A Killer's Game

by Amy Andrews

  They both headed back towards the four wheeler. This time, Lt. Whitten had no fears or qualms about mounting the off road beast.

  Detective Wilshire was ready to put his helmet back on, and Lt. Whitten was about to do the same when she noticed something reflective directly behind the four wheelers driver’s side rear tire. Shining her flashlight and squatting down, she picked up a wadded Wrigley’s gum wrapper.

  Holding it out in her palm, for Wilshire to see it, she said, “Detective?”

  Without saying any more words to each other, they mutually knew that Detective Shane had definitely been here.

  Whitten stuffed the wadded gum wrapper in the pocket of her form fitting Lucky jeans. She and Detective Wilshire placed their helmets back on, and re mounted the four wheeler. Detective Wilshire eased the throttle, and the four wheeler propelled forward, with the sound of crunching debris coming from beneath it’s tires.

  With her arms wrapped more loosely around Detective Wilshire’s waist, Lt. Whitten was getting used to the bumpy ride, and much to her surprise, was actually starting to grow fond of it. It was actually kind of exhilarating, she thought.

  Detective Wilshire felt his Lieutenant’s comfort level rise, with her loosening grip. Knowing she was feeling more comfortable, he continued easing the throttle back, causing them to pick up speed, while continuing to head South.

  Suddenly, the four wheeler jarred to the right, as it’s driver’s side front tire slammed into a huge pit in the ground, that had been cleverly concealed with pine needles, sticks, palm fronds, and other various vegetative debris. Wilshire’s throttle hand was jutted forward, as his opposite hand came back towards him, moving the steering column from a horizontal plane to and almost vertical plane. He felt his elbow impact Whitten in the side. Wilshire and Lt. Whitten were both thrown violently forward, as the four wheeler lost it’s equal footing. The air came rushing out of Wilshire’s lungs as his abdomen impacted the left side of the steering column. The punching pain radiated through his gut, as he struggled to regain his breath. Lt. Whitten was launched from behind Wilshire, doing a quarter roll, mid air. Her right shoulder felt like it had been struck by a base ball bat, when it impacted the ground. Making a moaning sound, she rolled over onto her back, removed her helmet, and grabbed her right shoulder with her left hand. Sitting up, she started moving her shoulder socket in a circular motion. She felt no pain. It was just going to leave a good bruise, with a couple weeks worth of soreness.

  After regaining his breath, Detective Wilshire removed his helmet, and dismounted the four wheeler, whose back tires were no longer touching the ground. Rushing over to Whitten, he kneeled down beside her and placed his palm on the middle of her back. “Lieutenant, are you okay?” he asked with trepidation. He didn’t know if he could live with himself if he hurt her.

  Still cupping her right shoulder, she said, “my shoulder is a little banged up, but I’ll live.”

  Detective Wilshire didn’t say a word, but was searching her eyes for forgiveness.

  “It’s okay, Wilshire,” she said. Using her left hand, she grabbed his right and gave it a squeeze. “This was not your fault. It was an accident. I don’t hold you responsible in any way. Now, help me get up off of my ass,” she joked, as she kept her right arm folded in close to her body, and extended her left arm out for a helping hand.

  Positioning himself in front of his Lieutenant, Whitten placed his feet just over the tops of hers. With her legs bent, and their opposite arms engaged, he gave a slight pull. Whitten popped up off the ground, right into his embrace. He held her firmly within his arms for a few moments. Closing his eyes, he leaned his face down into her hair and took a deep breath of her lavender scented auburn locks.

  Being entombed within his cocoon didn’t feel awkward. Whitten felt a warm wash of a feeling spread through her, that she had never felt before. It felt…right. It felt safe.

  “Can you stand by yourself okay?” he asked. Uncasing his arms from around her, he slid his hands from her back, down over her sides and settled them onto her outer hips, to steady her buckling knees.

  Locking her knees into place, and getting steady on her feet, Lieutenant Whitten shook off the brief moment of unstableness. “Yeah, Wilshire,” she said. Taking a step back away from him, she continued, “thanks. I’m good now.”

  She wasn’t sure what made that feeling wash over her, and buckle her knees. Was it a result of being shook up from the accident, or was it the intense attraction to Wilshire that just slammed into her like a ton of bricks?

  She didn’t know if Wilshire felt it too, or if it was one sided, but she didn’t want the moment to grow awkward. Glancing around Wilshire at the four wheeler, and seeing that it was not going to be taking them any further, she said, “I guess we have no choice but to pound the ground now.”

  Detective Wilshire felt the palpable tension between them and responded in agreement. “Let’s move out, soldier,” he wittily replied. He had to fight the urge to give her a light slap on her superbly round rump, as she turned and walked a couple of steps ahead of him. Her perfect blend of femininity and toughness was extremely appealing. Her exterior was just gorgeous, but her personality was just like “one of the guys.”

  Lost in his brief trance, she stopped and turned to him. “You coming or what?” she asked.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said through his lust filled fog. Detective Wilshire quickly closed the short distance in between them. They continued trudging onward in perfect synchronicity.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO - SET UP

  Tessa recognized Thorne’s lanky silhouette sprinting towards her, from behind the cabin. Getting to her feet from the tree against which she was leaning, she prepared herself to take off in either direction. Either towards the cabin, or away from it, depending on what Thorne had to say. Not hearing him fire his gun, she supposed she would have a nice respite at the cabin, very shortly.

  “Okay, it’s clear,” said Thorne with winded breaths.

  With quick footing, they made their way towards the small haven. All the while, Thorne’s senses on high alert. It was too soon to have Detective Shane crashing his party.

  The first thing Tessa did upon walking through the door of the one room cabin, was make a bee line for the tiny bathroom. “I’ll be out in ten minutes,” she said, quickly closing and locking the door to deny Thorne’s acceptance or denial of her statement. She was tired, sore, and hungry, just to name a few, and needed the ten minute solitude to wash this damn day away. Thorne better pray he didn’t interrupt her, or the last thing he was going to have to fear, was the maniacal masked man. She wasn’t in the mood. She would go from demure and cooperative princess, to bat shit crazy on him, in two point five.

  Standing with her back against the door, in the small and dark room, she ran her hands along the wall looking for the light switch. The room illuminated to reveal a simple, but effective washroom, complete with a one sink vanity, toilet, and shower. Stripping her soiled clothes off, she stepped into the one person shower enclosure, and let the warm jet of water wash over her. With her arms braced against the wall, and her head hung, she watched the traces of dirt, debris, and blood swirl down the drain.

  An epiphany slammed into her like a ton of bricks. Her arms and legs felt as stable as two stretched out rubber bands, as her entire body started to quiver. Was she imagining things, or didn’t Thorne say that his car was at the cabin? If it was, then why the hell weren’t they in it, getting the fuck out of here? She hadn’t seen a car anywhere. Then again, when approaching the cabin, her vision was tunneled right to the front door. Lightly touching her forehead, she felt the large welt, and let the negative thoughts running through her mind get sucked down the drain along with the rest of the filth.

  Turning the single levered knob to the off position, she stepped out, and her wet body dripped puddles onto the linoleum tiled floor.

  Two steps from the shower, she opened the vanity door, and prayed to the cotton Gods. Yes! The thin and thre
adbare towel wasn’t exactly Egyptian cotton, but it was a towel. After all that had gone wrong, and all that had happened today, it was all she was hoping for.

  Redressing in her dirty sweats and t-shirt wasn’t exactly what she had in mind, but right now there wasn’t any other choice. At least she felt clean beneath her dirty exterior.

  Emerging from the bathroom, feeling slightly refreshed, Tessa was pleased to see that Thorne had set a place for her at the bistro table. He motioned for her to take a seat, and placed a nice and hearty bowl of mac and cheese in front of her. “I know it’s not much, but I thought you might prefer a hot meal over a sandwich. It’s all I could find,” he said apologetically.

  “No, it’s great. Thank you, Bobby.” She didn’t want to seem unladylike, but she was famished. She was so busy shoveling the elbowed macaroni into her mouth, she didn’t notice anything else. Not even the way Thorne was sitting across from her, taking his time to savor his every bite, and enjoying the show.

  That’s right sweetheart. Eat it all up, like a good little girl. Then it’s time to go night-night. Forever. He had ground the sleeping pills up into such a fine powder, that the thick and creamy cheese masked the taste of them. Sure, he could have had some fun with her, like he had with Leopold, but he wanted to conserve his strength for the real fight.

  Swallowing her last mouthful, Tessa offered to clean up.

  “Absolutely not,” Thorne insisted. “You’ve been through enough today, Tessa. Why don’t you just go lay down on the couch. I’ll take care of the dishes, then I’ll see if I can get a signal to get in touch with HQ.”

  “Well, I am getting really tired,” she said through a yawn.

  “I’m sure you are. You’ve had a long and exhausting day. Just go rest. I’ll take care of everything.”

  Getting up from the table, and nestling herself onto the couch, she drifted off comfortably, knowing that since Bobby was calling HQ, this nightmare would be over soon enough.

  Thorne took his time cleaning up, and doing the dishes. Within ten minutes, he could hear her slow and deep rhythmic breathing, coming from the other room.

  He grabbed his duffle and went out the back door, heading down to the end of the dock. He removed the spool of rope, the roll of duct tape, and the knife. He cut the rope into four pieces of six foot lengths, and carefully laid it all out, in a neat and tidy line up. With high tide coming, it would be all he would need to put this damsel in distress. And Detective Shane too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - OPEN WATER

  Detective Layne backed the boat trailer down the boat ramp, and into the Gulf with ease. Putting his truck in park, he jumped into the boat from the dock, and eased her off the trailer. She fired right up with no problem. Her double outboard motors purred like a kitty cat. Patting the helm, he said, “Good girl.” Once completely off of the trailer, he eased her alongside the dock, and tied her off with a sailors knot. Getting back off the boat, he jumped back into the truck, parked and locked it. Two quick chirps echoed from the truck, in unison with two quick flashes from the head and tail lights.

  To some, it might be a little eerie being on the water at night, because it was like an expansive ghost town with no end. At this time of night, there were a few fisherman fishing off the bridge, but there were not very many willing to brave the night sea. Fishing and boating were definitely more popular as day sports. Detective Layne wasn’t spooked in the slightest. He was what is commonly referred to as a “Florida Cracker,” meaning he was both born and bred right in Florida. He wasn’t a transplant from another state, like most of the rest of the population. He was right at home on the water, since he practically grew up in it, and on it. The light chop swayed the boat slightly, as it rocked against the dock, waiting to ride the open sea.

  Detective Layne settled in and checked all the gauges. The dashboard illuminated like a Christmas tree. Everything looked to be in working order. He started slowly heading South in a “no wake manatee zone,” when he heard the melody of his ringtone

  “Detective Layne,” he answered.

  “Hello?” the crackled frail voice on the other end questioned.

  “Detective Layne,” he said again, this time louder, and plugging his opposite ear with a finger.

  He turned the key, and cut the power to the boat, because he could not hear too clearly over the churning of the motors.

  “Detective Layne!” he repeated more loudly.

  “This is Nellie Hinkle. I believe you wanted to talk to me?’

  Detective Layne sat down in the Captain’s chair. “Yes. Yes, Ms. Hinkle. Thank you for calling.” Finally calling, he thought, but did not say aloud. “Look, Ms. Hinkle, I know it’s late, so I don’t want to keep you. There is something you need to be aware of though, which is why it was important for us to get a hold of you. Your vehicle, the Lincoln Continental you keep at your residence, here in Naples? It was involved in an accident, and is presently at the NPD being processed for evidence, in connection to an ongoing abduction case.”

  Hearing Ms. Hinkle gasp, Detective Layne carried on. “Ms. Hinkle, I’m sorry for the news, but your insurance should take care of it. What we need to know from you is, was there anyone that had access to your home or vehicle? Our investigation revealed there were no signs of forced entry into your home or garage. The ignition switch in the car was also not damaged, and the car was not hotwired, which leads us to believe that whoever was driving your car had a key to both the car and your home.”

  “Well, good heavens,” she spoke in her Jersey accent. “I do have someone check on my house, and start my car occasionally while I’m gone over the summer. It couldn’t be him that’s involved in this though. He’s such a nice boy. Why, you probably know him. He’s a cop too.”

  Even though they were operating under the assumption that it might possibly be an inside job, Detective Layne still would have fallen over had he not already been sitting down, because deep down, you never want to think it could be one of your own. A sick feeling punched him in the gut. He stood up, and began pacing the length of the gently swaying boat. He stopped abruptly, with one hand on the phone, the other rubbing his short goateed chin in nervous energy.

  Several moments passed in silence, while he gained his thoughts and composure. Detective Layne ran his hand through his long dark locks, and asked the question he was not sure if he wanted to hear the answer to. “What’s his name?”

  “There has to be some sort of mistake, Detective. I just don’t believe that Bobby would ever be involved in anything like that,” she said.

  “Bobby?” he asked. “You mean Bobby Thorne?”

  “Why, yes! So, you do know him?” she said excitedly. “He’s such a nice boy.”

  “Yeah,” he said grimly. “I know him. Thank you, Ms. Hinkle. We’ll be in touch.”

  Detective Layne hit the end button on his cell phone. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t like that mother fucker. I’m gonna throttle that piece of shit,” he mumbled under his breath. He quickly shot out a group text to Detectives Shane and Wilshire, and to his Lieutenant, informing them of his newfound information. It wasn’t proven conclusive evidence that it was Thorne, but it damn sure in hell was looking that way. He always thought that guy was kind of shady. Detective Layne bumped the ignition key, and made his way out of the no wake zone. The compact disc player’s small motor whizzed and turned to change tracks. Pantera’s “Cowboys From Hell” started playing. Layne cranked it up, and bobbed his head to the beat.

  “Oh, Hell yeah,” he said aloud to himself. “I can stand some good musical motivation.”

  Once in open waters, he palm shifted the throttle to its full open position. Under the inky blackness of the Gulf, the two outboard motors were whining, being pushed to their limit. The motors were so quickly propelling Detective Layne across the moonlit waters, the boat’s bow was barely sheeting over the glass top surface of the water. He braced himself behind the helm, as the wind whipped his long locks, and the salty overspray of th
e sea encrusted his moistened skin.

  Detective Layne readied his ship, and guided her wheel solely with his left hand. With his other hand, he held the high powered binoculars that he was using to periodically scout the shoreline to his East.

  His shore view went from viewing the second home multi-million dollar mansions that dotted the coastal perimeter of Marco Island, to the small and old Florida style stilt homes, and shack like cabins that lined the coastal area further South, towards Everglades City.

  In order to give him more time to scout the shore during his passing, Detective Layne shifted the throttle to half power, and turned the compact disc player off. Other than seeing a few night fisherman, it seemed to be fairly quiet.

  Detective Layne was suddenly thrown back, as the boat hit a large object in the water. Had he not been busy scouting the shoreline, he may have seen what the object was, and could have possibly avoided it. He was very familiar with the area, and knew it was not a sandbar. His left hand couldn’t hold onto the steering wheel through the force of the impact. As the boat launched into the air, gravity took over, and Layne’s grip was ripped from the wheel as he was thrown to the back of the boat. Now airborne, Layne’s motion came to an abrupt halt when his back collided with the deck of the boat. He scrambled to his feet as the boat was descending back towards the water, and was trying to get back to the controls before the boat came down hard, and ejected him. A few mere moments before the boat made a second impact with the water, Layne was able to make it back to the controls to cut the motor, and brace the steering wheel with both hands. The boat motors stopped whirling, and the boat hit the water with a jarring impact. As the warm salt water sprayed up beyond the sides of the boat, Layne was able to stay on his feet and maintain control of the water craft.

  His first thought was that he had hit a manatee, or possibly a pilot whale. Recently, pods of the whales had been coming into the shallower waters, and dying. Marine biologists couldn’t figure out why. Several times they had moved the whales back out into the deeper water, just to have them come back in again.