Eye for Eye

by J K Franko

Jen arrived shortly after and handed the men two more bottles; Michelob Ultra for Roy and a Cristal for Harlan.

  “How do you feel about TrueData, Marty McCall’s company?”

  Harlan paused for a second. “Well, Marty was a friend. I’d like to think he still is. I know I’m still there for him, at least. But, when he saw an opportunity to take what we were all building together for himself, he did just that. And, um, well, I was obviously disappointed,” he said, with a sad shrug. “Hopefully, one day we can put it all behind us,” he added, washing down the memory with a gulp from his bottle.

  Roy wanted to say something, but he was momentarily lost for words. The response seemed genuine. He felt uncomfortable, as he hadn’t been expecting to like this young man who, until today, he had pegged as a spoiled, entitled prick who went about life trampling on others without any sense of decorum or responsibility.

  To keep him talking, Roy asked Harlan for his views on the direction the government procurement space was heading. Harlan talked about government waste. He explained the procurement process. He explained how Procurex planned to solve those problems. It was a re-hash of what Roy had seen Harlan speak about on YouTube.

  Roy listened attentively—not to what the young man was saying, but to how he was saying it. As he got near the bottom of the second beer, it seemed to Roy that there began to be a very slight slur to Harlan’s speech.

  They were passing Flagler Memorial Island at this point, when Susie rather abruptly began turning the boat around. “Just want to make sure we don’t get back to the yacht to a cold dinner!” she called out.

  “Sounds good,” Roy said. While Harlan continued his monologue on procurement, Roy looked around to see what had caused Susie’s change in direction. He immediately saw that, up ahead, at anchor, was a decent-sized, sky blue Viking. It looked suspiciously like a boat that belonged to their neighbors, the Foxes. From the looks of it, no one on board had seen them. Roy instinctively sank into his seat and hunched a little, trying to disguise his profile.

  “Let’s have one more beer,” Roy said, abruptly, “then we can switch to wine onboard. Jen, two more, please!”

  “You’re in luck, boss, I found another Ultra at the bottom,” she said moments later as she handed over the bottles.

  Roy studied Harlan carefully. So far, the young man had finished two beers, which meant eight milligrams of Xanax—they’d put four milligrams of the crushed pills into each Cristal bottle. They’d had a total of sixteen pills to work with.

  Based on their research, the Xanax-alcohol combination would result in lethargy and sedation. This was what they were after. There was also a concomitant loss of inhibitions, and the possibility of either euphoria or depression and irritability. Since Roy and Susie were only interested in the sedation effect, they hadn’t worried too much about whether their victim would feel “happy” or “sad” for the duration.

  They’d been cruising slowly for about forty minutes by now. The sun was dropping. It wasn’t dark yet, but twilight was approaching. Susie raised the throttle, decreasing their speed slightly.

  Joe was still talking, pausing from time to time and blinking. Roy kept him going, nodding, asking quick questions, actively listening. As Harlan continued, his speech became more hesitant. His slurring became more pronounced.

  They were heading east now. The sun was rushing toward the horizon behind them, as if anxious not to see what was taking place on the boat.

  Harlan reached a natural pause in his monologue and took a drink from his beer. As he did, Roy removed his sunglasses and hung them by the stem from his shirt collar. The contrast between his tanned skin and his green eyes made them sparkle more than usual. He smiled that crooked smile of his and said, “So, Joe, let me cut to the chase. Would you be interested in coming to work for me?”

  “Abswolutely,” Harlan said. Then he cleared this throat, chuckled, and shook his head and repeated. “Absolutely.”

  “Are you mobile? I mean, got a wife or girlfriend that we need to consider?”

  “Come on, Roy.” Harlan laughed. “I know you did your homework.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The whole rape bullsssshit. You think it’s easssy finding a girl after that?”

  He was hissing his s’es. Inhibitions definitely reduced. Roy couldn’t tell if the irritability in Harlan’s voice was the drugs, or just the truth. It didn’t really matter.

  “Tell me about that. I mean, hey, I’m a big believer in the system. You were acquitted, and that’s good enough for me. But, like you say, it must still be affecting your life, no?”

  “Shit, Roy. I had to leave UT, man. Couldn’t walk across campus without some asshole yelling something at me, or some bitch. And this was before the trial. Nobody cared what really happened.”

  Harlan paused, looking blankly ahead. Then he continued, “They didn’t wait to hear the evidence. They just assumed—privileged white boy must have done it. No way to get a fair trial.”

  “Wow. That must have been really hard on you.”

  “Fuck yeah, it was. But hey, Frank stood by me. And my dad, too, don’t get me wrong... But, Frank, he was there for me like family, man. Better than family.” Harlan belched. “He’s my best friend.”

  Harlan was slurring heavily now. “Hey. By the way. I forgot. We’re a package, man. Package deal. I mean, if I come to work for you, no deal unless there’s a spot for Frank, too. Okay? Cool?”

  Roy knew the answer was irrelevant, and said, “Yeah. Cool. We’d love to have him.”

  Joe raised his hand for a fist bump. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “Bros before hos!”

  Roy returned the fist bump.

  Harlan removed his sunglasses and he leaned into Roy, but his eyes were on Susie. Then, voice a little lower, conspiratorially, he asked, “So—shoot straight with me, man—you tappin’ that? ‘Cause that is one fine piece of ass there. I don’t know what she’s hiding under the mask and shades, but hey—you don’t fuck the face, right?” Harlan laughed. “A little on the Latina side, no? That is sweet, man!”

  Roy put his arm around Joe’s shoulder and said, “Bro! You’re going to get a great new start in Miami. A clean slate. I’m glad that everything worked out in the end for you. To justice!” he said, raising his bottle.

  Harlan clinked his bottle a little too hard. “Ooops. Sorry. Man, not sure why, but... feeling a bit woozy,” he said, blinking rapidly. “Normally can drain a few more beers before… shit.”

  Roy reacted with concern. “It’s probably a little seasickness. Hey, Jen?” he shouted. “Can you slow it down a bit?”

  Susie slowed the boat. They were just reaching the end of Government Cut. Soon, it would be dark.

  “Yeah,” Joe said, smiling. “To justice.”

  * * *

  When Joe Harlan Jr. had boarded the boat, he’d felt fine. He’d been pumped, really. Dinner on the yacht with just the founding partner meant he was getting the VIP treatment. When he’d first gotten Roy’s call, he’d worried that maybe there was some other reason for the meeting. Maybe Cruise was gay. But after meeting him, Joe’s gaydar had registered a negative. This was VIP treatment, plain and simple. His dad would be impressed.

  After a while on the boat, though, he’d started feeling a little weird.

  It was hot in Miami. And humid. But with the boat rocking, and the engines droning, not to mention the beer, he’d started feeling worse. Seasick? Drowsy?

  As he self-assessed, he recognized that he’d had an early start that morning. And he’d had that Valium when he got on the plane—maybe that plus the beer was affecting him. Now, everything seemed fuzzy. All he wanted to do was sleep.

  He’d kept his sunglasses on as long as he could because he didn’t want Roy to see that his eyes were drooping. Roy’s rambling on about doing business with the government didn’t help.


  Harlan had tried discreetly putting his hand in his pocket and pinching his leg, and biting his tongue, to help stay awake. He even tried imagining fucking Jen, right there on the boat. Nothing seemed to help...

  Joe heard a thunking sound that startled him as he tried to recover his balance. When he looked down, he saw his beer bottle rolling away from him, leaving a fizzing trail of foam as it went.

  “Whoa. You okay there, buddy?” Roy asked, retrieving the beer bottle and handing it back to his guest.

  “Yeah. I’m good, man. Just feeling a bit weird.” He rubbed his eyes and tried to focus on what he was doing.

  In Miami.

  On the boat.

  Heading for the yacht.

  VIP treatment.

  “It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s most likely the altitude change,” Roy offered. “Being at sea level, plus the heat and humidity. It sneaks up on a lot of people.”

  Joe nodded, swaying more than the boat’s rocking demanded, and took another swig of beer. It was getting warm and had a peculiar bitter taste to it. He felt queasy, and the rocking of the fucking boat didn’t help.

  “I think maybe I should lie down for a bit,” he said.

  “Sure,” Roy agreed. “Let me help you.”

  He led Joe up to the bow of the ship and helped him lie down on the coffin box, the boat’s built-in elongated cooler, on his back, legs on either side.

  “We should be at the yacht in about ten minutes. You rest. You want some water? Dramamine? Do you feel like you’re gonna puke?”

  Joe thought he said “No,” but wasn’t sure. The platform was comfortable and warm. There was a nice breeze blowing over the bow. And the drone of the engines rocked him to sleep...

  * * *

  Joe half-woke, feeling some discomfort.

  He tried to turn on his side, but he was unable to do so. It felt as if his hands were stuck together. He tried to use one of his legs as a counterweight, but realized that it, too, felt awkward. Useless.

  It was quiet. The roaring noise from before was gone. There was a nice breeze blowing over him. Cool. Beautiful.

  He heard voices, conversing. Mumbling. It reminded him of when he’d been a child and he’d hear his parents talking as he fell asleep. The memory made him happy. It brought back feelings of comfort and safety.

  He tried to lift his head, but it felt heavy, way too heavy. Sleep was better. Much better.

  * * *

  At 8:00 p.m., it had been two hours since Joe began ingesting the Xanax and beer cocktails. For the last hour, Susie had been navigating the boat back toward Bimini. They were now well clear of Miami, but still far enough from Bimini that no cell tower would pick them up.

  Although their mobile phones were turned off, they could only assume that Harlan’s was not. The plan called for them to stop well before getting in range of Bimini to make sure that Harlan’s cell phone didn’t ping off a Bimini cell tower and give his whereabouts away.

  They were in the Straits floating over 2,000 feet of depth below when Susie dropped the engines to idle. The roaring of the motors gave way to silence.

  While Harlan slept, Roy and Susie carefully prepared him for execution. First, they slid the plastic tarp under his body, positioning him face up. They weighed the corners down with diving weights so that it wouldn’t blow around. They used zip ties to bind Harlan’s wrists. They didn’t overtighten, as they didn’t want to wake him, but made sure that if he did come to, he would be unable to wriggle free. They also attached a line to each of his ankles, then gently tied the other ends to the boat’s recessed bow rails.

  Just in case, Roy put a metal mallet on the deck, next to the coffin box near Harlan’s head. If he did wake suddenly and become unruly, they would use it on him. But that was only in case of emergency, as they didn’t want to make a mess that would generate unnecessary forensic evidence.

  Also on the deck, by the mallet, were an oversized duffle bag, twenty feet of anchor chain, and the five padlocks. Roy had brought these forward from the aft storage while Susie watched Harlan.

  As Roy turned to retrieve more items from storage, their prisoner began to groan and move.

  “What do you think?” Roy asked in a low voice.

  “Might be wearing off. Maybe we should get it done, then bring up the rest of the stuff? What’s left? Just the Quikcrete?”

  “Yeah,” Roy said flatly as he watched their hapless victim.

  This was it. All their planning had been leading up to this moment and yet now, in the moment, he felt trepidation. Nausea. Unlike their guest, he knew it wasn’t seasickness or alcohol.

  “Hold on,” he said. He went to the helm and took a quick look at the GPS screen. There were no boats nearby per the AIS. He turned on the radar and waited for the screen to populate. No vessels nearby. He switched the screen off and headed back toward the bow.

  “All clear,” Roy whispered to Susie.

  “Ice pick or Hefty?” Susie asked, anxiously.

  “I guess just plain drowning is out of the question?”

  “Roy, we’ve come this far. We can flip for it if you like, but I think we should end him, not the ocean.” His wife’s words were cold. Hard. Determined.

  Roy thought for a moment. “Alright, let’s do Hefty. If he starts to get out of control, then I’ll use the pick.”

  “Okay.”

  Roy walked around to the bow of the boat. He carefully took up all the slack in each of the lines that was tied to Harlan’s ankles. While he’d be able to move his legs some, he wasn’t going anywhere.

  As he did this, Susie went aft and got the box of Hefty bags. She opened it and removed two. She then sat down on the bench in front of the helm, slipping one of the bags under her thigh. She should only need one, but had the extra just in case. Once she was in position, Harlan’s head was just in front of her at the end of the coffin box, his feet toward the bow.

  Roy held the ice pick in his right hand. He carefully straddled the coffin box, putting one leg on either side of Harlan’s body. The young man was on his back with his hands bound together in front of him. Roy towered over their quarry.

  Susie looked up at her husband. “Ready?”

  Nervously, he gave her a thumbs-up. Then he lowered himself slowly onto Harlan’s body. He ended up sitting on Harlan’s hips, cowgirl style, facing his head. Roy put his weight on Harlan and leaned forward. He brought his arms in tight, trapping Harlan’s arms just above the elbows and holding him down. He put all his weight onto Harlan.

  He still held tightly to the ice pick.

  Susie maneuvered Harlan’s head into the Hefty bag, and then she pulled downward, trapping Harlan’s face in the plastic.

  * * *

  Joe suddenly jerked awake. He was confused. He was sure that his eyes were open, but he couldn’t see anything. He felt a crushing weight on his chest and torso, weighing him down.

  He could move his lower body, but something was pulling on his ankles, restricting his range of motion. His legs felt leaden, clumsy, useless. He couldn’t move his arms at all.

  He was disoriented. His mind reeled, trying to recall something, anything that would help him understand where he was.

  But his brain wasn’t receiving any visual or audio cues. It was dark. Everything sounded muffled. When he moved his head, he could hear an odd crackling sound, but that was it.

  Chemicals and plastic were the only things he could smell, and it was making him want to retch. He tried to breathe, tried to suck in fresh air, but nothing came. It was as if he were sucking on an empty tube.

  That’s when the panic set in. It wasn’t as acute as it probably should have been, thanks to the Xanax in his system. Still, he felt his eyes burning—tears of frustration. He opened his mouth to scream but realized to his horror that he couldn’t. It wasn’t that he couldn’t scream; he co
uldn’t even breathe. His lungs had nothing to scream with.

  He thought that maybe he was asleep, dreaming. A nightmare. That’s what it was, a hideous nightmare. That made sense. He tried to wake himself up.

  He struggled. His heart machine-gunned as it fought harder and harder, trying to get oxygen to his starving organs. His chest was on fire. He wanted air. He needed air.

  Though his higher brain functions were still being impacted by the Xanax, his lizard brain began to take over. His body bucked and convulsed against the weight on his torso. His head fought against the pressure that he felt on his face.

  What the fuck was going on?

  Then they came. Flashes of memory. He had travelled to Miami. Cruise had called him—for dinner on the yacht. VIP treatment. He’d boarded the boat. There was that chick, Jen. He’d spilled his beer. Had he made it to the yacht? He couldn’t remember. Had he gotten drunk at dinner? Was he back at his hotel? Or still on the yacht?

  * * *

  “Aw, fuck!” Roy groaned, disgusted.

  “What?”

  “He pissed all over me.”

  Harlan had convulsed for about twenty seconds. Then stopped. Then convulsed one final time, and then stopped again. They’d been counting to sixty, just to make sure he was dead.

  “You think that’s it?” Roy asked, flushed and sweating from the exertion of holding the bucking body down.

  “Yeah. Eww, I think I smell shit,” Susie said, screwing up her nose.

  “Ya think?” Roy puffed, gingerly getting up off the corpse.

  Susie looked to see if her husband’s shorts were wet, but it was too dark. Although, from the way he was moving, he was obviously soaked.

  Roy got off the coffin box, stripped off his shorts and underwear, and tossed them overboard. “I’ll be right back.”

  Minutes later, Roy returned wearing the blue short shorts he’d arrived in that morning in Bimini. It seemed like ages ago.

  Susie was already gathering the edges of the plastic tarp up over Harlan to try and contain the urine and any other bodily fluids that might be leaking out of him and making their way to becoming evidence on the deck.