Greta’s mouth pulled into a straight line. “Yeah, I thought so,” she said. “I’ve been expecting him.” She turned away then back, again. “How did it happen?”
Parry looked tired, irritable. “How did what happen?”
“They tail you.”
“Dunno. I just come back…with your goddamn goggles. How am I s’posed to know? I ain’t Sherlock fucking Holmes.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Besides, I ain’t worried. They come around here snooping, and I’ll take ‘em out with that gunna yours.”
“Don’t go anywhere near that gun. I mean it.” She stood up and finished the rest of her beer. She crunched the can into the sand and seemed to calm down. “I know it’s Seabury,” she said. “I’ve got a little surprise for him.” She lit a cigarette and puffed twice. The smoke swirled over her head and into the air. “Well, anyway,” she said, changing the subject. “FYI, we had a visitor while you were gone.”
She had this thoroughly annoying habit of starting everything out that she thought was important with FYI—For Your Information—which clearly annoyed him.
“So, who was here? The bogeymen? Or maybe it was—let me guess—uh, Captain Kid.”
“Neither, wise guy.” Greta looked at him and winced. She shrugged her shoulders, as if to say, “Is this dickhead for real?”
“No—obnoxious one,” she said. “This creepy, stone-faced guy with the accent of someone with a mouth fulla chopped fingers came up on us. Right outta the blue, he comes sneaking up on Suma and me. Yeah, yeah. I knew all the time she wasn’t Lawan. Anyway, you know what the guy wanted?”
“A ticket to the Ice Capades?”
Her head cocked to the side. Cold, blue eyes speared him with a nasty look. “No, smart ass. He came to collect money Arun Songsiri owed you to pay off his gambling debts. He said the wrong guy got the money. The money should’ve gone to his client.”
Parry sniffed the air like a bloodhound. Then, he brought his eyes back down and looked at her.
“I smell Bennie Zee in alla this. That schmuck’s put a contract out on me.”
“Well, the hit man’s six feet under, now—back up in the forest.” She pointed to a spot near the timberline off the beach. “I overpowered him and took him out.” Greta puffed up, proud of her accomplishment. “Well, anyway,” she said. “He’s up there.” She pointed toward the forest. “Go take a look if you want?”
“At a goddamn grave? Are you serious? I don’t care about it as long as he’s dead.”
“He’s dead, all right. In fact, FYI—”
He spun on her before she could get the next word out. “Geez, can you quit with that FYI bullshit. FYI…FYI…Everything that comes outta your mouth is FYI. It grates on mah nerves. Sayin’ it all the time reminds me of those Jesus freaks back home in Kilgore, always preaching the Bible and sayin’, ‘Jesus made me do this. Jesus made me do that.’ What a freak show. So, knock off the shit, will yah. I’m tired. You got any beer?”
“For you—oh, toothless wonder—an oasis-full.”
He flipped her off, went over, and fished around inside the cooler. He found a local Thai beer and snapped open the can. He walked back over. “Where’s what’s her name?”
Suma?”
“Yeah.” Parry guzzled his beer.
“Not your concern.” Greta waved him off.” Her skin flushed in a furrow of reddened wrinkles. “I don’t tell my secrets. I’ve lived long enough to know that.”
“Okay, but where is she…really?”
“What did I just tell you?”
“Don’t play games. Where’d she go? She ran off on you?” He drank more beer while she leered at him. “My God, you didn’t. Tell me you didn’t, Greta. You didn’t let her get away, did you?”
She turned away, rolling her eyes into the air.
“Well, did you?” The voice sprang out at her.
Greta stared at him. A finger pushed up to his face. “Don’t you ever. Don’t ever question me, again. Who the hell do you think you are?”
She was livid, and the sight of her fuming backed him off. He cowered sheepishly in front of her. “I was just asking, that’s all,” he said. “You don’t have to get so—”
“Angry,” she cut in. “I’m getting sick and tired of all your questions. You need to back off. Let me take care of things.”
“Okay, Greta.”
“Here.” She took his hand. They walked around to the other side of the fire. “Under there,” she said. Parry raised a black tarp and stared down at Suma’s dead body.
“Whoa! Saints be Jesus. Ya’ll went and done it.” He scratched his head, still looking down. A moment later, he finished his beer and tossed the can down in the sand. “Yeah, I think I’ll take a look at that grave, now. Make sure you put that mofo to beddy-bye.”
“I did the job. You’ll see. Take a look.” She pointed to the forest and a deer trail that knifed through the underbrush. “It’s over there—a big mound of dirt. Even a drunk like you can’t miss it.”
Parry took his time and had another beer.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Seabury steered the boat inside a trough of angry waves. Near the mouth of the lagoon, he cut the engine and nosed the boat inside a reedy marsh at the edge of the jungle—a quarter-mile down from the reef. He splashed in and waded to shore, and Lawan followed him.
Through the trees, he saw the fire. He saw Parry drinking beer. He looked for Greta. She wasn’t there, but something caught Seabury’s attention as he scanned the beach and moved through the trees. The outline of a dark bundle lay on the ground a few yards down from the fire.
The sight of it jolted him, stabbed at his lungs, and took his breath away. Oh, my God…Suma, he thought. He stood in front of Lawan, shielding her from the view. Lawan, who hadn’t noticed the object, hurried along the trail behind him. A web of tangled vines in a dense grove of trees and sprouting foliage concealed them. Moving quickly, they skirted the campsite and headed back into the woods above the beach.
In the darkness and silence of the forest, Seabury blamed himself for not getting there sooner. If he hadn’t combed Sunrise Beach, if he hadn’t stopped off and paid Bennie Zee a visit, and if he hadn’t talked so long to Tara Bennett…well, he had, and he was pretty sure that Suma was dead. Greta had killed her, and he’d done nothing to stop her.
There would be no rescue or happy ending, now. When Lawan went to pieces over the death of her sister, he would be there to console and comfort her, like she had been there for him when Dao had died. He realized it wouldn’t be enough. Soon, he would return to sea, and Lawan—like a young wife grieving the loss of her husband—would be alone. That’s when it would finally sink in and hit her the hardest.
This was a dark, evil place. Maybe jinxed, maybe haunted in some way. Superstition played a major role in the lives of local villagers. Now, he was starting to think that maybe some of it was true…about the place. As animists, the villagers believe that life exists in all things created, in both present and past lives, and provide momentary glimpses into the dark, illusionary world of the paranormal. To them, there was no separation between the physical and spiritual worlds, where the wandering spirits of lost souls not only existed in humans, but also in plants, animals, rocks, rivers, and mountains.
They saw life in everything, and everything included man, and man supported that life. The belief, ingrained in the darker regions of Thai culture, and always a part of their culture was the idea of shadowy figures and ghost-like spirits soaring across the ground, hiding in deep, impenetrable regions of tropical forest or imbedded in sea creatures living in the dark, mysterious waters of jungle lagoons.
The village elders had told him many things, and Seabury listened to their sage advice. After Dao’s death, they told him that the police should have just closed off the whole area—restricted travel, patrolled the waterway, and prevented anyone from coming near Dead Girl Beach. Dao’s death and the deaths of the other girls had struck fear into their hearts, and they were s
cared of a killer roaming the area, still on the loose.
Soon, the local pipeline carried stories about the place being haunted and ghosts soaring through the trees. Dark spirits lurked below the water. Scary apparitions appeared in the night. The local Kamdan, the village leader, warned his people not to go there, that it wasn’t safe and to stay away. He told his people that swimming in the depths of the lagoon was a form of evil spirit embodied in a single, vicious predator—the needlefish—and their eyes filled with fear and wonder. That fish no good—more dangerous than shark. Far into the night, the villagers listened to him. Because he was their leader, they believed in what he said, knowing he wanted to protect them.
Most backpackers and sightseers took the warning to heart and avoided going up there. Besides, there was plenty of action for the younger crowd down on Sunrise Beach. Far from Europe, far away from home—some for the very first time—they were living the life in a tropical island paradise on the other side of the world. They had white, sandy beaches and plenty of drugs, beer, and hard liquor to consume. Plus, there was non-stop partying on the beach. So, why risk your life on a dangerous beach up the coast, when there was so much more going on down below?
Seabury mulled these thoughts over in his head and stood in the silence and darkness, looking at the camp down below. Parry Langer didn’t finish his second beer but took it along with him as he stumbled up the hill toward the forest.
Seabury stood in the shadows…waiting.
Chapter Thirty
Seabury’s hand went up. He motioned Lawan to silence. “Stay here, please.”
Lawan, wide-eyed and body quivering, watched him go. He slipped a few feet down the deer trail to a stand of trees just beyond a mound of dirt in the shape of a grave. His best guess was that Parry wouldn’t be heading this way unless it had something to do with the grave. He stood motionless now in the thicket and waited.
Seabury had no idea if Parry was armed. A gun was a problem and one he would have to deal with, immediately. He didn’t want a gun coming out of a waistband and firing at the last second at point blank range, where it would do the most damage—so, stealth was his only option.
Near the grave, Seabury crouched low behind a stand of tall, dark trees. The branches were stiff and dusted silver in the moonlight. At his back, the deer trail knifed at a right angle back through the forest. Lawan stood in the darkness, tense, rigid, and on edge. Her face strained with worry as she hunched over in the shadows, watching Seabury. Night sounds echoed far back in the darkness.
Parry entered the clearing next to the trees where Seabury stood waiting. He finished his beer, tossed the can down in the thicket, and tramped further back inside, looking for the grave. The voices of night birds clattered on branches directly above. Animals thrashed through the darkness behind him. Then, there it was—the grave—just as Greta had told him.
“Yeah, gaddummit. Thar’ she is,” Parry muttered as Seabury came up behind him.
It was a tough fight—not the kind to end quickly. Not the kind Seabury wanted, because Parry Langer was strong and powerful. The blow to the side of Parry’s jaw as he sprang round and lunged at Seabury would have debilitated any other man, but not Parry. Parry shrugged off the blow, as if he’d shrugged off a flying insect. Head locked into his shoulders, arms out wide and crab-like, he bull-rushed Seabury, trying to take him to the ground.
The big Hawaiian was quick and agile, though. He sidestepped Parry at the last moment and drove a forearm into the side of his head, feeling the power jolt through his arm. A grunt, followed by a loud squeal of pain, tore out of Parry’s lungs.
Next, Seabury spun on his toes, in a half circle the other way, and came up behind Parry. He curled his big arm inward, hooked it around Parry’s throat, and squeezed hard. A pinch of air squished out of Parry’s throat. He writhed and twisted. His feet left the ground. His face turned red, and he steamed and boiled, letting out a terrifying squeal like a pressure gauge about to burst. Seabury exerted more pressure, and they struggled in the noisy darkness. It was a move Seabury saw infantrymen use in hand-to-hand combat. He twisted right, then left, then back, again. Parry’s neck snapped like a wishbone.
Crack! The sound tore back into the darkness. Lawan turned her head and looked the other way. She was starting to feel sick to her stomach.
Chapter Thirty-One
Seabury moved out to the edge of the forest. The adrenaline rush that surged through his system as he grappled with Parry Langer had left his muscles stiff and sore. He was fighting hard to catch his breath.
Turning around, he called back to Lawan, “You okay?” He waved her closer.
She moved toward the voice, still in shock and reeling from the sight of the dead man lying on the trail behind her. A sliver of moonlight gleaned off the top of Seabury’s bushy head. His face, she noticed, was darker, now—less calm, less restrained. His eyes half closed, and his rugged jaw firmly set, he looked like a metal cable about to snap.
“The act’s solo from now on,” he said.
Lawan stared up at him. She saw the intense, combative light deepen in his eyes. It gleamed then froze, hard like the light coming off a cold, wintery landscape. She saw a man she didn’t know. In the silence and darkness, she shrank back away from him. His face was the face of another man. A dark, aggressive, hostile man—not the quiet, gentle Hawaiian she once knew—the one who seemed to read her thoughts almost before she had them. She gasped and sighed, feeling hurt and disappointed.
“I’m sorry,” Seabury told her.
She said nothing. She watched him standing there in the darkness, staring down at her—this big, brawny, muscular man whose expression had quickly changed. No longer tense and warlike, his eyes had gone soft with a mixture of sadness and remorse, which left her feeling confused. Seabury took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. Then, he turned back and stepped out of the forest, and she followed him.
“There’s something I need to show you,” he said, and his voice began to crack. He had his arm around her shoulder, and they walked back down the hill. Suddenly, her body stiffened, and her eyes snapped wide open in alarm and panic.
“Suma?” she cried out. “Oh, my God! No…no…no, Seabury.” Her scream cut through the silence and rocked the night.
Near the fire, Seabury opened the tarp. Suma lay on her back with her eyes closed. Strands of wet, black hair drooped down across her forehead, and her face had turned a pale color. She might have rested there in a peaceful sleep except for the sight of her dead body. Crumpled and mutilated, riddled by scores of deep puncture wounds, it looked like a target shot with arrows. Seabury knelt down on one knee next to her.
His heart sank, and he fought a pain that took his breath away. Suma’s nose was broken. A deep, purple welt covered her left eye. Puncture wounds were all over her body, blood splattered everywhere. It formed a wide pool across her chest and clung to the rumpled folds of her red glitter mini. The needlefish’s steel-tipped beak was still stuck in her right eyelid.
With a handkerchief, Seabury reached down, removed the fish from her eye, and tossed it into the smoldering fire. The wet rush of saliva that enters the mouth at the onset of vomiting filled Seabury’s mouth. He swallowed and stood back up.
Lawan had turned away. She was still crying when he came over to her. He had a hand on her shoulder. When she noticed it there, she brushed it off. She twisted away from him and started to howl and scream. She stumbled and jack-knifed over.
Seabury stood back away from her, letting her cry out all the anger and emotion. The sight of Suma’s morbid death pressed the weight of a giant boulder down on him, and a lonely, forsaken look entered his eyes.
A moment later, the look changed. Now, in the murky moonlight, his face grew hard and cold. Dark, angry lines creased the corners of his eyes. A restless fury tore through his body, and anger and revenge hammered at his heart.
Lawan had turned around now, all cried out, and rushed into his arms. He held her gently and c
omforted her, but she couldn’t stop shaking. A moment later, they separated.
Seabury said, “I need to go, now. She’s out there waiting.” He looked down at the dead body. “It’s for Suma and Dao,” he said.” A lump lodged in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but it wouldn’t budge. “Stay here. I’ll come back for you later.” Then, he was gone.
Skirting the edge of the campsite took Seabury five minutes. Greta Langer sat inside her outboard, back inside the trees, watching him.
* * * *
Seabury rushed along the trail, going back to his boat. Up ahead, a narrow patch of sand and rocks appeared, littered with clusters of coral and dead seaweed. He was out in the open now, in full view and vulnerable if she spotted him. If she spotted him, Plan A would go into Plan B. Plan B was a plan of desperation. In reality, a plan of desperation was no plan at all—just a plan gone wrong.
Hurrying, he reached the water’s edge. His boat was nosed into the trees. Untying the line, he jumped in. Oars clamped to sprockets to the left of the back seat, and a heavy, black tarp lay beneath them.
Seabury rowed out beyond the reef, and then up the narrow channel leading back into the lagoon. He kept close to the outer edge of the shoreline, where large stands of trees with low, overhanging branches concealed him from view. He would wait until it was time to drift back out into the middle of the lagoon, where he knew Greta Langer would come for him.
Now, like a Navy Seal on a stealth mission in the middle of the night, he hunkered down inside the trees. Under a tarp at the back of the boat, he waited.
Chapter Thirty-Two
On the other side of the lagoon, Greta sat up in the outboard. She had seen Seabury, scrambling through the trees. Hah! Just as I thought. You showed up here. She checked her watch and said, “About time to get ‘er done.”
The brilliance of a full moon shone across the water. Greta’s outboard rose and fell in the waves lapping up on shore. Here, the beach curved into a steep wall of black, volcanic rock. It shot up high off the beach, and a thick shroud of jungle foliage covered it.
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