A Deadly Game

by J. P. Bowie

  “They sure are. Then they asked me to stay for dinner and, well, how could I refuse? I said, just give me time to change and when I got back, they had a friend there. Henry—do you know him? He’s a real estate broker.”

  “Oh yeah. I’ve met him a couple of times. He was the one who found Peter’s house for him years ago. Nice guy.”

  “Very nice. We’re going out for dinner tonight.”

  “You are? That’s great.”

  “Nick, I just wanted also to say I’m really sorry for the way I behaved the other day. It was crass of me. I hope it won’t ruin our friendship.”

  “Of course it won’t, Norman.”

  “That’s good. I’ve had some time to think things through. Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you were fine with everything.”

  “Perfectly fine,” Nick assured him. “I told Eric all about you—and he still wants to meet you.” There was a long pause. “That was a joke Norman.”

  “I knew that, I knew that,” Norman said, chuckling. “Tell him I’ll look forward to it. Okay, I just wanted to touch base with you—and say thanks.”

  “No problem. Have fun tonight.”

  Nick felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief wash over him as he walked back onto the sunlit patio. Norman and Henry—not a bad combo. Both a bit anal—it could work out just fine. His step was decidedly jaunty as he joined Jeff and Monica at the table.

  “What are you looking so pleased about?” Jeff asked.

  “It’s a long story,” Nick replied, grinning at them. “One I’ll keep till you have lots of time to listen. Right now, I’m not sure of the ending, but my fingers are crossed for a happy one.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “The Getaway—what a great name,” Eric said with enthusiasm as he and Nick approached the yacht they had rented for the next four days. They planned on taking the Sea Ray across to Catalina, then cruising round the island. The craft came complete with two jet-skis, which Eric could hardly wait to try out. They were both in high spirits as they loaded their gear on board. Eric ran down below to turn on the stereo and fix some coffee while Nick familiarized himself with the yacht’s controls.

  “Okay, Cap’n Nick,” Eric yelled from the aft deck. “Ready to cast off, soon as you give me the okie-dokie!”

  Nick chuckled as he turned on the engine. “Cast off then,” he yelled back over the roar of the engine. “Let’s head for the high seas, laddie!”

  “Woohoo!” Eric scampered around the deck, throwing the moorings over the side and doing a little dance in time to the beat of the music as they pulled away from the marina slip. He clambered up to where Nick stood, steering the yacht carefully out of the harbor. He wrapped his arms around Nick and hugged him tight.

  “Thanks so much for this,” he said, kissing Nick’s shoulder. “We really, really need this break.”

  “Yes, we do,” Nick agreed. “Just you, me and the ocean for a few days. Sounds like heaven.”

  “Do you think we’ll see some whales?” Eric asked, looking out toward the horizon.

  “Dunno. Is this the migration season?”

  “Haven’t a clue,” Eric said happily. “It would be nice, is all.”

  Once they were free of the harbor, Nick gave the engines more throttle and the Sea Ray ploughed its way across the waves at a comfortable speed. They planned on reaching Catalina harbor before lunchtime and do a little island exploring as neither one of them had been there before. Eric sat beside Nick and closed his eyes, letting the salt sea breezes bathe his face and bare chest.

  “I was thinking,” Nick began.

  “Uh huh?”

  “Something I’ve been mulling over for the last few days. You and I should have a place of our own. I mean, not a rental, but a place we could call our own.”

  “I’d like that,” Eric agreed. “But the prices…”

  “Well, here’s the thing. We haven’t really ever discussed this before, mostly because I’ve never really paid much attention to it—but I have some money.”

  “That’s nice,” Eric said.

  “No, really, quite a bit of money. Martin left me stuff in his will.”

  “What kind of stuff?”

  “Well, his house for instance, and some stocks and investments.”

  “How come you never told me this before?”

  Nick chuckled. “I didn’t want you to want me for my money.”

  “Aha. So this has all been a test? Did I pass?”

  “With flying colors—frequently.” Nick grinned at him. “So what d’you think? D’you fancy a little cottage by the sea?”

  Eric reached over and patted Nick’s butt. “As long as you’re the houseboy, I think I could handle it.”

  “Okay,” Nick said, chuckling. “We’ll talk to a realtor when we get back.” They were both silent for a time, each lost in visions of real estate with ocean views, then Nick remarked, after giving Eric a sidelong glance, “You sure look cute in those shorts.”

  Eric opened his eyes slightly to leer at him. “You’d look cuter out of your shorts,” he said. “Come to think of it, there’s no one around to see us, so why don’t we get nekkid and…”

  “Man, you have a one-track mind,” Nick laughed. “Don’t I smell coffee? Why don’t you go below and make us a sandwich? All this sea air has given me an appetite.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n.” Eric gave him a mock salute before leaning over to kiss his cheek. “Then will you get nekkid?” he asked with an impish grin.

  Nick smiled as Eric climbed down the steps to the deck and disappeared into the galley. He gave a happy sigh. The next few days were going to be perfect. He barely heard the startled cry from below, but it was enough for him to cut the engine and call out, “Eric, are you all right?”

  Hearing the sounds of a scuffle on the deck below, he turned, and what he saw turned his blood to ice. Eric’s face, pale and stricken, stared up at him—and Garcia, an arm around Eric’s neck, holding a gun to his head.

  No! No! No! Nick’s mind screamed in fury as he stared at the gloating face of his nemesis.

  “Nick,” Eric croaked. “I’m sorry. He came out of nowhere.”

  Garcia bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. “You didn’t really think I would let the two of you live, did you, Fallon? You let your guard down, thinking that I had gone? How foolish of you. You should know I never stop until I have completed my work. For you, and your friend, the game is almost over.”

  He waved the gun at Nick. “Come down here so that you may say your final farewells. You see,” he said, his grin filled with malice, “I am not without compassion—even for vile creatures such as yourselves.”

  Nick cut the engine and jumped down onto the deck. “Such as your son, Joseph,” he said, determined to rattle Garcia’s arrogant demeanor. To his surprise, Garcia did not lash out in fury at the remark.

  “I have learned some truths in the days that I have been…sequestered,” he said, his voice holding just a trace of bitterness. He removed his chokehold on Eric and pushed him away. “My son Alfredo apparently knew of Joseph’s iniquity. He did not tell me for fear that I would harm Joseph in some way. Imagine that. He thought I would harm my own son…” Garcia faltered for a moment.

  “You’ve spoken to Alfredo?” Nick asked in amazement. “In prison?”

  Garcia’s laugh was ugly. “There are many ways to circumvent authority, Mr. Fallon. I spoke to my son to give him encouragement, and to tell him that as soon as I could, I would secure his release. But, I also took that opportunity to ask him if he knew of any rumors about his dead brother. At first, as you can imagine, he was hesitant in replying. After all, I could have construed his silence as a form of approval of his brother’s behavior. He swore to me that he had tried to wean Joseph from this heinous choice of lifestyle—”

  “It’s not a choice,” Eric blurted. “And it’s not a life style.”

  “Be quiet.” Garcia turned a baleful look on Eric. “It is of no consequence now. Joseph is de
ad—and he would have been dead to me even sooner had I known of his proclivities. I would not have harmed him, but there would have been no place in my home for him.”

  “Some father you are,” Eric snarled.

  “Eric,” Nick said quietly. “Don’t…”

  Garcia snickered. “Your puta has courage, Mr. Fallon. I have to admit that I underestimated you—both of you. I thought you would be an easy kill, but here we are again. Only this time I will not make the same mistakes.” He gazed at Nick as a snake might before it strikes. “You may say goodbye to him—but do not touch him. That would turn my stomach.”

  “Nick…” Eric moved toward him, his hands outstretched.

  “Now, the game is over,” Garcia said, pointing his revolver at Eric. “For both of you.”

  The deck rocked beneath their feet as a wave slapped against the side of the yacht with some force. Eric staggered to one side just as Garcia pulled the trigger. A look of total shock clouded Eric’s face as he was slammed against the side rail by the bullet’s impact. He fell to his knees, blood pouring from the bullet wound. He looked up at Nick, his lips moving soundlessly, then he slumped forward and lay still.

  “Bastard!” Nick screamed at the top of his voice throwing himself at Garcia just as the man fired again. The bullet ripped into Nick’s left shoulder at point-blank range, sending him spinning backward across the deck. Garcia aimed again, but another, bigger wave, breaking against the yacht, caused a more violent rocking. Garcia was thrown to the deck floor and his shot went wild. Cursing, he struggled to his feet.

  Nick flung himself into the cabin. His gun was in his backpack, if he could just reach it in time. A bullet splintered the teak wood ceiling inches from his head and he dived to the floor, rolling into the galley. Garcia charged in behind him, firing wildly until Nick heard the click of an empty chamber. He jumped to his feet, breathing heavily. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating. Beyond Garcia’s bulk, he could see Eric lying in an ever-widening pool of blood. He brought his eyes back to fix on Garcia’s hate-filled face. Whatever he did now, he had to do it quickly if Eric was not to bleed to death.

  With a roar of rage and desperation, Nick lunged at the big man and they both fell to the floor of the narrow cabin. Garcia dealt him a vicious blow to his wounded shoulder and Nick saw stars explode before his eyes. Groaning, he rolled to one side, trying to avoid the kicks Garcia aimed at his torso. Somehow, he managed to stand upright again, but he could feel his strength failing. As Garcia advanced on him, he put out a hand to steady himself and felt something hot against his fingers.

  He looked down. He was touching the coffee pot. Ignoring the searing heat, he picked up the carafe and threw the entire contents into Garcia’s face. The man shrieked in agony, his hands flying to his face, but too late to protect his eyes from the scalding liquid. Screaming at the top of his voice, he blundered from the cabin out onto the deck. Nick followed and watched as Garcia blindly struck the side rail. Giving him no chance to recover, Nick sprang forward, his leg lashing out, his foot hitting Garcia squarely on the chest.

  Garcia’s high-pitched shriek of rage reverberated through Nick’s ears as the man was thrown back against the rail, desperately clutching at anything to stop his inevitable fall into the sea below. Incredibly, one hand fastened on Nick’s left leg, and he felt himself being pulled over the side, inch by agonizing inch. His hands reached out to grasp the rail and the two men were now hanging over the bow of the yacht, Garcia clinging to Nick’s leg, his blistered face a mask of rage and hatred. A bolt of white-hot pain seared through Nick’s shoulder as he clung to the rail, feeling Garcia’s weight pulling him down ever closer to the water. He knew he wasn’t going to be able to hang on much longer.

  “You will die with me,” Garcia screamed at Nick. “I will see you in Hell!”

  “I don’t think so,” Nick panted, smashing his right foot into the other man’s upturned face. Blood spurted from Garcia’s nose as it broke under Nick’s relentless pounding. Again and again, with all his remaining strength, he battered at the madman’s disfigured face until finally, with a gurgling cry of defeat, Garcia released his grasp on Nick’s leg and slipped beneath the surface of the water. Nick fell back onto the deck, his breath wrenched from him in great painful gulps.

  “Eric,” he cried, crawling over to where his lover still lay motionless on the deck floor. “Eric. Oh, Jesus—Eric.” He gathered him in his arms, and pressed his lips to Eric’s face. Stop, he told himself. No time to waste.

  Gently, he laid Eric back down onto the floor of the deck, then with a supreme effort got to his feet and staggered into the cabin. Unzipping his backpack, he pulled out his cell phone. As he climbed every pain-filled step to the upper deck, he punched in Jeff’s speed dial number. Listening to the ringing tone, he turned on the engines, and as they roared into life and he heard his friend pick up, he croaked into the mouthpiece, “Jeff, buddy. I need your help—bad.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  One week later:

  There’s a saying; “Time heals everything,” and for many that old cliché is probably true. But Nick, one week after the incident that had taken Eric from him, knew that some things could never be healed. Loneliness, desolation, and heartbreak—time may lessen their impact, but he knew that the grief would remain, every day for the rest of his life.

  It had been the week from hell. Ever since he had managed to dock the boat back at Dana Point Harbor where he had been met by Jeff and Peter, and an army of paramedics, cops and firemen, his life had been in chaos. He had stood by helplessly as the paramedics had tried to stabilize Eric’s failing life signs. He had numbly given in to their ministrations on his shoulder.

  “A flesh wound—you’re lucky,” he’d been told. He had listened to Jeff’s words of sympathy and comfort, but he’d heard nothing but the words that screamed in his mind over and over, “Why, why, why?”

  They had taken Eric and raced to the nearest hospital, where they had transfused pint after pint of blood in an effort to restore his life’s essence, lost on the deck of the yacht. The prognosis, even then, had not been good. His left lung, punctured by the bullet from Garcia’s gun, had collapsed. Shards of bone from a splintered rib had lodged dangerously close to his heart. The bullet, exiting through his back, had torn muscle and tissue on its trajectory, leaving a gaping hole from which his blood had poured. After many hours on the operating table, and an induced coma that would keep his vitals stable, the doctors remained grim and uncertain as to his chances of survival. Only time would tell, they’d said, and Nick knew then that time was something they perhaps no longer had.

  He had spent every available moment sitting by Eric’s bedside, listening to his labored breathing, holding his hand, urging him to live, and yes, even sending up a prayer to a God he had long ago renounced, asking for a miracle. At night, alone in their apartment, for he had refused all his friends’ kind attempts to have him stay with them, he would lie awake, remembering Eric’s sweet smile, his warm and willing body pressed to his own, the murmured endearments, the little surprises he would invent to show Nick how much he loved him.

  When sleep came late in the night, he found no haven, for his dreams were filled with nightmarish images of Garcia hovering over Eric’s inert body, screaming obscenities, while around him a storm raged and lightning rent the skies. Those dreams came every night, and were not assuaged by the news that the Coast Guard had found Garcia’s body drifting a few miles from where he’d fallen from the yacht. That news should have brought a thrill of relief to Nick, but he received it without expression, and a mere shrug of his shoulders.

  Now, as he sat at his desk, he tried to flex his left arm, still stiff from the days of having it confined by a sling. The wound had healed cleanly, but he’d been told to use his arm as little as possible until physical therapy could be arranged. Flexing caused him pain—and a kind of perverse pleasure. I deserve this pain, he thought, leaning forward and resting his head on his hand. I wi
sh it would never go away. Let it always be there to remind me of what I’ve done.

  From across the office, Jeff stared at his partner, his face creased with concern. In the months they had worked together, Jeff had gotten to know Nick’s moods and quick temper, but he had never seen him like this—lost, was the only word Jeff could find to describe what he now saw in his friend’s demeanor.

  “Nick,” he said, clearing his throat. “What time do Eric’s parents get here?”

  Nick raised his head and looked at him. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, his face haggard with strain. “Three o’clock,” he replied. His voice sounded dull and colorless, stripped of emotion. He had put off telling Eric’s parents what had happened to their only son, hoping that as the days went by, he would have some hope to give them. But the doctors had insisted they be notified before it was too late, and so he had made the call and listened as Eric’s mother had broken down and sobbed quietly, before her husband had taken over.