Dark Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 4)

by David F. Berens

  On her sixteenth birthday, they’d offered to buy her a car, but she said she wanted something else. She wanted a set of oil paints and some canvases. Along with a small silver Honda Prelude, they bought her a painting starter kit from the local art store, and she began to paint. She soon discovered her love for painting imaginary dresses, gowns, and blouses she’d want to wear herself.

  Other people began to notice too, and ask where she’d copied the painting from so they could buy the clothes. Betsy and Jeff Avery immediately began to feed her passion; art supply trips every Saturday, trips to museums, trips to galleries... they did it all.

  Then Samantha had found it. A small brochure tucked in a plexiglass display at the art store downtown. Savannah College of Art and Design.

  That’s what she wanted. And so, the tuition was paid. Jeff and Betsy rented a truck and moved Samantha in, all three with beaming smiles on their faces.

  Meeting Tayler caused the next crack in her wall. He’d looked at her like she was beautiful… but not like, I want to do you, beautiful. More like… I really want to capture you on canvas beautiful. And she had let him. She didn’t love Tayler, no, he wasn’t her type, but she’d grown so close to him that many of their friends thought they were dating. He took photos of her and taped them to his dorm room wall, and he drew sketches of her, insisting that someday she should sit for him… so he could paint her.

  She refused, not willing to believe she was worthy of the paint he would waste on it... but he insisted and persisted. He asked her every single day.

  “Please,” he begged. “I must capture you.”

  “Tayler,” she said, “I’m free. I never want to be captive again.”

  “Then let me set you free,” he pleaded. “Immortal beauty like yours must be painted so that it will last for all time.”

  “No,” she said quietly, and would often cry after she’d turned him down.

  But one day she was finally able to shake off that nasty, dirty, guilty feeling her father had hung on her shoulders, and let Tayler paint her. She let go of her inhibitions… she smiled. And when she saw Tayler’s stunning, beautiful, breath-taking painting… she smiled inside too.

  Samantha rolled the twenty-sided die: seventeen. That was a high enough roll to allow her character, Mantha, to convince the owner of the fictional store to show her the magic cloth she was after. RayRay described it as a color-changing cloth, sometimes appearing gray, sometimes green, and sometimes blue. Mantha haggled with the merchant, and rolled again to confirm she was able to talk him into the lowest acceptable price. The elf-mage walked away from the man carrying the cloth she would fashion into a magical Cloak of Concealing. Becky Patton clapped slowly at the display of gamesmanship.

  “Stunning,” she said, grinning. “Absolutely stunning.”

  “Thanks,” Samantha said, winking. “Now let’s go find an ale.”

  “Sweet,” Becky said, “but I’m definitely not going to the home of the belly buttons or whatever.”

  “The Home of the Belly Djinn,” RayRay corrected her in exasperation.

  “K, cool,” Samantha said. “Now, RayRay, tell us where we can get those ales.”

  “Roll your die to see if the locals will tell you where to go.”

  He held up a blue twelve-sided die and Becky took it from his hand.

  “Six or better and you get your drink,” he said.

  Becky rolled the die. “Seven!”

  Samantha and Becky high-fived.

  “Alright, RayRay,” she said, “spill it. Where’s the booze?”

  “After receiving many strange looks from the townspeople, you bump into an old man with a patch over one eye.” RayRay launched into his campaign-master story voice. “He claims to be Sir William of Murrell, and says he has a fine brew from the barleys on his farm.”

  “Take us there, one-eyed Willie.” Samantha smacked her lips. “We’s thirsty!”

  RayRay pursed his lips, then finally said, “Sir William of Murrell beckons you to follow him.”

  5

  Alain’s Meltdown

  Alain laid out the pizza on the nearby kitchen table and returned to the game. The girls, having finished their turn, went to eat.

  “Okay, then,” Alain said, as he clapped his hands together then rubbed them vigorously as if trying to warm them, “whatcha got for me in ye old Belly Djinn, RayRay? I walk in the door and look around.”

  RayRay turned a page in his notebook. He ran his fingers over the page and grinned.

  “Roll for initiative, Alain-san,” he said with a smile.

  “Wait… what?” Alain stopped rubbing his hands together and held them out, palms up. “I just wanted some nookie…”

  “Roll.” RayRay held out the red die.

  Alain looked at it suspiciously before finally taking it and giving it a half-hearted toss. “Ouch,” he said as it rolled to a stop. “Three.”

  RayRay whistled through his teeth, and rolled his own special four-sided die. Feeling the numbers, he winced. “Finegan is attacked by four creatures,” RayRay said, “two from the left and two from the right.”

  “Dammit,” Alain said, tracing a finger down his character sheet. “What do they look like?”

  “The Belly Djinn’s lighting is low,” said RayRay, “but the best you can tell is that they look like dragon-men.”

  “Crap.” Alain picked up Finegan’s sheet. “I don’t have anything good enough to beat a shape-shifter! All my gear is just average… ugh. RayRay, don’t kill me again, dude!”

  “I’m merely the campaign master,” RayRay said with a shrug. “You chose your path.”

  Alain Montgomery was lucky to have rich and influential parents; otherwise, he would never have gotten into SCAD. He’d been through every subject in school, and could not have failed more spectacularly at all of them. His elementary school math teacher, the algebra tutor he’d had in high school, and his art professor, had all been influenced by his parents to let him squeeze by in school. With a low C average, he’d scooted through the system thanks only to the greased palms of his teachers.

  His art professor had gone as far as to convince Alain that art was his best talent and that he should pursue it as far as he could. Alain wasn’t stupid, and knew that the other subjects in school were a complete mystery to him. He could, however, put a brush in some paint and slap it on a canvas.

  During his senior year of high school, he was even voted “Most Artistic” – though what he didn’t realize was that it was a facetious honor at best. On the day the yearbooks were handed out, he found that the page immortalizing him, as such, had an accidental and completely unfortunate typo. He was listed as Alain Montgomery – Most Fartistic. At first, he’d laughed along with everyone and tried to hide his shame and hurt feelings. But as the laughter developed into more vitriol and hate, he began to lash out at his classmates.

  He was given detention and almost expelled before mommy and daddy could intervene. After meeting with his parents, the school psychologist claimed Alain was so advanced that he was bored with the school’s curriculum and that his teachers and classmates simply didn’t understand him.

  When the time came to choose a college to attend, Alain discovered his art professor had attended SCAD. With a little more palm greasing, the professor had written an incredibly glowing recommendation letter for Alain. He was admitted upon receipt of the check paying his tuition in full… for all four years.

  Having all new friends and acquaintances had been a Godsend for Alain. In the beginning, no one knew him, no one made fun of him, and no one laughed at him. In truth, there were a lot of students who were a lot more targeted than he was… until he had to produce his first painting.

  His painting professor, James LeFleur, had begun this semester’s Intro to Oil Painting course as he had begun it for the last thirty years. The title of the lesson was always: Paint Savannah. It was a fairly simple task for those reasonably adept at using oils. Get a canvas, find a local subject, and paint
it, all within twenty-four hours – no hovering over a painting for months – get it done. Boom. It wasn’t really designed to grade the students, but more of an exploration of their baseline ability at painting. To imply that Alain had a baseline would be giving him a lot of credit.

  The subject that at least fifty percent of the entering students chose was the famous fountain at Forsyth Park. Built in the 1840’s in a huge park – a copycat of the greenspaces found in the Parisian urban planning model of the day – Forsyth Park’s most recognizable feature was the very European flavored fountain in its center. Students painted it, movies featured it, book cover designers photographed it… it’s an iconic image that comes to mind when one pictures Savannah in their head.

  Alain went down to the park, sat up a small easel, pulled out a small palette, and began to work. He was surrounded by no less than ten others, all doing exactly the same thing. His brush moved quickly in broad strokes across the canvas, and before long the image began to take shape. Proportions were wrong, shadows were improperly placed, colors were muddied, and everything about the work was amateurish at best. It looked more like a child’s finger-painting than it did the work of a SCAD student.

  However, Alain was oblivious. For his entire life, he’d been protected from the fact that he stunk… at everything. His parents, his teachers and his friends all walked on eggshells, hiding the fact that Alain Montgomery just sucked at life and those around him covered it up… until the day the painting was due.

  Students in the class formed a circle around the room, their paintings resting on an easel turned away from the class until they were called upon. In turn, each would display their work, describing their subject, their method, techniques, and their intentions for the piece. As it happened, Alain was last to present. He was already miffed, as the others had displayed their pictures and at least a dozen other fountains had showed up before his. But he’d always been told his work was good, so he was confident.

  He flipped his canvas around, and at first, there were shocked faces, open mouths, and blank stares. But the longer it was displayed, the more the laughter erupted. Professor LeFleur had hushed the students, but it was that feeling you get when you’re in church and you’re not supposed to laugh… you just couldn’t help it.

  Alain struggled to present his work over the roar of the laughter and eventually he just gave up. And that’s when he knew… he was a terrible artist.

  Not only had he woken up to the fact he was going to fail at SCAD, he was suddenly aware of the fact that he’d been protected, sheltered, babied… all of his life. His parents, teachers, friends – everyone – had tricked him.

  Professor LeFleur stopped him after class and said that he would work with him… but Alain knew there was no hope. When he looked at the painting now, he realized that his artistic ability was on par with that of a three-year-old.

  Sitting on his bed that night and staring at the painting, his roommate had come in and asked if a niece or nephew had sent him a drawing. That was it. The feelings of sadness and betrayal had exploded into rage. Alain began hitting his roommate with the painting. Although his innocent target was shocked by the force of Alain’s outburst, it didn’t really amount to much pain or suffering for his roommate – a stretched canvas is mostly cloth.

  Ultimately, Alain was officially reprimanded and given his first official warning from the college within a week of being admitted. After undergoing a few sessions of anger management, he apologized to his roommate, who had promptly gathered his belongings and moved out, and had called Professor LeFleur to schedule his first private painting lesson. A few days after that, RayRay Tishomura was moved into his dorm room.

  And it was a blessing. RayRay was blind, thus, could not offer any critique of Alain’s work… improving slightly as it was… and they became quick friends. RayRay liked Alain genuinely, something he’d never had before in his life. He and RayRay began to hang out and shield each other from the subtle contempt the other students held for them. Contempt for the fact that a hack like Alain was surviving the college, and that a blind kid was so infinitely talented in sculpture… they were equally hated for opposite reasons.

  That was the genesis of the F-art Group – a group most people avoided like a sudden bout of flatulence.

  Alain rolled the die and successfully dispatched the last dragon-man creature. He’d taken a lot of damage and decided to leave the Belly Djinn brothel before suffering any more attacks.

  “I get the hell out of there,” he said to RayRay, who was smiling wickedly, “because that was just not cool, dude.”

  “You exit the brothel to see Mantha and Patonia entering a nearby house with a strange looking man with a patch over one eye,” RayRay narrated.

  “Really?” Alain shook his head and laughed. “I go after them and shout.”

  At this point, Samantha and Becky rejoined the discussion, realizing Alain had found their group again.

  “Bout time,” Becky said and slapped him on the back. “How were the jelly bellies?”

  “Shut up,” Alain said quickly.

  “Okay, you two,” Samantha chimed in, “let’s get on with this. I’m thinking this guy must know something about the troll that’s been terrorizing this town… right, RayRay?”

  They all looked at their blind campaign-master. He was grinning broadly and nodding his head.

  “Do you go into Sir William of Murrell’s house?”

  The group exchanged glances.

  Alain inhaled. “Let’s do this. I prepare my fire-sword spell. We go in.”

  RayRay shuffled some papers around and ran his fingers across a page. “Oh no,” he muttered under his breath, “that’s not good.”

  “Dammit, RayRay.” Alain slapped his knee. “Not again!”

  6

  Becky’s Snowshoes

  Becky Patton was a cute girl, but that’s as far as anyone would go in describing her. In fact, the sheer averageness of her appearance made it difficult for those who knew her to describe her at all. Brownish-blondish hair, bluish-greenish eyes… umm… and that’s about as far as they could get.

  The most interesting thing about Becky was her predilection for exciting and sometimes dangerous pastimes. Born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska, to Air Force parents, she discovered that boredom was extreme that far north. She’d thus developed a habit of exploring the snow-covered hills and had apparently been born to ski – she was a natural.

  Finding completely untouched powder to ski on was a challenge she accepted day in and day out with her friend Darryl. She and Darryl would often snowshoe for miles and miles across the blindingly white landscape, searching for just the right spot to strap on their snowboards and catch some air. She’d accumulated scores of her pencil sketches of the amazingly beautiful vistas they would come across, and actually had several on display at the Elmendorf Air Force Base.

  Becky had no intention of ever leaving Alaska… until it happened. It was the kind of thing that happened to other hikers, never to them. The white elephant in the room, so to speak, the danger that roared as loud as a hundred dinosaurs only to be followed by a quiet so deathly it has no equal on Earth. Avalanche.

  Darryl had called her early on a Saturday with a new location to check out.

  “Ricky said he could get us up to Bold today,” Darryl had told her.

  Bold Airport was in the middle of nowhere. One gravel runway equipped to handle small planes for supply deliveries was all it had. Most flights up there didn’t even land, and just made drops.

  “From there we can hike up Northeast,” Darryl added excitedly. “Nobody’s been up there, for sure!”

  “Sweet,” Becky said, “that’s exactly what I need today.”

  “Grab your stuff,” Darryl said, “and meet me out at the hangar.”

  “Meet you?” Becky scoffed. “I’ll beat you there. I’m already packed and halfway out the door.”

  “You’re on,” Darryl said, and hung up.

  It was commo
n for Darryl to arrive ten to fifteen minutes late… for everything. Which is exactly what he did that Saturday. Becky had already loaded the gear into Ricky’s small Cessna and jumped out to greet Darryl. She hugged him, like she always did, and took one of his bags so he could grab his snowboard. She wouldn’t find out until much later that he had fallen in love with her, and that her hugs may have given him the wrong impression. She loved him like a brother… a brother who challenged her to climb higher and take greater risks. A challenge that would be tested in the severest way up on Eklutna Lake that very day.

  The flight over was smooth and uneventful. Ricky was able to land without jarring their teeth out and rolled to the end of the runway near the shack that served as a sort of air traffic control building… though there really wasn’t any air traffic out there at all.

  Darryl and Becky offloaded their things and helped Ricky unload his supply drop. A scruffy old-timer who was probably looking for gold was there to collect the fee, and paid Ricky in cash. He noticed the snowshoes and skiing gear that the two kids were carrying, and shook his head.

  “Too far out fer that, ya know?” he said in a gruff, scratchy voice. “Snow don’t pack out here.”

  Darryl sneered at the man. “Dude, we know what we’re doing. We’ve been on the powder all our lives.”

  “Suit yerself, young man,” the old-timer said while turning away, “but if’n ya get stuck and need a hand, set a fire. I’ll come get ya.”

  “Start a fire?” It was Becky’s turn to laugh. “Nothing will burn up here.”

  “Like I said,” he chirped over his shoulder, “start yer fire and I’ll come get ya.”

  “Creepy,” Darryl said, grinning at the man’s back. “Who the heck is that?”