Unleashed (Blake Brier Thrillers Book 2)

by L. T. Ryan

  “Shush. You’re interrupting my work.” Jason formed the words by utilizing as few facial muscles as possible. He knew what his best friend was referring to and had expected the ridicule. With the legs of his palm tree patterned swim trunks hiked up to his groin, it probably looked like he was wearing some kind of Hawaiian Sumo diaper. Better than pasty white thighs, he thought.

  “Your girlfriend’s getting jealous over here,” Brian joked. “She won’t say it, but she’s worried you’re gonna be prettier than her.”

  Shelly giggled. It was a running joke that her boyfriend was obsessed with himself. It wasn’t entirely untrue, but she had to admit that he doted on her more than himself, which was all she cared about.

  “Aren’t you gonna have a beer, Jason?” Emma asked.

  Jason sat up with a groan and adjusted his trunks. The answer was no. Although he had experience operating the boat, it still made him uneasy to be wholly responsible for it. If he had learned anything about boating, it was that whatever can go wrong will go wrong. Even in the relatively tame waters of the Narragansett Bay.

  “Jay doesn’t drink when he’s driving the boat,” Shelly said.

  “Ironic, right?” Jason pointed out as he moved aft to join his friends. “Since I’m the only one who’s legal.”

  “Oh yeah, you’re way cooler than any of us ‘cause you turned twenty-one first. Even though I’m like three months behind you.”

  “Still, I have to look out for you young kids.” Jason plopped down next to Shelly, put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her on the side of the head.

  “Okay, Boomer.” Brian shot a proud smirk.

  Jason clasped his hands behind his head and kicked his leg out, crossing his ankles on top of his best friend’s knee. “Tell me this isn’t the life.”

  Brian shoved Jason’s feet to the side, causing them to flop to the fiberglass floor.

  “Let’s get a group shot,” Emma suggested. “I’ve gotta post this on Insta.”

  The group sputtered half-hearted protests while obediently squeezing together. Emma crouched on the floor in between the bench seats and extended her arm as far as she could.

  “Jason, you’re blocking the bridge,” Emma said.

  Using the preview on the screen of Emma’s outstretched smartphone as a guide, Jason repositioned himself so that the visible portion of the Jamestown Verrazano bridge, some two miles in the distance, was in the frame. He tightened his abs, chest and biceps and pasted on his prepackaged social media smile.

  The screen flashed. Emma slid onto her seat and began pawing at the screen.

  “Ya get it? How do I look?” Jason asked.

  Emma shrugged and handed him the phone.

  “Oh, yeah. Post that,” Jason said. “I look fine as hell.”

  Emma snatched the phone. “I don’t. I look like a hot mess.” She stood up and gazed out to the west. “Anyways, I wanted to get more of the background. Like, look at this place.”

  Jason glanced over his shoulder to take in the view. The scene had been the backdrop of his whole life. So common that he rarely noticed it.

  Anchored only a hundred feet offshore in a protected corner of the bay at the mouth of Zeek’s creek, the ripples of the calm shallow water smoothed out to a glassy sheen in the distance. Beyond the bobbing sailboats anchored in the harbor was Dutch Island, an uninhabited mound of dense foliage rising from the center of the West Passage. Along the shore, to their south, stood a row of quiet houses. Each of them a better example of old Rhode Island architecture than the next. In a way, Emma’s enthusiasm had breathed new life into all of it.

  “I can’t believe y’all grew up here,” Emma said. “It’s awesome. God, I would never want to leave if I lived here.”

  Originally from Fort Worth, Texas, Emma met Brian at the University of Notre Dame. The two had been dating for the past two years, but this was the first time she visited Rhode Island. Not to mention the first time that Jason and Shelly had the chance to set eyes on her.

  Since their early teens, Brian and Jason had rated the girls they met on a number scale. One being the most undesirable and ten being, well, impossible. Jason had to admit, Emma far exceeded his expectations. In his estimation, she was a solid eight and Brian should have felt lucky to land a five.

  “Don’t you think so?” Emma asked.

  “Yeah, I mean, I do,” Shelly said. “I never really thought so when I was growing up. Just took it for granted I guess.”

  “Well, I think this is paradise.” Emma sprawled out across the cushions of the port side bench seat. She rested her head on Brian’s lap.

  “If you’re visiting, maybe.” Brian brushed a loose strand of hair from Emma’s cheek. “Me, I couldn’t wait to go to school. Trust me when I tell you nothing interesting ever happens here.”

  “Oh, come on,” Shelly said. “We had fun growing up. Remember? We’d ride our bikes everywhere as kids. Body surf at Mackerel Cove. Play hide and seek in the tunnels at Fort Wetherill. Before they buried most of it.”

  “You mean that time you kissed me?” Brian asked. “She left out that part, Em. We were hiding in the fort and it was dark and, all the sudden, Shelly just plants one on me. Tongue and everything.”

  “We were twelve.” Shelly shook her head as if to force the blood away from her reddening cheeks. “Don’t let them fool you Emma, there are so many great memories. Just take this one spot. See that opening to the marsh right there? When the tide goes out, that whole marsh drains back into the bay through that spot. Before low tide, it’s like a moving river. We used to hang out on that beach for hours, waiting for the perfect conditions. Then, we’d walk up a ways, float on our backs and ride the current back into the bay. Over and over.”

  “I wanna do it.” Emma said.

  “Too late,” Jason said, “the tide’s almost out.”

  “There were tons of other things going on. The Fool’s Regatta. The Tall Ships. Even movies being filmed. Look, ya see that house there?” Shelly pointed out a large rustic cottage clad in weathered cedar clapboards, a stone’s throw from where they floated. “It’s called Riven Rock. Steve Carell filmed a movie in that house.”

  “Really,” Emma said, “what movie?”

  “I don’t remember the name. We were like, I don’t know, seven. I didn’t know who Steve Carell was at the time, but I thought it was cool that there was a real movie star here.”

  “Jim Carrey made a movie here too,” Brian said.

  “Yeah, before you were born,” Jason said.

  Emma sat up, pulled her hair into a ponytail and secured it with an elastic band that she had stored around her wrist. “What’s that over there?”

  Jason followed Emma’s pointed finger and made a guess as to what she was looking at. “In the water? Those are oyster beds.”

  “Oh my god, I’ve never had oysters. Can we try ‘em?” Emma asked.

  “Sure. We’ll grab some at dinner. Every restaurant has a raw bar around here.”

  “No, I mean like right here.” Emma said. “Can’t we just go over there and grab a bunch?”

  “Girl, are you crazy?” Shelly said.

  Jason chuckled. “What Shelly means is that’s like a cardinal sin around here. Worse than murder. Oyster beds and lobster pots. Don’t even think about it.”

  “The last person that got caught trying to poach oysters got put in the stockade in the center of the village and the townsfolk stoned them to death with live steamers,” Brian said.

  Jason tried to hold in the laughter but the frightened look on Emma’s face made it a futile effort.

  “That’s not true,” Shelly said. “Stop messing with her. We’ll find you some oysters. I was thinking we should go over to Newport tonight, anyway. We can eat there and then do a little bar hopping.”

  “I’m into that,” Jason said.

  “Definitely,” Brian said. “We can hit the Landing. That was the first place I ever used my fake ID. It’d be funny if it was the last, too.”
>
  “Cool, it settled then. You’re gonna love Newport, Emma.” Shelly finished the last swig of her beer, opened the cooler and tossed the empty can inside.

  “Well, if we’re going out, we should probably head back and get cleaned up,” Jason suggested. He picked up a couple of cans that Brian left rolling around the floor of the cockpit and added them to the cooler. “You ready?”

  “I’m good,” Shelly said, maneuvering her way into her tank top.

  “Brian, help me pull the anchor,” Jason said.

  Brian moved through the gap in the center of the windshield and took his position on the bow.

  Jason spun the wheel, straightening the big outboard, and turned the ignition key. The motor fired up with a plum of white smoke.

  “Let me get you some slack,” Jason said. He pushed the throttle forward slightly. The motor clicked as the prop engaged, then shuttered and let out a squeal before stalling.

  “Damn it. Do you have tension on that line, Brian?”

  Jason was fairly sure he knew what happened. The anchor had likely dislodged, and the line had drifted near the back of the boat. If the anchor rode had fouled the propeller, he hoped it didn’t cause any permanent damage.

  “I’ve got tension, Jay. The anchor’s seated.”

  Shelly moved to the stern, rested her hands on the cowling and strained to get a look at the prop. “I think there might be something wrapped around it, like a piece of clothing. Raise it up a bit.”

  Jason pressed the trim button on the throttle and the motor began to tilt with a mechanical whine.

  The ear-splitting scream that erupted from Shelly’s lungs sent Jason’s heart rate skyrocketing. “What happened?” he yelped.

  The response came as a duet of ear-piercing screams, followed by a splash as Emma dove into the water and began swimming toward shore.

  Jason leapt up and bound to the stern, almost crashing into Brian, who had also reflexively began barreling toward the back of the boat.

  “Are you ok?” Jason grabbed Shelly and hugged her tight. As she buried her face into his shoulder, her screams morphed into muffled ramblings. Jason leaned over and immediately saw the source of her terror.

  “Holy shit, holy shit.”

  “No way, dude, I think it’s a girl,” Brian said. “Is she dead?”

  “What do you mean is she dead?” Jason’s body trembled. “She’s got no face!”

  Brian’s eyes twitched, as if catching quick glimpses of the body without the commitment of actually facing it. “She must’ve swam into the prop. Oh god, this can’t be happening.”

  The blood curdling shriek resumed as Shelly pushed off Jason and, without warning, launched herself into the water.

  “Shelly, wait… What are we going to do?” Jason asked himself as much as Brain.

  “Dude,” Brian said, “this is messed up. I can’t. I just can’t.”

  Before Jason could respond, Brian was in the water, his arms flailing in an overhand stroke. Within a few seconds he caught up to Shelly, who, herself, was halfway to shore.

  On the beach in front of Riven Rock, Emma stood, with her back to the cove and her head in her hands.

  Alone, Jason remained frozen, shivering under the oppressive afternoon sun. His neck tensed as he forced himself to look at the sickening scene once more. He struggled to make sense of any of it. Who was she? Where did she come from? What was going to happen to him now? He couldn’t begin to answer most of the infinite number of questions that swirled in his overloaded brain.

  But there were two things that had solidified themselves as facts. This girl— if it was, in fact, a girl— was dead. And he had most definitely killed her.

  Uncharted Chapter 2

  Saturday, May 29th. Afternoon.

  Blake stared at the red and yellow splotches of acrylic paint that coated the stretched canvas, fully expecting to find order in the seemingly haphazard pattern.

  A fat fish. No. A slice of bread.

  The inner door of the waiting room swung open and Dr. Maritza Perez appeared, accompanied by an attenuated but welcoming smile.

  “Ready, Mr. Brier?”

  Her voice was melodic, which, among other things, served to soften her sharp appearance. Dressed in a gray business suit and high heels, the ensemble would have predicted corporate attorney more than therapist.

  Perez was attractive and, Blake guessed, older than she appeared. The clues were subtle but conclusive. Plump lips that moved in a slightly unnatural way. Eyelids that seemed to be pinned at the outer corners. The work was good. Almost imperceptible, if not for the discrepancy between her face and neck. The neck always gave it away.

  Blake stood up and took a step toward Perez. He paused in front of the mounted artwork and squinted at it. “A horse, right?” Blake’s hand hovered an inch from the surface. “The eyes. Here and here. The nose. And this is the mane.”

  Perez’s smile grew less subdued. “If you say so.”

  “Am I at least close?”

  “It can be whatever you want it to be. But it’s not a Rorschach test, Mr. Brier.”

  Blake shrugged it off, walked into the office and headed directly for the couch. Perez closed the door before taking up her own seat in the opposite high-backed leather chair.

  The room was sparsely decorated but achieved a sense of warmth, nonetheless. There were two doors. The one he entered through, and the one he was to exit by. The purpose of the forced traffic pattern was obvious. He appreciated Perez’s respect for her patients’ privacy.

  “If you want to know the truth, a couple of months ago I went to a winery with a few girlfriends. They happened to be putting on a painting event. The theme was Abstract something or other. Basically, there was an actual painter demonstrating and the rest of us were supposed to copy what she did. Turns out, I wasn’t very good at it. But it was fun. Plus, the colors worked nicely in the waiting room, so I hung it up. I never thought it would end up being so thought-provoking.”

  “Maybe you have more talent than you think.”

  Blake may have been a perpetual schmoozer, but in this instance, it was part of the game. During his first visit, Blake was struck by how similar a therapy session was to an interrogation. While he had no experience with the former, he was an expert at the latter.

  The first step in any interrogation is the rapport building phase. In it, the interrogator shares an innocuous story, usually fabricated, with the purpose of establishing a conversational tone. An interpersonal connection. Dr. Perez’s use of similar tactics was not lost on him.

  “I must tell you, knowing your reluctance to all of this during our first session, I wasn’t sure if you’d show up today,” Perez started.

  “Like I said before, I made a promise to Haeli. I’m not in the habit of breaking promises.”

  “That’s admirable. But could it also be that you found some value in our previous conversation, apart from appeasing Haeli?”

  He considered it. While he couldn’t say he was counting the days until his next visit, he did find himself looking forward to it in some respects.

  Blake had never been under any delusions that he was a well-adjusted individual. Even beyond his idiosyncrasies, he carried a hefty share of baggage. But then, so did everyone else he knew. The solution, for all of them, had always been one of compartmentalization. As far as he was aware, he was the first of them to find himself in these circumstances.

  “Look, Doc. I hope I didn’t come across as rude when we last met. I’m fully aware that I’ve got my issues. As much as Haeli does. Probably more so. But I have a hard time buying into the huggy-feely stuff.”

  “Is that what you think this is all about? Some kind of love fest, where we cry it out?” Perez laughed. “Well, I hate to disappoint you but if that’s the case, you’re way off. I’m going to ask you hard questions and you’re going to be expected to provide even harder answers. It’ll be contentious, at times. But my job is to hold your feet to the fire. So, to answer your question,
no, you were not rude. You were honest. And if you can be that, I believe this can be of some benefit to you. Whether you believe it or not.”

  At some point, the soothing timbre of Perez’s voice evaporated, leaving only it’s raw mechanics. Blake figured she had hoped to hit a nerve and, he had to admit, it had been effective. Blake could subscribe to this version of psychotherapy. No indulgence. No excuses. She had pivoted in her approach. Parried his attack. He would have done the same.

  “Honesty I can do,” Blake said. “What do you want to know?”

  “Why don’t we pick up where we left off.” Perez flipped to the previous page of her notepad. After a quick glance, she flipped the page back and looked him in the eyes. “Last we spoke, Haeli had brought up the idea of the two of you moving in together. You believed your hesitancy was causing a strain on the relationship. Have you spoken to her about your concerns, as we discussed?”

  “No. She hasn’t brought it up again, so I left it alone.”

  “Then things have improved?”

  “Things are fine. I mean, they were never bad. But…”

  “But?”

  “Ever since she brought it up, she seems off. We still spend a lot of time together and we have a good time, but I can tell she’s not right.”

  “Do you think it could be that she feels hurt? Hurt that you're not willing to take the next step. To show her that you’re committed. Can you understand why she might feel that way?”

  “Of course, I can. The thing is, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not that I don’t love her. I do. She’s an amazing person on many levels. And it’s not that I’m not committed to her. I really am, even if it doesn’t seem that way. The weird thing is that she stays at my place almost every night and it’s great. But when I think about her moving in, I have a physical reaction. It’s like I’m in fight-or-flight mode. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Good. You recognize the trigger and the response. That shows an adequate level of self-awareness. It seems you have an aversion to the idea of cohabitation that may even be unrelated to Haeli. The type of reaction you are describing is often indicative of past trauma. Can you identify a past experience that you would consider traumatizing?”