"These were under a separate corporate account, let's see, Playtime," she is saying, as he looks up at the fence in the far corner and sees Sketch go flying up and over, not a glance in his direction. Blaine flips the phone shut. He moves to the fence and peers through the slats in the wood, sees him just vanishing around the corner of the gray house.
Blaine is up and over again in a flash himself, and when he gets to the corner of the house he hears an engine, then a sky-blue sports car of some sort pulls out into the road, Sketch at the wheel. He hustles to the bike, wondering if he should follow, or just head for that address in the west end. Fires it up, but lets Sketch turn off the road before he heads that way. Sketch has never seen the bike either. It was behind a car, and he doubts Sketch noticed it during his run for the sports car, but still.
He'll follow him for at least a bit, he guesses, as he guns the Shadow down the road, running the bike up through the gears. He's not sure how obvious the bike will be as they get farther out near the house. For now, as Sketch turns on to the road that runs to the ferry one way and the beach the other, and heads for the beach, the traffic is heavy, with plenty of places to be inconspicuous. But a bike isn't a car. Thousands of cars are on the island but, comparatively speaking, only a few bikes. Just as he thinks that, he comes up on one of those groups of bikers that travel together, must be thirty or so, and he eases into the back of their pack as they head down the seawall. Sketch is about 10 cars in front of him as they move down the jammed beach.
He feels that strange lightness of being that comes from the waiting coming to an end and action commencing, but keeps his focus on the road. A wreck would be disaster now. Beside him a convertible filled with teens has that heavy bass going, and two girls in bikinis are up on the back seats, rocking back and forth in time to it. Damn Nielson and the surveillance, he thinks as he drives. Were the cops just incompetent or was he playing me some?
The speed limit is 40 on this part of the seawall that shelters the island, but nobody is moving anywhere near that fast. The road is full of tourists gawking at the girls in bikinis, dogs hanging out windows, guys in sunglasses. Trucks loaded with coolers and beach balls. Playtime, he thinks grimly as he steers the bike. Is that what Marge had said as he was getting off the line? Playtime. The grim irony of it draws his mouth into a straight line. Sketch has a macabre sense of humor. He wouldn't have expected a sense of humor at all from the son of a bitch.
They are finally to the spot where the seawall ends, and descend from their 17 foot altitude to sea level. The wall only protects the east end of the island. The rest of the more than 20 miles westward is unprotected, and those with any sense at all put their houses on pilings and use the ground-level area for garages and laundry rooms and playrooms. Thirty years ago there hadn't been that much out here, but the developers hadn't been able to resist all this land sitting empty, and now million-dollar homes dot the sides of FM3005. Three story homes with cupolas and elevators, and rec rooms on the ground floor. They are not in Galveston proper any longer, but moving through different small incorporated entities with names like Indian Beach, Jamaica Beach.
The bikers are still obligingly in front of him, and he nods at a girl riding bitch on the rearmost. So far he has no worries at all about Sketch noticing him. He is hay in a haystack. But they have reached a point where Blaine is debating strategy with himself. He can continue following Sketch, allow him to reach the house or boat and get inside. Then come after him. Or, he thinks the distance to the house is about 10 miles. There is a little-known side road coming up in a mile or so that runs parallel to this one for most of that distance, then comes out almost at the address Marge had given him. No traffic on that road, and he could get far enough ahead of Sketch to be waiting for him when he pulls up. Maybe. Have the element of surprise going for him.
Of course, if by some off-chance he is headed someplace else Blaine could lose him entirely. Blaine thinks the odds of that are slim to none, but does he want to take more risk with Renee's life than he absolutely has to? Still, he hates to let the big man pull up and get inside. No telling what he's got in there. Might be hard to dig him out.
His best shot would be to come up close behind him and take him on the way in. If Renee isn't out here she is probably dead. The thought flits through his mind like a ghost haunting him, and he pushes it away. The quiet side road slides by on his right. The decision is sealed. Follow him, get close: take him on the way in.
The bikers decide to rumble off the road into a convenience store coming up on the right, and suddenly Blaine is alone on the highway, cover stripped away.
It doesn't matter now, he thinks. They are still three or four miles out, and he is a good distance back from Sketch. The dangerous part will be when he makes the turn off the main road onto the street where the house is. Then, most likely it will be just him and Sketch, and he will be suspicious and looking, though the bike itself means nothing to him. He reconsiders, but shakes his head in the wind. If he lets Sketch get inside he will never get him out. He has to take him as he pulls up.
He remembers that street, though he hasn't been out here in some time. The entire neighborhood is million-dollar homes, not on the beach side, but on the right. This developer had been too smart for the beach side. You never could tell what the big storms would do to the beach. Entire lines of vegetation disappeared sometimes. And the vegetation line was where private property ended and state property began. People lost property to the state whenever a big storm moved the line like that. Some of them were unaware that possibility even existed. Bad enough you were completely vulnerable to the big blows.
But this neighborhood is still on the water, over by the bayside. The developer had dredged out the bayside a bit and put in a community docking area, someplace they could keep midsize and bigger boats. That would be where Sketch's boat is, Blaine is guessing, though he doesn't know for sure. Marge hadn't given him any more information than it was a boat. No idea what size it is, though from what he knows of Sketch so far, it will be a big boat.
They are approaching the turn to Sketch's neighborhood, and Blaine hangs back a bit. The timing is delicate here. He wants to stay far enough back not to raise suspicions until the last minute, but close enough to get him before he gets inside.
His breath has slowed and his focus narrowed to the sky-blue vehicle in front of him, which he now sees is some model of Mercedes. Sketch makes the turn and then Blaine does too. The huge, expensive beach homes rise all around them. He doesn't think that Sketch has any idea it is him behind, just checks the mirror in the normal fashion and proceeds at a cautious pace toward the rear part of the street. Thank God for the tinted visor.
Chapter 48
So the big man opens the car door and steps out. He glances over Blaine's way, but Blaine is still driving the bike straight down the road, helmet and eyes facing forward. The big man's head turns back, he clunks the door shut behind him and steps for the house. That is when Blaine makes his move. He guns the bike. The big man is on the grass now, and he accelerates right at him. Sketch hears the rising whine of the Shadow and jumps to one side, but Blaine turns that way, too, and leans the bike to the left, jamming on the brakes. Then his left foot actually helps keep the bike up as they fall into a fade-away slide right at big man. He is very nimble, just manages to avoid the bike by diving to his right, but when Blaine lays the Shadow down on the lawn, he is still scrambling to his feet. He pulls the .22 and cocks it, big man up completely and staring at him now like a big, dangerous, watchful predator. Blaine pulls the visor up with the other hand.
"So you got lucky and they let you out of county, huh sport?" the big man says.
Blaine is watching him for any sudden moves toward a weapon. "Where's Renee?" he says.
Sketch looks at him, shakes his head. "You never learn, do you? You are headed right back to county jail, my friend, and the state pen after that."
"Last chance," Blaine says, "And I'm not your friend."
"What are you g
oing to do, shoot me?" Sketch says. "The cops are probably on the way now."
Blaine lowers the gun and shoots him in the leg. He is damn good with the tiny pistol, can pretty much put them where he wants them. He's aiming for the meaty part, the flesh up on the thigh, and the hole is right where he aimed. The gun is much louder than you would think and Sketch jumps a bit then looks down at the hole in his leg in disbelief.
"You shot me, you crazy fucker," he says, grimacing as the pain begins to hit him. He reaches down for the leg. Blaine's mouth is a thin, straight line.
"Where's Renee?" he says. "Or I shoot the other leg."
A lot of pistol aficionados like to scoff at the .22 but Blaine knows you can put a man down with it. He has the mag, and hit men for years used the regular .22 shell because it didn't have enough power to exit the skull, would rattle around in there doing extra damage. Hell, they used to slaughter cattle with them.
Big man's teeth are gritted now, he is glaring at Blaine. It's not like the movies. He looks like a rabid beast.
"The boat," he says. "Playtime." He jerks his head over to the right, and Blaine looks over and sees it, maybe a thirty-footer, docked along with a few others. Big man takes that second of deflected attention to charge him. He's not as hurt as he is trying to appear. He's on Blaine in an instant and they go down on the grass. The .22 flies from his hand. Big man uses his greater weight and size to straddle him, then begins some ground and pound action, but his blows are not precise or that strong. Blaine uses head movement to avoid a couple, then a couple more. He times it right, waiting for that second when the big man is between shots, and throws a right at his chin as hard as any he has ever thrown in his life.
Big man collapses like a sack of grain on top of him, knocked clean out. He pushes the suddenly dead weight off, grabs the Desert Eagle hanging from a back pocket: hurls it in the water. Sticks the .22 in his pocket. Scrambles up and heads for the boat.
Down to the dock, all the way to the end, and Playtime is moving gently in the breeze, rocking somewhat. Thirty-footer at least. He jumps on the deck and runs for the cabin. One quick look inside tells him that it is empty. But there is a door at the far end.
He rattles it. Locked. Backs up a few steps and runs at it with all his might, lifts one heavy motorcycle boot, and cracks it right at door handle height. The handle stays shut but he has knocked a hole into the thinner wood right next to it, and he reaches in and turns the knob. And there on the floor, eyes wide open and a gag in her mouth, is his girl. The fright in them dies somewhat after a second, then returns as she looks behind him, and he whirls, suspecting what he'll see.
Big man is right in the doorway, and in his paw is Blaine's .22. It must have fallen from his pocket out there on the grass. He cocks it, says "If you can't beat them, join them," and fires.
The noise is startling in the small cabin. But the big man has only put a hole in the wall. You would think a small gun would be easier to shoot. But the exact opposite is true. Without much weight to absorb it, the recoil is much greater. And a tiny gun like the .22, without much handle to grab onto, wants to kick right up out of your hand. It was the hardest gun to shoot Blaine had. He had spent hours and hours at the range learning to fire it effectively. Much more difficult than the .357 under his windbreaker, a gun the big man has never seen, and which he now whips up out of the shoulder holster to put one right through Sketch's black, tiny, useless heart. Then another.
Sketch wilts like a dying flower and slumps into the corner. The gun slides from his fingers. He twitches for a bit, looks up at Blaine with fierce anger and surprise, then his eyes glaze over, and he goes still and dead. Blaine checks to make sure that is true, picks up the little gun then he turns back to his girl and takes that gag off as gently as he can. Takes his little pocket knife out and removes the plastic ties from her hands and feet. Massages them. His ears are still ringing from the sound of the .357. People who don't shoot think the noise is like that in the movies, loud but manageable. But in real life, in a cabin like this, a shot will deafen you for a bit. He looks at Renee's eyes, can tell she is still stunned. Keeps massaging different places on her. The sounds of the world start coming back to him.
"You all right?" he asks.
She looks at him, sets that firm, straight mouth. "All right now," she says.
"Did he hurt you?"
"Not really," she whispers hoarsely. "He was saving me, like you save a special treat. The killing part is what he likes. There are other girls buried out here, up by the house, I think. From before he bought the boat."
Blaine nods, holds her, brushes his lips against hers. "He won't be doing that anymore," he says. He rocks her back and forth in his arms. They hear the sounds of sirens far off in the distance, piercing the air with that keening wail.
Epilogue
Good times on the beach and folks having fun have been the reasons for being in Galveston for years and years. But just like other places, occasionally bad things happen to good people. In the end, however, the good folks usually gather their forces together and prevail. It doesn't happen as often as we would like, and evil always remains, waiting. Life, after all, doesn't come with guarantees. But it does happen.
The beach house was one place that Sketch had used to stash the bodies. Seven of them were later found in there, all female, buried below the concrete ground floor. The longest buried dated from the mid-nineties, so he had been at it for a good long time. The cops suspect him for a few of those unsolved murders on I-45 and are working on tying him to them. They believe he has more bodies stashed in other places. Blaine is remembered for coming back to life from a motorcycle accident and shooting a killer, but for him, the real miracle that summer was getting his girl back.
All charges against him were eventually dropped and his guns and license returned. And Nielson? It's hard to tell with Nielson. He acted pissed about not getting the chance to bring Sketch to trial, and Blaine taking matters into his own hands again, but Blaine never has been exactly sure how to read Nielson, and he suspects that deep inside, he is happy as a clam the way things worked out. Mandy found a good job at a lawyer's office; her sniffles appear gone, and he never sees Doug down there anymore. Heartbreaking shame. Without mentioning any names or being too specific, he had mentioned to Nielson that Dandylions might be a good spot for somebody to look into. Though he is sure that Nielson already knows that.
Blaine could have happily lived his entire life without hurting anyone, and he wishes that it had worked out that way, but when he thinks about Renee, and the way things might have gone, he has no real regrets. In his dreams, occasionally, he relives the shooting, and sometimes he cannot pull the big gun before Sketch shoots again, and he wakes up sweating and afraid. But he looks over and sees his girl sleeping beside him, and eventually the fear leaves him.
Renee is pregnant now, and most times happy, though he catches her sitting quieter than he would like sometimes. She doesn't work the bars or anywhere else. Blaine got on steady at a plant and is hard at work finishing his new novel, too. It is the story of a stone killer and how he was brought to justice. Strictly fiction, of course. He and his girl made their vows public and legal, but the important ones were already engraved in their hearts. Todd visits them often, and when he smiles that smile now, Blaine doesn't believe that he is thinking about that time on the mountain, but about the day he busted through a door at Sketch's house and kept his brother from dying. They don't talk about it much, but they don't need to.
Sometimes, Blaine is leafing through the paper and the obituaries and sees the face of one of the young who has been taken, and he thinks of two who were spared, for reasons he cannot fathom. Occasionally, he guns the Shadow through the quiet streets, parks it at the shady edge of the cemetery, and strides in to stand for a few moments looking down in silence at a fresh-placed marker for one of these departed. Gone, maybe, he thinks, in a physical sense, but not forgotten. Not in this lifetime.
About the Author
/> Bart Hopkins Jr. is an ex-surfer, mountain hiker and occasional rock climber, chess enthusiast, motorcyclist, and student of language and mind and brain topics. He is the proud father of two grown children, Krystal and Bart, and lives with his wife Kat in Texas.
Also by Bart Hopkins Jr.
Chasing Sunlight
Sign Changes
Table of Contents
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Bart Hopkins Jr.
Playtime Page 19