The Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Series Boxset

by David F. Berens

  He jogged through the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton and out onto the sand. Sure enough, Don was trying desperately to service the customers waiting for their water rides, but he had absolutely no idea what he was doing. Troy ducked into the Tiki hut.

  “’Bout time, Tony-boy,” Don said as he slammed the cash register shut.

  “It’s Troy, Don.”

  “Whatever.” Don pointed out toward the sailboats. “Get your butt out there and get those boats in the water.”

  Troy jerked his shoes off and tossed them into his bin. He put his shades on and trotted down the beach to where a family was waiting—not quite patiently—for their boat to be shoved out for them. The dad shot him dark glances when he noticed his wife biting her bottom lip every time she looked at Troy.

  Troy worked his way through the line of waiting beachgoers until every board, boat and jet-ski was launched. They had nothing else to rent, so it was just a waiting game until the riders’ times elapsed and they came back in… or needed rescuing.

  “Sorry, Don,” Troy said, dripping with sweat as he walked back to the hut.

  “That’s it,” he said, “I’ve had it. You’re done.”

  “Don,” Troy protested, “I’m sorry, man. I got caught up at the p…” He started to say police station, but left that hanging without handing Don any more ammunition.

  “Forget it.” Don was furious. His faux-Aussie accent was gone, and a little spittle was dangling from his lips as he yelled, “I want you and your crap gone, now!”

  Troy opened his mouth to plead his case, but Don held up a finger.

  “Nope,” he said. “Get out!”

  Troy took his whistle off and handed it to Don, who promptly jerked it out of his hand and threw it on the counter next to the register.

  “I’m sorry, Don,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “My bad.”

  Don crossed his arms and said nothing.

  Troy leaned under the counter and picked up his bin of belongings. It wasn’t much, but he sure as heck wasn’t leaving it here. Couple of pairs of sunglasses, his shoes, a towel, some half-used tubes of zinc oxide, and an empty bottle he filled with water and reused to stay hydrated.

  Troy glanced out at the ocean and saw almost all the people struggling to command their water crafts. He knew at least half of them would need a rescue and retrieval.

  “Don, look,” he said, “I’ll be at the apartment. If you find that you need a hand, just give me a call.”

  “Horseshit, dude,” Don spat. “You blew it. I will NEVER call you to help me. You will NEVER work here again.”

  “Alright, amigo,” Troy said, and held up two fingers in a peace sign, “but the offer is there… if you need it.”

  “Out.”

  Troy nodded and walked out of the hut. He paused long enough to slip on his sandals; the sand was scorching hot again. He wondered how long it would be until Don called him. The guy had no experience with boats and would be lost trying to wrangle them back onto the beach. Troy figured he’d just chill out at his apartment and wait for the call.

  As he walked down the access road between the Ritz-Carlton and the Grand Bay Resort, he gave a thought to calling Jack, but realized he didn’t have his number. He dialed Mindy instead. It went straight to voicemail. Dangit, Min, he thought, I hope you’re okay.

  He walked past the tennis courts, scanning for any sign of Taz or Mindy, but saw only empty courts. He peeked into the glass doors of the lobby, but the only two people inside were the older lady behind the counter and the other tennis pro dude.

  He wasn’t sure what to do next. Chill at home? Wait by the phone? Call the police? Joe!

  He opened his phone and clicked the button to dial Joe Bond. It rang once and Joe picked up.

  “Joe,” he said, “it’s Troy. What’s going on? Got anything new?”

  “Troy,” Joe replied, “a lot has happened. Where did you disappear to?”

  Troy shook his head, recalling the peeping Tom lineup incident with Linda back at the station.

  “Long story,” he said. “What’s going on?”

  “Why don’t you just get in and I’ll bring you up to date?”

  “Huh?” Troy asked.

  “I’m pulling into the parking lot right in front of you.”

  Troy looked up to see the Miami P.D. cruiser crunch into the space right beside the Tennis Garden.

  “That was good timing,” Troy said, sliding into the passenger seat of the police car. “Why don’t we just hit my place and work out the particulars.”

  “Good plan,” Joe said. “I wasn’t really sure where I was headed, but I thought I’d come back to the place where it all seems to be pointing and see if I could find out…”

  Joe’s voice trailed off. He looked down at the bin Troy had shoved into the floorboard as he’d gotten into the car. It was a bunch of typical beach-going junk… except for the shoe. The one, random white tennis shoe, left foot.

  “Joe?” Troy realized the detective wasn’t finishing his thought. “Everything okay?”

  Joe reached up and turned his radio off. “Troy?” he asked quietly.

  “Where’d you get that shoe?”

  Part III

  The Miracle

  “Out of difficulties grow miracles.”

  - Jean de la Bruyere

  20

  Mama, I’m Coming Home

  Brant Reginald woke to a bright, early-morning light flashing by the windshield of Christopher Saint Juneau’s old Buick LeSabre. The highway was streaming by without much to see. Long, flat and straight tree-lined stretches of road whooshed past him with the occasional farm field of cotton, or corn, or something he didn’t recognize. The landscape had somehow become vaguely tropical with a random palm tree scattered along crunchy, sandy side roads.

  The radio was low, but played gospel music through the static of a faraway tower. Chris was intent on the road, but his lips moved along with the lyrics to the song. Brant sat up from his sleepy slump, stretched his arms out to a cacophony of pops and cracks, and rubbed his drooping eyelids.

  “Well, hello sleepy head,” Chris said as he slapped Brant’s shoulder. “You must’ve really needed the rest, my friend. You’ve been out for hours.”

  “Yeah,” Brant said through a yawn, “where are we?”

  He scanned the roadside for evidence of their location, but aside from the random street sign, he found no help in pinpointing their whereabouts.

  “We’re just a little Southeast of Bradenton, on 70,” Chris said.

  Brant had absolutely no idea where that was. “I have absolutely no idea where that is,” he said, and smiled at Chris.

  Chris laughed heartily, and said, “About an hour east of Okeechobee. We’ll be there soon.”

  “Wow,” —Brant only then realized the time jump— “how long was I out?”

  “Bout seven or eight hours, I’d say.”

  “Holy moly.” Brant looked at his phone and saw that it was indeed the next day. “I guess I was tired.”

  “You needed the rest, friend,” Chris said and turned the radio dial to find a new station.

  “Chris,” Brant said and turned toward him, “I can’t thank you enough for the ride. I’ve been blessed by your company.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Chris replied. “If you’ll drop me off at my buddy’s house in Okeechobee, I can let you borrow my car to get you all the way to Key Biscayne. If you promise not to scratch the paint!” He let out another boisterous burst of laughter.

  “Oh, Chris, I couldn’t…”

  “Sure, ya can,” he said, “I won’t need it for another week, what with the revival goin’ on and all.”

  “But I…” Brant felt his throat tighten up.

  This man, who barely knew him, was basically giving him everything he had… everything. He couldn’t help but make the symbolic connection with one of his favorite passages from the Bible. This man was giving all he had to the poor and following Jesus to the revival. B
rant wondered if he should stay in town and check it out.

  “Chris,” he asked, “when is the first service?”

  “I thought you’d never ask,” he said, smiling broadly. “Tonight. Five o’clock meet ‘n greet. Six o’clock meeting.”

  “You know,” Brant said, feigning a big yawn, “I’m still feeling a bit groggy… probably shouldn’t drive the rest of the way today.”

  Chris nodded expectantly.

  “What if I just crashed out this afternoon and came to the revival with you this evening?” Brant asked.

  “Pastor,” Chris blinked as his eyes became moist, “it would be an honor if you’d join me. Of course it’s alright!”

  “Good.” Brant felt a tugging on his heart.

  He was sure this was God moving him again. He didn’t know what he would find at the revival, but for the Holy Spirit to so obviously place it in his path… it had to be divine.

  “So, what now?” Brant asked. “Where can we get a bite and stay before the service.”

  “My mother’s house,” Chris said matter-of-factly.

  “Your mother?”

  “Well, sure,” Chris shrugged, “that okay with you, brother?”

  “Oh, yes.” Brant fought the urge to look surprised. “I just hadn’t thought about… I mean, I just didn’t know you had a…”

  “A mother?” Chris threw his head back and laughed yet again. “Oh, I’ve got one alright, friend. Who do you think told me about the revival?”

  “Right,” Brant said, laughing, “I don’t know why I didn’t see that coming.”

  “The good news is,” Chris said as he rubbed his belly, “she’s a wonderful cook. I’ll bet she’ll have a fine lunch laid out and ready for us when we get there.”

  “Chris,” Brant said, “I’m really happy we met. I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

  Chris’s fingers finally found a clear gospel station and he began to boom out the words to My Jesus… Brant joined in.

  Mrs. Anastasia Saint Juneau was the picture of grandmotherly love. A red checkered apron covered a blue dress with patchwork pockets. Her hair was white and fluffy—fresh from the beauty parlor. She wore house slippers with little flowers embroidered on the top, and padded around the kitchen slow and soft.

  “Well, I shore am happy to meet a good friend of Chris’s,” she said as she slid a plate in front of Brant.

  It had scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, a piece of heavily buttered toast, a small dollop of grits, and a slide of honeydew melon. Brant hadn’t realized how hungry he was until then, and grabbed his fork to begin shoveling the wonderful smelling food into his mouth.

  “Son,” she said, and laid a soft hand on his arm.

  Chris steepled his hands and whispered, “Grace.”

  Brant laid his fork down and clasped his hands together.

  “Do you mind offering up our blessing, Brant?” Mrs. Saint Juneau asked him.

  “Oh, gosh, Mrs. Saint Juneau—” He started to make an excuse.

  “Just call me Mama,” she said, her eyes smiling at him. “Everyone does.”

  Brant almost raised his protest again, but then thought better of it.

  “Of course, Mama,” he said.

  He bowed his head and was immediately aware of the presence of God. His heart was warm and full, and he felt tears forming in his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d prayed in earnest… at least without a television camera present.

  “Father,” he started, “thank you for this journey. Thank you for these friends. Thank you for this meal. May all three nourish our bodies and our spirits with your healing power. Amen.”

  “Amen,” Chris and Mama chimed in together.

  They all began to eat and it was quiet for a moment except for the occasional clink of a utensil on china. Chris was the first one to empty his plate, but he went back for seconds. Brant finished his, but declined to eat anymore.

  “I would,” he said leaning back in his chair, “but I’m as full as a tick.”

  Mrs. Saint Juneau—Mama—began shuffling back and forth to the kitchen to clear the table, and Brant jumped up.

  “Please let me help you, Mama,” he said, grabbing a plate and a glass.

  “No, no,” she said, taking them from him, “you boys just go into the den and watch a little TV. After a while, we’ll head up to Raulerson.” She patted him on the arm.

  He had absolutely no idea what Raulerson was, and just smiled and nodded.

  When Chris had finished his second plate, he invited Brant to join him in the next room. The den was straight out of the seventies, with a dark gold shag carpet, two recliners sporting a brash floral pattern, a TV tray between them holding a Bible and a wireless telephone receiver. The television was an old thirteen-inch RCA model—Brant wondered if it would be in color or black and white—with a pair of rabbit ears on top wrapped in aluminum foil. Sheer panels on the windows allowed a soft glow to fill the room.

  “She only gets one channel,” Brant said, “so, we’ll see what we can get.”

  Not surprisingly, it was a church channel showing old televangelical programming from, you guessed it, the seventies. Big hair, big teeth, big money.

  “I love watchin’ these old things,” Chris said and laughed, “they used to really love the Lord back then.”

  “And the Lord’s money,” Brant added.

  Chris laughed and rocked back in one of the recliners. Brant watched through half-closed eyelids and was quickly asleep. He woke to a gentle touch on his arm. It was Mama. She was still in her blue dress, minus the apron, with a cotton shawl over her shoulders.

  “Hun, Chris and I are headed up to Raulerson,” she said softly. “You can stay here and get some shut eye before the meeting if you like.”

  “What’s Raulerson, ma’am?”

  “It’s the hospital,” she said, smiling. “I like to do some visitation there. Some folks ain’t got nobody to come visit ‘em, so I like to go up and say hello.”

  She patted a Tupperware she was holding in her other hand. “Take ‘em some cookies, you know?”

  Chris was looking over her shoulder expectantly.

  “That sounds nice, Mama,” Brant said as he raised himself up out of the recliner, “I would love to go.”

  Chris smiled broadly. They all piled into the old Buick, and Brant sat quietly, tracing the gold inlaid letters on the cover of his Bible.

  God was truly on the move.

  21

  An Incident

  Gil Dickerson won the Florida gubernatorial election in a landslide bigger than any previous Democratic candidate… ever. Every newspaper in the region—and even some of those several states beyond the region—announced the result with all the pomp and feeling of a coronation. There were countless editorial pieces on the coming of the savior of the state of Florida, and most of those pined for the day that Governor Dickerson could throw his hat into the presidential ring.

  The Gallup poll for the upcoming presidential race, barely more than three years away, had him winning against every other candidate they could think of… including past presidents with high popularity ratings. He was being crowned not only as the Governor of Florida, but also as the future President of the United States.

  His wife, Sandy, did not find it surprising that Gil Dickerson couldn’t sleep, but she couldn’t have been more surprised over the real reason why he tossed and turned.

  “You have to sleep, hun,” she would say, and hand him a prescribed sleeping pill.

  He took them from her, but would flush them down the toilet every time. He didn’t want the meds to dull his thinking, especially under the circumstances. The first indication that something was wrong came at the press conference, where he intended to release the names of his appointees to his cabinet.

  He’d been reading the names, when a man stood up in the back of the press room and started shouting.

  “You jackass!” the man screamed, and ran toward the podium.
“You took my Jackie away from me!”

  His security detail pounced on the man before he could get within ten feet of Gil, but it had been enough. The chest pain in his chest knocked Gil to the ground. At first, he was sure he’d been shot, but as he fell to his knees he realized he wasn’t bleeding. He tried to clutch his chest with his left hand, but it wasn’t responding. Oh, God, he thought, I’m having a heart attack.

  The doctors, under incredible pressure from clandestine persons to do so, would call it an incident—not an actual heart attack—but it had been a heart attack just the same. Gil had been checked by the doctors and they had found two arteries one-hundred percent blocked. Two stents later, he was pronounced in perfect health with very little chance of a recurring incident. The press herded doctor after doctor across their stages, all of whom were quick to pronounce that this sort of thing happened all the time—especially to political figures.

  Gil woke up in a hospital bed after being whisked away to the heliport at Raulerson Hospital. He was admitted under a false name and his whereabouts were kept under the strictest confidentiality. In fact, nobody knew where he was except for Sandy and James Hardy. Sandy had been by his side for over thirty-six hours, and he sent her home as soon as the doctors assured her that he was back to one-hundred percent health and that he was only staying in the hospital so they could complete all the tests.

  James Hardy came in only after she’d been ushered out to a private helicopter to take her home.

  “How ya feelin’ there, buddy?” asked the senator from Vermont, who came in all smiles and squeezed Gil’s upper arm. “Ya gave us quite the scare there.”

  “You heard him, James,” —Gil didn’t bother to fake being jovial— “It went out all over the nation. It was live for Christ’s sake. It won’t be long now until someone makes the connection.”