by David Berens
Troy couldn’t help but laugh. An image of the drag queens in Savannah popped into his head and he realized just how long ago that had been. He stood up and walked up behind Jack’s captain’s chair and slapped him on the back.
“Brother, if I was into guys, I’d be all over you.”
Jack’s face froze in shock.
“But lucky for the female population of the world,” Troy continued, “I’m a straight shooter.”
“Well, then what the hell? Why didn’t you get at least a little peek?”
“Thai food kinda spoiled the evenin’.”
“Ohhhh, gotcha.”
Jack considered this for a second and then added, “You’re gonna see her again…right?”
Troy winked at him.
“Oh, hell yeah.” Jack snorted it out. “Then you’ll tell me all about it, yeah? Or, wait, better yet, take me a picture when she ain’t lookin’.”
“Dang, Jack. You know I’m not goin’ to take a picture of Meira’s breasts for you.”
“Not even a little side-boob?”
“Nope.”
“Damn, bro. You sure know how to hurt a guy.”
Troy opened his mouth to say something, but the line next to him jerked hard and the electric reel kicked in. Slowly, the braided rope began to reel in. The rod bent down in an arc that threatened to break it.
“Ease that, Troy. Slow down the reel!” Jack yelled as he pulled back on the throttle.
Troy pulled a lever on the electric winch that was trying its best to collect the line with what had to be a massive fish on the hook. He peered over the edge; harpoon in hand, ready to spear the huge swordfish when it surfaced.
“Back up, Troy,” Jack warned. “You don’t want that thing flyin’ up outta the water and spearin’ you in the face.”
Troy jerked his head back and waited. Inch by inch, the line spooled on the reel. Jack stopped the boat completely when he was sure the line was going to hold. He jerked on a pair of protective gloves and grabbed a large hook. With one hand on the line, he looked down into the water, waiting on the beast.
When it finally broke the surface, Troy fell backward as it gnashed up at them. A huge gaping jaw full of razor sharp teeth let them know immediately that they hadn’t caught the swordfish they were after. This was a shark. It was a sleek, gray, shark that thrashed hard against the line and slammed its body up against the boat. Its jaw worked open and shut, crashing together with furious force.
Troy regained his balance, got to his feet, and unsheathed his knife, preparing to cut the line.
“No, no, no!” Jack held up a hand to stop him. “We gotta bring this big guy in and tag him.”
“Are you freakin’ crazy, Jack? This guy’s gotta be ten feet long!”
“Exactly, he’s a potential danger to the beach. Help me get him up and get a tag on him.”
“I think we’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
Troy fumbled underneath the side rail of the boat and finally found the rope. He waited for the shark to slow for just a second and slipped it around his tail. Between the line in his mouth and the tightened rope on his back end, he was caught. Jack produced a short stick with some kind of needle on the end. He jabbed it into the shark and dropped it.
“Got him. Now, let’s get that hook out.”
He took a pair of long plier-looking things from his back pocket and leaned down toward the shark’s mouth.
“Hold him tight, Troy. I reckon we got about thirty seconds before he starts feeling bad about bein’ caught again.”
Troy pulled on the rope. Jack thrust his hand and the pliers dangerously close to the shark’s mouth and gave a quick jerk on the line. The hook came free and blood sprayed out in a bright red fountain. The shark gave another thrash and then lay still.
“What happened?” Troy asked. “What’d you do?”
“I dunno,” Jack whacked the shark firmly on the snout.
It didn’t move. The round, black eyes, rolled back into its head and the shark went limp. It began to list over and go belly up.
“Ah, shit,” Jack cursed. “We must’ve held onto him too long. Poor bastard didn’t make it.”
“That don’t seem right,” Troy said. “He wasn’t ever out of the water.”
Jack sighed and laid a hand on the shark’s head.
“Shit, he’s losin’ blood like crazy. Hook must’ve hit an artery or something. When I pulled it out, he started bleedin’. Guess he bled out.”
“Have you ever heard of that happening before?”
“Nope.”
A crack of thunder surprised them both and Troy looked up to the horizon. The storm that had seemed so far away was now dangerously close.
“We better get back,” he said.
Jack nodded. “We’ll haul this guy in and check him out. He’s still a good catch if we can keep him in the water.”
They rode back slowly under darkening skies, neither man saying much. The pier was empty, except for a few die-hards with lines still in the water. Jack pulled them in and tied off his boat. A half hour later, they had the Mako hanging up for measurements and pictures. Neither of them smiled.
“Okay, then,” Jack said. “You wanna help me clean him?”
“Clean him?”
“Yup. He’s a fair catch. We can sell the meat to somebody…maybe the Fish House would want him?”
Troy shrugged. “I can call and check.”
“Cool.”
Jack pulled out a blade about the size of a machete and started a long slit down the shark’s belly. His knife clanged against something about halfway down.
“What the hell?”
He tapped it a few more times.
“This guy’s got something metal in his gullet. God knows what he’s swallowed. Here, Troy, I’ll pull him open, you see if you can reach in there and grab it.”
Troy arched an eyebrow. “You want me to do what?”
“It’s probably a license plate or a hubcap or something. See if you can get it outta there.”
He took a deep breath. He swallowed the lump in his throat as he slid his left hand into the slit Jack was holding open.
“Dangit!” Troy yelped and jerked his hand back.
His thumb was cut and oozed fresh blood.
“What the hell?” Jack pulled the slip open wider.
Troy peered into the hole. He eased his hand in and carefully pulled on something. Inch by inch, a sword came out of the shark, blade first.
“Well, I’ll be a monkey’s uncle,” Jack wheezed. “I ain’t never seen nothin’ like that before.”
Troy was lost in thought. Something echoed in the back of his mind about the kind of blade Sam DeFur, Chief of the Nags Head Police Department, had speculated might’ve been used to kill Dana and Kimberly. Troy had a strong hunch he was looking at the sword that had done it.
“Dangit, Jack. It’s the knife.”
“That ain’t no knife, brother. That’s a Chinese sword of some kind. Razor sharp too.”
Troy looked at the cut on his hand.
“No, I mean, it’s the knife that killed those two girls.”
“You can’t know that for sure.”
“Think about it, Jack. They had their heads cut off and put into the traps on my boat. The beds were full of blood, but with no bodies. I think they were dumped into the water…probably along with this sword here. And our Mako smelled the blood and swallowed the dang thing.”
For a second, neither man said anything. Jack slapped his hands together.
“Okay, then. Here’s what we’ll do.” He reached down and carefully picked up the sword. “I’m gonna clean this bad boy up. Get your fingerprints and blood off it and then I’ll deliver it to the police.”
“But how will you say you found it?”
“Same story of catchin’ the shark, only you were never here.”
“But—.”
“I said,” Jack interrupted him and waggled a finger. “You were never here. If this so hap
pens to be the murder weapon, you don’t want nothin’ to do with it. You don’t wanna be around it. You don’t wanna touch it. Hell, stop lookin’ at it already.”
Troy took in a long, slow breath. “You’ll take it to the cops?”
Jack nodded. There was something strange in his eyes, but Troy couldn’t place what it was. It was like the man had a secret that he almost couldn’t keep. But he did have a point. It would probably be better if the discovery of the sword had nothing to do with Troy.
“Okay. Sounds like a plan.”
A few raindrops spattered on the pier and thunder rumbled around them.
“We better get you back to your boat.”
Troy nodded and shook off the feeling that things were about to get out of control.
10
Deep Cuts
“Your full name?” Sam DeFur asked staring into the young man’s eyes seated across from him.
“Barry Olsen Barron”
The kid was tall, scrawny, and pale. Red freckles dotted his face and shocking orange hair swirled on top of his head. His left leg bounced up and down constantly, but that wasn’t a sign of any wrongdoing. Some folks just got nervous when they talked to the police. But something else troubled Sam.
“And you worked at the…” he looked down at his yellow pad of notes, “Austin Fish Company?”
“Yes, sir. Still do.”
“And you were friends with Dana and Kimberly?”
“I wouldn’t exactly say we were friends.”
“But you knew them pretty well.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“And from what we can tell by your punch card, you were working with them on the night they were murdered?”
“Uh, I dunno. What day was that?”
“It was on Thursday last week. You don’t remember that?”
“I dunno. The days just kinda run together now.”
“Uh huh.”
Sam let the pause in the conversation linger. Sometimes people felt the need to fill the silence and that was where he found details that might otherwise not come up. Barry’s eyes flitted around the room and he tapped both hands on the arms of the chair.
It was a special chair. Sam had spent a lot of time sitting in chairs in office supply stores. He wanted one that seemed okay at first, but the longer you sat in it, the more uncomfortable it became. He’d settled on one that had wooden arms that were only slightly too narrow to rest your arms on them for more than a few seconds at a time. It had a cushion of vinyl that was about an inch thick. In the first few minutes, it was reasonable, but after that, it flattened to put your butt straight on the hard wood seat. The genius of it all though, was the back. He’d chosen the chair immediately when he realized that the cushion-less back was just low enough that leaning back on it did not support your spine. It was perfect. From the looks of things, Barry was way past the comfortable stage.
“Yeah, I guess I worked with them that night before the party.”
“Party?”
“Uh huh, the bitches—I mean, the girls hung out after work with Troy. Eatin’ shrimp they screwed up on purpose. They used to do that all the time.”
“Shrimp they screwed up?”
“Yeah, they used the wrong seasoning, so we couldn’t sell it to the customer. Instead of trashing it, the owner sells it to us for cost. But I never got to buy any. They’d always screw it up and offer to buy it immediately. All a big scam.”
“I see.” Sam scribbled a note on his pad. “And this…made you mad? Pissed ya off, eh?”
“Oh, well, I mean, ya know,” Barry stammered. “Not like real mad. Just annoyed.”
“Uh huh.”
More empty silence. He found that sometimes the scratching of his pencil on the pad was enough to break most people. What was he writing? What does it mean that he’s not talking? Am I going to jail? All good questions for opening up their mouths.
“So, uh, can I go now?”
“You have somewhere to be, Mista Barron?”
“Work.”
“At Austin’s?”
“Nah. I’m at the pier today.”
“The pier?”
“Yeah. I hang out down at Jennette's Pier. Lots of people bringin’ fish in that they don’t wanna clean. I can usually clean ‘em in a few seconds. Sometimes they pay me, sometimes they just give me the extra meat.”
“Uh huh. And that’s where all the cuts come from on your hands?”
Barry looked at his hands and his expression froze. It was an odd look and Sam thought he saw a flash of guilt pass over the young man’s face…but only briefly.
“Yeah.”
“I suppose you won’t mind if we just take a quick swab? Get your DNA profile. Ya know, to exclude you from the scene.”
For a second, Sam thought the kid was going to take off running. He became noticeably paler and trembled slightly. He knew something…but what?”
“Sure. No problem.” He held out his hands.
Sam peeled open the long swab and dabbed it liberally all over the wounds on Barry’s hands. The tip became brown with blood. He stuffed it in a plastic bag, sealed it, and made a note on the outside with a Sharpie.
“You should get those looked at, young man.”
“Nah, I get ‘em all the time.”
“I hope you wear gloves when you do your thing,” Sam said studying the boy’s reaction to this.
Barry opened his mouth, then closed it. Then he nodded and stood up. Sam could tell by his stretching that the chair had indeed become nearly unbearable to sit it.
“I’ll be in touch.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good luck with the cuttin’ today.”
Barry walked out of his office. He pushed a button on his phone.
“Hey, Darla?”
“Ya, chief?”
“Got a sample for you.”
“Be right in.”
He took a deep breath and clicked the button again.
“And Darla, have Officer Duffy follow that boy. Discreetly.”
“You bet, chief.”
For one of the only times in his life, Barry was excited to get to the pier. The meeting down at the police station was bullshit in his mind and he was glad to be through with it. Stupid chief didn’t suspect anything. He did his work at the pier that day with a borrowed knife from the store. It was dull as hell, but he was good at what he did. He cleared forty-seven bucks and scored five nice filets. Not a bad days work, but by the end of it, he was exhausted, sweaty, and disgusting. He thought about buying a six-pack to take home, they never carded him at the bait shop. A few Buds and a little time on Bladehammer tonight would have him right back to—
His thoughts about the game suddenly turned to Riley. Maybe she would be online. He felt the itching sensation start burning his arms. He needed her. Not for sex or companionship…no, she would be his next. His phone pinged.
YOUR PACKAGE HAS BEEN DELIVERED.
“Hot damn!” he called out startling a few nearby fishermen.
Everything was falling into place. He had the girl picked out. He had his blade. He had his plan. Tryon the Tyrannical was about to kill again.
11
Butterflies
Riley Carr tapped a few buttons and logged on. She hadn’t planned on playing the game today, but Barry was insistent. He texted her every few minutes until she’d relented. Her mom was out for another jog, which she thought was stupid considering the fact that she’d just had those really bad cramps a few days ago. Even so, her mother had told her to be sure that her phone was on, just in case she had another running incident. And if she left the house, she’d be grounded forever and lose her phone and her laptop for a year.
“Blah, blah, blah, mom,” Riley murmured as she adjusted her headset.
She was already bored with the whole fantasy world thing and she had talked him into going online in a different way. Oculus had recently updated their experience by giving users the ability to decorate their home screen o
r starting room to reflect their personality. They also introduced the ability to invite other users into their room. She sent an invite to Barry. At first, he’d refused, demanding to meet her as Tyron, his orc personality from Bladehammer.
“Nope. You come here, or I’m logging off.”
He’d grumbled about it, but finally, he’d given in. This made Riley feel good, as she’d successfully wooed her first boy into doing what she wanted. She had decorated her Oculus home screen to look like a beach house complete with light blue walls above board and batten wood paneling. Pictures of her mom and her at the beach hung on every wall and sat on every table. The furniture was all whitewashed and rough-hewn. The sofa was more like a futon with a royal blue cushion. Seashell pillows were strewn about lazily and conch shells were stacked in a massive bowl on the coffee table. All of this sat on a bleached wood floor that actually creaked when you walked on it. It was beautiful and Riley loved coming here.
“This sucks,” Barry croaked when he entered.
His avatar was a rough digital representation of what he looked like in real life, red-headed, freckled, a little pale, and tall. Even though his Orc persona was a fake, it was still a little intimidating to interact with him that way. She much preferred this.
“You suck,” she grinned as she said it.
For a second he just stood there looking around, taking in all of her decorating. The odd thing about it was that there weren’t any windows. It had the bright, airy look of a room in a beach house that could have easily been down in someone’s basement. After a minute, his gaze settled on her avatar – again a loose representation of what she really looked like.
“Okay, it’s not so bad if you’re here.”
She smiled and felt her cheeks flush in real life. Her avatar’s cheeks matched it as best they could.
“You want to sit?”
“Sure.”
He plopped down on the futon and kicked up his feet on the coffee table. They flickered through the bowl of conch shells and he slid them over so they wouldn’t interfere with the image.