Johnnie Finds a Dead Body

by DS Whitaker

  Cud went to the garden and retrieved the thumb drive from under the garden gnome. “Just drop it at Mr. Smith’s hotel room and go. It will be all right. We’ll all be tracking your phone on Life 360, but call if anything goes askew.”

  Johnnie looked at the piece of paper from Dottie—Tecoma Sands Resort, Room 669. “What if he sees me? He might shoot me? Maybe I should bring a baseball bat?”

  Cud shook his head. “Would you like me to go instead? I was the one who took the blasted thing.”

  “No, this is my fault. I put you up to this. My problem. I’ll go.” Johnnie donned his helmet and placed the thumb drive in his jeans pocket.

  He arrived close to eight-thirty and the sun had set two hours ago. The Tecoma Sands was a well populated and well-lit resort. Mark was staying in one of their condo-style rentals on the back hill of the complex.

  Johnnie didn’t need another confrontation. He scanned the numbers next to each unit. Number 669. This was it. The lights in the unit were out. And he didn’t see Mark’s black SUV. A good sign.

  Parked in line with the door, still seated on the scooter, he fished his hand into his pocket and retrieved the drive. He aimed and tossed the drive onto the doormat. It bounced, hitting the door and bouncing sideways into a nearby shrub.

  Johnnie smacked his forehead. Not smart.

  Releasing the kick-stand, he got off the scooter and rummaged on the ground for it, scraping the mulch in the shadows. The sound of a door closing inside Mark’s condo set his teeth on edge. He felt around again and found it.

  Johnnie placed the orange thumb drive squarely on the black rubber door mat and pressed the doorbell. He didn’t hear a ring. Was it out of order?

  He rang it again for good measure and raced back to the scooter.

  The door flew open. “Crosswell!” Mark was wearing his black pants and a white undershirt, no socks or shoes. He bolted out.

  Johnnie yelled. “I returned it! Look, the doormat.”

  Mark stopped and turned. “Ha! Well, looky there. You wised up, moron.” He walked back and picked up the item. He took his gun out from behind his waist. “Crosswell. Stay here. I’m going to check this first. Make sure it’s real.”

  With bared teeth, Johnnie growled, “It’s real. I’m leaving.”

  “You know, it’s ironic.”

  Johnnie stopped. “What’s ironic?”

  “If your sister plays along and votes the right way, she could get a cool half-mill from these accounts. You were stealing from your own sister.”

  Johnnie crossed his arms. “Who says she’ll play along?”

  Mark smirked. “True, she didn’t say yes—yet. But since I know where you both live, I think she’ll behave. Honestly, the company I work for is doing a great thing. The entire island will benefit from more visitors, industries and transportation options. Ha! When the next hurricane hits, they’ll be able to rebuild ten times faster. I’m the fucking hero in this story. You know what, numbnuts?” Mark waved his gun, shooing him away. “Go crawl back to your beach and enjoy the quiet while you can.” He tucked the gun in his waistband and went back inside, shutting the door, and turning on the lights.

  Johnnie’s nostrils flared and he sucked air through clenched teeth. All those people. More cars. More trash. More questions. Crowded stores. Crowded bars. It would be like Miami or worse. Or like Charlotte Amalie with the dumb stores and dumb tourists descending like horse flies. Choking on vehicle exhaust. More noise. With St. John’s usual population of five-thousand, a single large cruise ship would double the island’s numbers when in port. Paradise would become a hell on earth. He didn’t want to consider moving again.

  In a blinding rage, he stormed over to a nearby flower bed where a wheel-barrow and an assortment of garden tools were left abandoned.

  He knocked on Mark’s door.

  Mark poked his head out, “What do you want, shit for brains?”

  Johnnie smashed him in the face with a shovel, knocking him backwards into the room.

  Mark’s face was cut and bloody. He tried to get up.

  Johnnie hit him again, sideways against his skull. He raised the shovel, ready to slam it through the soft muscles of Mark’s neck. But stopped.

  The thumb drive! He dropped the shovel and dashed to the laptop on the bed. The thumb drive was in the port. He unplugged it and ran off, through the room, slamming the door, through the parking lot, getting back on the Pig and zooming away.

  As he drove through Cruz Bay, his pulse slowed, the pounding in his head subsided.

  What now?

  Was Mark dead?

  Should he throw the thumb drive into the ocean?

  Instead of going home, he drove to the beach. Hawksnest.

  Once there, he walked through the vegetation over to Cud’s former nest. In the broken cooler, he found a bottled water and downed the contents, pouring the last part over his head to cool off. He lay down on Cud’s boogie board, surrounded by vegetation, and admired the stars above. He couldn’t go home. Not now. He was in such trouble now.

  But he was too exhausted to think about it now.

  Why couldn’t he do anything right?

  Was Robin going to die from his mistakes?

  He curled into a ball and closed his eyes. Another migraine was coming on. Counting backwards from three hundred, he focused on his breathing, lowering his heart-rate.

  A tickle at his back surprised him; he opened his eyes. Stumpy blinked at him, his front foot on his side, as if to say, [There, there, Johnnie boy. I’ll stay with you.]

  He smiled at his friend. “Thanks. Goodnight, Stumpy.” He closed his eyes again.

  [Goodnight, Johnnie. Sweet dreams. I won’t let that Green-tail bite.]

  ***

  Still prone on the floor face down, Thomas ran his fingers along his temple. Blood. Thick and caked in his short hair. A stream ran behind his left earlobe. His jaw throbbed.

  Who knew the brain-dead Boy Scout had it in him?

  He chuckled, then stopped as a sharp pain radiated along his skull.

  Thomas rolled to his back, contemplating his next moves. One, get off the floor. Two, inspect the damage. Three, kill that punk-ass bitch.

  In the bathroom, he splashed the cuts on his face and skull with cold water, sending red streams across the counter and mirror. The pristine white embroidered hotel towels were ruined. But the least of his concern. Rule Number 17, ‘keep a well-stocked medical kit’. His kit included needles and thread for stitching himself up. He hadn’t had an injury like this in several years. Needles hurt, but antiseptic really hurt.

  As he applied some tape over the stitches, his anger roiled. He imagined ways to make the man-child suffer. Cuts with a straight-edge in the most painful areas, letting him bleed out, crying in pain. That would be gratifying.

  But Rule Number 4 said never seek revenge. Because revenge was sloppy and emotional—not the work of a professional. And above all else, he was a professional.

  Recalling their conversation, he pin-pointed his mistakes. First, he engaged the creep in a discussion about the project, goading him. Second, he opened the door after he achieved his goal, too smug and self-confident. Perhaps this lesson would go in his book. A classic example of what not to do.

  The tracker he placed on the half-wit’s bike showed he returned to Calabash. Did meat-head think he wouldn’t find him there?

  He stuffed his tools and materials in a black canvas gym bag and checked the bullets in his gun.

  It was time to get the damned thumb drive back for good.

  Chapter 21

  Johnnie should have checked in by now. Cud couldn’t understand how Gertie was so calm. She was on her sofa concentrating on her small embroidery hoop, poking her needle through the unbleached muslin.

  He grabbed her phone and dialed. Johnnie’s phone went to voice mail—again. He left another message. “Man, where are you? Call and let us know you’re all right!”

  He stopped pacing and turned to Gertie. “Do yo
u think I should go after him? The last coordinates from his phone shows he went to Hawksnest. What in blue blazes is he doing?”

  Gertie’s phone rang. It was Robin.

  Robin said, “Did he make it home? His phone tracker shows…”

  Cudlow said, “I know. He’s not answering. I can go check on him…”

  “No, I’ll go. I’m feeling much better. Stay where you are and call me if you see him, okay?”

  “Yes, absolutely.”

  “I’m heading out now. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Cud gave the phone back to Gertie. “Robin’s going to fetch him.”

  “Are you sure that’s safe?”

  He had to think about that. “I don’t know. Could you call Dottie and see if Arturo could meet her there?”

  She put aside her sewing. “That’s a very good idea.”

  Cudlow paced the living room, listening to Gertie’s conversation. The whole situation was out of control. His best friend was in hiding. A potential hit-man was on the loose. A senator was being threatened. And Gertie was still giving him a cold shoulder. His life was much simpler in the wild.

  When Gertie ended the call, he said, “Well, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know. We wait.” She moved to a tufted chair, turned on the adjacent floor lamp, and opened a women’s magazine.

  “Are you still not talking to me?”

  “I’m talking to you,” she said, without lifting her eyes, “I’m just waiting for an apology.”

  “I said I’m sorry.” He took a seat on the sofa across from her.

  She dropped her shoulders but kept her eyes on her reading. “You know…I forgot for a moment why I was alone all these years. Men are impossible to live with.”

  There was a disgust in her voice that he’d never heard before. “If you want me to leave, say the word. I don’t want to be the cause of your unhappiness.”

  She said nothing for a minute, staring at the magazine page, her eyes fixed, like she was lost in thought, not reading. Gertie took a deep breath and looked up. “Cudlow, you’re a sweet man. But I don’t know if I’m ready for something serious.”

  With a deep sigh, Gertie put down the magazine and took a seat beside him on the sofa. “I’ve lived alone for forty years. I’m not good with change. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  He searched her eyes. “I’ve been a recluse of sorts myself these past ten years. I understand more than you could know.”

  “Maybe we’re both bad at this.”

  “No, I’ve been a horse’s ass. I do love you, Gertie. I was just scared...”

  She placed her palm on his cheek, her eyes bored into his like a brewing storm. “Me too.” Gertie shook her head and straightened her shoulders. In her usual sweet voice, she said, “Good. I propose we make up and put this behind us. Tomorrow we can have some time apart to re-evaluate.”

  “Time apart?”

  “I think it would help. Don’t you?”

  He bowed his head. “I trust your instincts more than mine in these matters.”

  “Well, tonight isn’t over.” She ran her hand along his inner thigh.

  A jolt went through him. “So, you do forgive me!”

  “Oh, I’ll let you know in the morning.” She gave him a coy smile and tickled his earlobe with a kiss.

  He teased her back, pretending offense. “You know, I’m not your plaything. I have feelings.”

  “That’s not what you said yesterday.” She kissed him on the mouth; her breath tasted like maple syrup.

  God, was this woman sexy.

  “What about Johnnie? We should make sure he gets home…”

  “Hold that thought.” She got up, retrieved her phone from the side table, pressed some keys, and threw it inside the bedroom. It landed with a soft thud on the mattress. She smiled. “If it vibrates, I’ll answer it.”

  Cudlow rose from the sofa and bowed, tucking his arm behind his back. “After you, my queen. I’m your loyal subject.”

  Before he followed her inside, he grabbed a cold waffle off the dining room table and stuffed it in his mouth while shimmying his shoulders. Despite his delight at being forgiven, he didn’t know what would happen next. Between him and Gertie, with Johnnie, or with the Bitcoin. All he could do was focus on the present moment.

  And another waffle never hurt.

  ***

  It was after ten at night when Robin found the Piaggio in the Hawksnest Beach parking lot. Wearing her pajamas, a pink terrycloth bathrobe and her slip-on white canvas sneakers, she walked onto the beach. A group of young people sat on blankets talking, drinking and smoking what smelled like marijuana. The drinking wasn’t prohibited on the beach, but the smoking of any sort was.

  She stopped at the group. “Have you seen a man, about five-foot-ten, round glasses, brown hair? Wearing jeans and a brown T-shirt?”

  One of them pointed west. “About an hour ago, a dude walked past us going over there.”

  “Thanks.” She walked the length of the beach. Where was he? Did he try to drown himself again? A shot of panic rose through her chest. “Johnnie! John!” She yelled.

  A figure approached her in the dark. It wasn’t John. Was it the Smith guy? She looked for an escape route. The bushes were dense on this side of the beach. Scrambling over the rocks along the coast would only lead to a dead-end. She squinted, trying to discern the man, ready to dive through the bushes if needed.

  A voice called. “Robin?”

  It was Arturo. She exhaled. “Art? What are you doing here?”

  He was still in his police uniform. His badge caught the light of the moon as the clouds parted. “Aunt Dot called. I’m here to help you find your brother.”

  “Do you know about Thomas Smith?”

  He nodded. “Auntie told me everything. But don’t worry, I won’t get John in trouble. Although, if Smith made threats, we’ll need Johnnie to go on the record.”

  “Yes, thanks. Help me find him. His scooter is here. But in the dark, he could be anywhere.”

  “Did you try Cud’s place?”

  “What place?”

  “The homeless guy. I think they’re friends, correct? Over there,” he pointed, “that’s where he sleeps.”

  Arturo turned on his flashlight and they found a narrow path through the mangroves. About forty feet later, they found John, asleep. Snoring, in fact.

  Robin kicked the boogie board. “Hey, wake up! You scared the shit out of me.”

  John opened his eyes. “Robin? Sorry. I…” He rolled up to a cross-legged position on the board.

  She kicked the board again. “What? What happened with Smith?”

  He fished into his pocket and held up the drive. “I couldn’t do it.”

  “Are you shitting me? Why?” Robin wanted to slap him. Instead, she kicked sand on him, spraying it on his legs and midsection.

  Arturo placed his arm between Robin and Johnnie. “Just let him talk.”

  Johnnie wiped the sand from his shirt. “Why do you think? The project will RUIN the island. I…I want things to stay the way they are.”

  “Stealing thirty-million dollars is still wrong. And that madman won’t stop until he gets it back. I’m sure of it. Christ! You didn’t spend all those months relearning to talk and walk just so some maniac could murder you! Understand?”

  “I know. I know.”

  Robin shook her head; with her teeth bared, she growled, “Get the fuck up. You’re coming with me.”

  John crossed his arms. “Robin, I’m a grown man. Don’t talk to me like that.”

  “I wish you were a grown man.” The second she said that, she regretted it. But her nerves were shot.

  Arturo grabbed Robin’s shoulders and pulled her to the side. He whispered, “You’re not helping things right now. Look, I’ll take the drive to this Smith person. He won’t attack a police officer, and maybe he’ll take the hint we’re on to him. What do you say?”

  Her eyes searched his. In a soft voice, she asked, “You wou
ld do that?”

  “Yes.”

  Her pent-up adrenaline collapsed into a wave of gratitude. She gulped for air to contain herself. “Art, you are…so sweet. Yes, I would like that.”

  Art brushed a wisp of hair out of her eyes and chuckled. “Well, it’s a better idea than you greeting him in your pink bathrobe.”

  Robin laughed. She’d almost forgotten the sight she must have presented. Glancing down at herself, she chuckled. “You have a point.” Her eyes met his. Arturo’s eyes had a twinkle and a kindness that overwhelmed her in the moment. Art was sexy and funny and adorable and good. Why hadn’t she realized this years ago?

  “No!” Johnnie yelled. “You don’t get it! You can’t give that baboon the money. It’s not right.”

  Arturo bent, leveling his eyes with John’s. “I understand how you feel. I really do. But right now, to save your life, and Robin’s, we need to play along. Your sister won’t cave in and vote for this project, right?” He turned to Robin.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “See, John. It will all be fine. Now give me the drive.” He held out his hand.

  “No.” He stuffed it in his mouth. “I’ll swallow it.”

  Arturo laughed. “Okay, I’d love to see that. Go ahead.”

  Johnnie swished his mouth, his face contorted. He gagged and coughed, spitting it into his hand. “Well…wait!” He stood up and pointed toward the beach. “What’s that over there?”

  They turned. “What?” said Arturo.

  Johnnie started running. Fast.

  Arturo chased after him.

  Robin’s phone rang. “Hello?... Oh, God. I’m so sorry…Stay there…” She hung up. “JOHNNIE! ARTURO! COME BACK!” Both men were gone. She ran to the parking lot. Back to the Piaggio. John couldn’t go far on foot.

  And he needed to know what just happened.

  Because it changed everything.

  ***

  Cudlow lay awake, spooning Gertie, appreciating the way her chest rose and fell with each contented breath, the smell of her skin and hair, the curve of her back. She had fallen asleep a few minutes ago, but he couldn’t sleep… wouldn’t sleep…knowing they would part soon.