trap? I need you to stick around.”

  Cough turned, eyebrows lifted. “Because it’s okay for me to stay in the death trap?”

  “Just a couple days? Until we figure things out?” Angelina took his hand and held it to her chest. “Please? For me?”

  Cough glanced at Shee, his cheeks coloring.

  “Fine.” He pulled his hand back and returned his attention to the neck wound.

  Angelina turned away and winked at Shee.

  Shee smiled and stood. “Let’s find out who this guy is and then we have to find this William.” She traded places with Cough as the doctor rounded the bed to inspect Beatriz.

  “It looks like he stole Batman’s utility belt,” said Angelina, motioning to the collection of gadgets strapped around the dead stranger’s middle.

  Shee rifled through his pockets until she found a small, black leather wallet. Flipping it open, she pulled out a license.

  “Roger Cooper,” she read. Behind it, sat another—same man in the photo, different name. Shee frowned, imagining someone rummaging through her things, post mortem.

  This feels familiar.

  “He’s got a second license. Tyler Vale. Both with Miami addresses. Either ring any bells?”

  Angelina shook her head.

  Shee tossed the wallet on the stranger’s chest, noticing a folded piece of paper tucked in his belt. She slipped it out and unwrapped it, catching a glimpse of a familiar newspaper clipping before it fluttered to the ground. A piece of Loggerhead stationary remained in her hand.

  “That’s the clipping we saw at Viggo’s,” she said, pointing as Angelina stooped to retrieve it. “It was missing when we went back.”

  “What’s in your hand?”

  Shee scanned the sheet. “It’s a letter from Dad to Viggo, asking him to come here.”

  Angelina peered over her shoulder. “One of Mick’s invites. It’s how he builds his army of do-gooders.”

  “You mean his Navy of do-gooders.”

  “Beatriz was Army.”

  Shee grunted. “Oh. I didn’t know Dad had gotten so liberal in his old age.” Her gaze dropped to the bookshelf tucked in the corner. A tall, leather-bound book sat shuffled with others, unremarkable, but her skin still crawled at the sight of it.

  Why does that look so familiar?

  “Where’s the other shooter?” asked Cough. He had
his black bag open on the bed and stood with a pair of long tweezers in his hand, the tongs clamped on what looked like a crushed bullet.

  Shee eased past Angelina, heading for the bookshelf.

  “Hm?” She heard Angelina ask as she slid the red book from the shelf.

  “Beatriz took one in the chest. Not enough to kill her, necessarily,” said Cough.

  “There’s a second in her head,” said Angelina.

  “I saw that. The problem is, what blew out the back of her skull isn’t the same thing I just pulled out of her chest.”

  Shee held the red book in her hands, staring at the cover. Her limbs felt cold.

  “Where did he get this?” she asked.

  “What?” Angelina sounded annoyed. “I can’t talk to both of you at the same—”

  Shee held up the tome. “It’s a Naval Academy Lucky Bag Yearbook.”

  “So?”

  “I need to know how it got here. It’s mine.”

  “Oh excuse me.” Angelina rolled her eyes. “I don’t know. Your father probably gave it to him.” She turned back to Cough and then, scowling, bounced back to Shee.

  “Wait—you didn’t go to the Naval Academy.”

  Shee flipped through the book, feeling as if her fingers knew where to go. It fell open to the spot she’d been seeking. A tucked piece of torn sketch paper marked the page.

  “It was research.” Shee pointed to the photo of a brown-haired young man in a plebe first class uniform.

  “You two are missing the importance of what I’m saying here,” said Cough, still standing with the bullet in his tongs.

  Shee plucked out the page marker. At first, she’d assumed it was her marker from long ago, but the lined paper was too familiar. She flipped it over to find a pencil sketch of the plebe she’d identified.

  No.

  Shee dropped the book into the cushioned chair and snatched Captain’s portrait of William from the top of the bookshelf. Unfurling it, she raised the sketch of the plebe to the bottom.

  The tear fit perfectly.

  “Look.” Shee held up the sheets so Angelina could see. “They’re the same person.”

  “But that’s William. And that’s—” Angelina’s gaze dropped to the opened year book on the chair.