The biggest problem they might face was the hotbed of activity at the harbor, with motorized and sailing vessels coming and going all the time. They would need to have a well-behaved ‘host’ on board, or assure that their host had busywork below deck, unavailable as they exited the harbor.
Lyle considered a couple different approaches for getting on board. An ‘interested buyer’ would work, but only if they had an interested seller. That didn't work out. A request for a chartered boat ride would only work with someone who did this routinely, so he ruled that out. Another option could be using a little persuasive enticement. The suggestion that Gloria or Cindy might be in danger, should he not go along. Lyle figured J.T. could conclude that this ride would be a one-way trip and therefore, decide not to cooperate.
Finally, Lyle decided on a more direct approach. He'd come down to the harbor, and if J.T. was there, approach the boat. He'd start a casual conversation about it, possibly get invited to come aboard to check it out. If an invitation did not happen spontaneously, Lyle would find the right moment. When preoccupied, distracted with something, he would get J.T. below and out of sight.
62. THAT MORNING
04:45. Eyes fluttered open. No need for a wake-up alarm. Lyle rarely set one. He usually set the notion in his mind of when to rise. It worked out.
The dotted, circular ceiling pattern in the room stared back at him like a thousand eyes. Why the fuck would anyone put that on a ceiling?
He rolled to his side, swung his legs out of bed, his feet to the thin carpet. Sitting for a few moments on the edge of the bed helped the cobwebs to clear. He shuffled to the bathroom to sit on the toilet and piss. After draining his bladder, he went to the kitchen and hit the button to start the coffee pot, then returned to the hallway. Sticking his head into the other bedroom, he watched for signs of stirring.
“Mike!" Lyle looked at hip and shoulder high points of a blanket on the bed. He saw a shoulder shrug. "I'm getting into the shower... coffee's on." He watched for more movement. "Headin' out, less than an hour.”
Mike half-way rolled a shoulder, trying to slough off the unwelcome intrusion into his dark place. Lyle didn't wait for a reply, went back through his room to the bathroom, blasted the water on hot. He wanted a rough, grizzled appearance, passed on the idea of shaving. People were predictable, not very observant. A little facial fuzz helped obscure details and features.
After showering, he emerged from the bathroom, walked to the cheap, supplied dresser. He pulled a set of clothes, put it on. Now dressed except for shoes. Almost he thought, kneeling down at the front of the dresser.
He reached one hand and fingers up, underneath the dresser's bottom edge at the corner. From there, he retrieved his slim twenty-five auto from its little bird nest. It wasn't his first choice, but it had saved his ass once or twice. A pocket sleeve smoothed its profile and it slipped into his back pocket.
Back in the kitchen, Mike sat at the table, drinking a cup of coffee. In the silence, Lyle poured one for himself. He walked out to the living room, sat on the edge of the sofa to drink his black java. The duffel waited on the table where he'd left it the night before. He pulled out his windbreaker, looked over at Mike, still nursing his coffee at the kitchen table.
“Are you ready to roll, Mike?”
“Yeah.” Mike swigged down the rest of his coffee, pushed back from the table, got up and turned toward the living room. His face lacked any expression. He drifted past his partner, walked over to the chair by the coffee table, picked up his jacket, put it on. Lyle grabbed the duffle as he stood, lifted his cap, and stepped out of the apartment. He turned to lock the door behind him, checked his watch, five-thirty.
They did a drive thru, coffee and six breakfast sandwiches. Two now, others for the road. Might need more chow before the day's end. By the time they pulled back into the street, Mike had wolfed his biscuit down, in four bites. He crushed and tossed the wrapper down at his feet, looked at Lyle, who looked back. Mike gave him a double, raised-eyebrow flick.
He reached down, picked up the duffel, dropping it on his lap. Unzipping it part way, he shoved the bag of remaining sandwiches down into the duffle, then poked around in the bottom, searching. He produced a hand-held sharpening stone, then withdrew the machete and laid it across the top of the bag. He started stroking the blade's edge, humming softly to himself.
By five-fifty, they were approaching the long-term parking. "Okay Mike, quick review," he looked over, wondered if the coffee had helped. "I'll walk down the dock, see if he's there. You hang back with the bag, look at the boats, take your time. If he's there, I'll get onboard, get him out of sight. You should give me ten or fifteen minutes. Sound good?"
"What if he ain't there?"
"If he's not there, we'll try later. No biggee." They stopped in a spot near the back.
"Okay."
"Alright. I'm going to pay for parking. Be right back." Lyle walked to the parking lot's pedestal, got the fee taken care of for a 24-hour day of parking. When he returned, he was zipping his windbreaker. "Breezy. Don't forget your ja... Shit, sounding just like a dad! A feint head shake. Mike didn't look up, preoccupied. "Alright Mike, see ya down there. Main dock, space A-six-fifteen. Lock the door when you leave."
"See ya." Mike nodded.
63. NICE BOAT
Lyle walked from the lot and headed straight down to the harbor. By the time he'd come up to the slip where the Mantis was moored, he could see J.T. puttering around at the captain’s chair, fiddling with electronic equipment... Yes! He is an early riser... He looked back up the dock, could see Mike at the bottom of the ramp, taking his time, eye-balling boats.
The Mantis floated, stern in, and Lyle stopped there, watching the man. A few moments later, he turned, saw Lyle standing there and nodded. No question, that's him....
“Good morning, Sir! This has got to be the best-looking boat at the marina.” It got the expected grin and warming return look.
“Thanks. You've got a good eye.”
“Would you tell me about her? I mean, she must be fast, huh?” That opened the gate, and J.T. started gushing about what the Mantis was capable of doing. He added that she could sleep six.
Lyle blurted, “What? No way!”
“Come aboard, I’ll give you a quick tour.”
“Are you sure?" Lyle was coy. "I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing. You heading out this morning?”
“I'm just dinkin’ around," J.T. offered, looking up at the sky. "I’m not even sure about going out today.”
Music to my ears... Lyle stepped aboard. “How do you keep her so clean?” Not so much a compliment. More about what they'd be doing soon.
“Oh, it’s not bad at all," the man replied, "Look at this.” He turned a small, recessed knob on one of the aft storage cabinet panels. When it tilted open, he withdrew a coiled high-pressure hose with a gun nozzle.
“Wow, that’s cool.” The hose returned to storage, and J.T. moved back into the cockpit. He pointed out some of the display highlights of the control panel, and Lyle noted the keys in the ignition.
“Come down here.” J.T. added a 'come here' finger wiggle, walked down the steps into the galley. Lyle followed close behind. When they were below view from topside, Lyle didn’t hesitate.
Grabbing J.T. from behind, he applied a rear choke, closed off blood flow to the brain. J.T.'s arms reached up, flailing, without luck. Within eight seconds and a fading struggle, he dropped to the floor. Lyle grabbed cordage he found tucked into a storage nook, secured hands and feet. A hand towel pushed into J.T.’s open mouth made an effective gag as he started to stir.
Lyle returned topside, securing the privacy door. He went forward to untie the bowline, tossed it in a pile on the bow's deck. Walking back to the main cabin, he saw Mike approaching.
Lyle directed him to untie and hold the rope while Lyle went to the console to start the boat’s twin diesels. The engines started in a throaty growl, a puff of exhaust smoke wafting up, across t
he dock. The sound changed, purring in a smooth idle. Lyle turned to look at Mike with a nod, and Mike stepped off the dock, onto the aft deck, dropped the line in a mound. He stepped under the thin roof line to stand near the console. Under idling power, they left the marina at six-thirty-five, heading west.
64. SADISM AND MURDER OFFSHORE
Onshore wind swiped the ocean's chop, throwing saltwater spray. It forced Lyle to stay more focused than he'd thought would be necessary. Motoring out past the breakwater had been easy enough, but then things changed. Through research, Lyle had discovered an important issue. They needed to get three miles offshore to avoid interest from Vandenberg Airbase. He'd have preferred to finish their work sooner, but there was too much traffic for his comfort.
I've been on plenty of boats before... watched guys drivin' 'em around... never looked like this much work! Lyle told Mike to stay below, keep an eye on their host. Meanwhile, he kept the boat moving away from the coast, but the constant slamming up and down on the waves wasn't any fun as they fought the water west, northwest. That much he could figure out, due to the compass on the panel.
Mike emerged about thirty minutes later, pale, a bit wide-eyed. At the top step, he veered left, took hold of the grab bar. He sidled along until he neared the seat, then plopped down on the bench.
"You doing okay?"
"A little better now... needed some air." He leaned forward, hands white-knuckled on the grab bar.
"What's going on with him? Been quiet down there?"
"Yeah, he's quiet now. He was bitchin' before, but I convinced him to shut up."
"Okay."
Lyle looked around, and after studying the coast for a few moments, continued. "I think we're out about far enough, gonna head north, get up the coast. Hopefully, the ride will be smoother." Wonder if any of these controls is for an auto pilot... for the fuckin' money these things cost, there should be one... didn't think to ask.
He didn't have the time or patience to start learning about that now. He made quick glances over at Mike. His color had improved, but he was still holding on. The boat's movement on the water had changed. Before, it slapped up and down in a more or less vertical, jarring action. Now, it still moved up and down, but in a sliding forward way—surfing off waves into troughs, then up the next, then down. Mike needs some distraction.
"You want to check on him, make sure he's still secure?"
"Yeah, okay." Mike stood, hands remaining on the bar. He paused, taking a few extra breaths, then went below.
Lyle could relate to Mike's distress, feeling his own uneasiness with the motion. He tried to think his stomach calmer. He flipped down a footrest, settled back in the captain's chair, took some of his own deep breaths. Okay... this is alright... I can chill out a bit. The engine’s rhythmic pulse joined the hull's slap and shimmy across the water. Not quite hypnotic, still jarring bones.
Just when he started to think he had it under control, nausea took over. A sudden revolt in his gut forced him to drop the throttle. He raced to an open edge, leaned over the side, spewed remnants of coffee and egg sandwich into the water. As he wiped away spittle from his chin, he heard a muffled scream coming from below.
Rocking back and forth, he descended the steps, slid open the door. He found Mike straddled across J.T., who was on his back, the hand towel gag still stuffed in his mouth. Lyle could see cuts and contusions on his face. One eye swollen shut, nose looking broken. There were two large, fresh splatter drops on his forehead. Mike held a severed finger in his left hand, over J.T.’s face, dripping blood down. J.T.'s one open eye projected a "Fuck you!" glare.
“What the fuck are you doing, Mike?”
“I'm just screwin’ with him. We're gonna be cuttin' off his fingers anyway. I wanted to get started.”
“It'd be much easier after he’s dead.” Lyle quickly realized his mistake, but too late. Mike grabbed the machete by his right hip. Before Lyle could say anything else, the blade arced through the cabin’s air, struck the side of J.T.’s neck. The sharp edge didn't kill him on impact. It sliced through skin, severing neck muscles which retracted from the gash. The momentum brought it cutting through large blood vessels, tendons. The blade finally stopped, probably wedging into one of the neck bones.
Blood geyser’d in a spray, deflecting off the blade, painting Mike into his own version of a bloody, Tarantino-like visage. He stared down at the body bucking against the bindings.
As the drama played out, J.T.’s one visible eye stared up into the galley. Blood gurgled up into, then out of his mouth in percolating splashes. Drizzling down his cheeks, it saturated the plush, no longer butter-creamy-colored carpet. It took less than a minute for J.T. to stop moving. Those fading motions were involuntary spasms—a body’s protestations in the last act of muscle and nerve.
“Fuck!" Lyle gasped. "Did you forget we brought plastic and a tarp? Cleaning up a little blood would've been easy." He looked around, gawking, then returned his eyes to Mike. "This is fucking mess!”
“Torch this fucking boat! Problem solved.” Mike shrugged at the no-brainer.
"Yeah, great... and drown trying to get to shore. Swimming ain't our strong suit, Mike! Well, fuck! Get him on that plastic! You might as well keep going now. Use those snips to get the rest of his fingers. I have to get us further up the coast.” Lyle turned away to go topside, shaking his head. He was feeling less in control than he ever felt in his life.
He brought the Mantis closer to shore, looking for a stretch of coast, in-between beach areas and piers. Less chance of witnesses. If I knew more about boating, I'd just head straight back out, but I'm feeling as fuckin' sick as Mike looks!
He picked a spot after passing a small pier jutting out from the coast a couple miles back. Further north, he could see a long stretch of beach. Pulling back the throttle, he stopped the boat, then scrambled forward to hang the anchor over the bow. He returned to the controls, toggled the drop anchor switch, then went below. Mike still worked on the body. He'd managed to get it onto the tarp, some blood contained, but the galley was a disaster. Mike had separated the arms and head from the torso. With sloppy butchering technique, he hacked with the machete to detach one of the legs.
Lyle pulled a trash bag from the duffle, shook it open. He stooped over, ready to pick up severed parts. Clutching at what remained of an arm and hand, he lowered it into the heavy-duty bag, then repeated this for the other one. Then he grasped the head’s hair, now a charcoal/brick-red, matted cluster, and eased it into the bag.
“Where're the fingers?”
Mike kept chopping, nodded at the hand towel, now off to the side, darkly wet in a clump. Lyle picked it up, felt the shifting cargo inside. No point in crossing fingers now, your luck's run out! He held the towel closed in one hand and grasped the bag in the other. Turning, he exited up the stairs.
Back at the stern, setting the bag down, he extended the towel over the gunwale, pinched an edge and allowed the bundle to open. The fingers flip-flopped into the water below. He didn’t bother to count them. It might have added to his stress. He would have counted nine digits, rather than the expected ten.
Mike's machete swing distracted him from the finger that had occupied his other hand. In the moment of the machete’s impact, the finger slipped free and tumbled through the air. Its flight took it to a landing spot on the back edge of the galley's bench. From there, it dropped behind a small throw cushion, propped into the corner.
After dumping fingers, Lyle bent over the bag, peering in. He found the stub of a hand, gripped it and held firm, slipping it out and over the edge to the water, relaxing his hand to let it drop away. As he repeated the action with the second arm, he saw dark tips ripping through the uneven surface of the water nearby.
Sharks! This had been his plan, at least his hope. He reached into the bag to grab the head by the hair. Bloody fluid coated the bag's inside surface. The bag stuck in a soppy wet cling to the decapitated globe. Lyle had to peel the bag away and as he did so, the peeled
edge was a grotesque curtain call across J.T.’s death mask. Its good eye stared at him. Wasting no time, he dropped the head over into the swirling water. He held onto the plastic bag, turned back.
In the cabin for a second load, he picked up a now freed leg by the ankle, a clinging deck shoe providing a little bit of grip. He slid it into the bag, avoided looking at Mike, who was hacking down on the torso’s hip joint with the machete to separate the other leg. While he chose not to watch, Lyle couldn't help but hear heavy breathing of fatigue and creepy, guttural mewling.
Lyle returned topside, noting that the bag had kept the stairway and deck reasonably clean. It was a different story below. There, a twisted peppermint swirl of off white and scarlet. Standing on the aft deck again, Lyle lowered the leg into the water, released his grip. He watched as light bounced off the thigh, the shoe's sole blurred—blending into shimmers of shifting water and shadows below the surface.
The biggest and worst was yet to come, in the bulky, slick torso. As Lyle stepped down into the galley, Mike was drawing up the corners of the tarp. The remaining leg lay off to one side.
"Here. Give me two corners." Lyle reached, took them, backed up a step. Mike raised the other corners, then bent down, grabbed the leg, laid it on top of the bundle. They moved together, waddling up the stairway. The load made a pendular swing, between their shuffle and the boat's ocean sway. As they cleared the cockpit and turned to approach the stern, the leg slid off, thumping down onto the walkway. Mike stepped over it as they continued, and they turned so that each was standing at the edge. Once there, they coordinated a shift of their tenuous grip, preparing to dump the heavy torso.
"Ready?" Lyle asked, and when Mike nodded, they released the far edge. The body dropped away, and a large backwash splashed pink-tinted saltwater onto the deck.
"Take my corners, raise it high." Lyle took the hose nozzle, sprayed down the tarpaulin. He considered offering Mike a shower—his face a grotesquerie of splatter. But through the paint, a deadpan face and vacant eyes that water wouldn't rinse away. The spray down was fast, followed by a rough fold of the tarp into quarters.
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