Skull Wave (A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Book 5)

by David F. Berens

  She slumped down to the floor and leaned back against the wall. Her head began to swim as she tried to think back to the last thing she could remember. She rocked back and forth with vertigo, but then realized the water beneath her was sloshing back and forth, too.

  “A boat,” she muttered. “I’m on a boat.”

  How in the hell did I get here, she thought and gently pressed her fingers to her temples. She massaged her head and her memories began to emerge from the fog. Barry. She’d been with Barry. His trailer, I went to his trailer. And then…

  That’s where the path through her mind went black. She simply couldn’t remember what had happened. And then the voices came…muffled and low from above her. She held as still as she could and strained to listen, but they were distant—too far away for her to make out the words. From the sound of it, the people talking were arguing. And then it was quiet again. She leaned her head back on the side of the boat and started to cry.

  “Are you freakin’ stupid, boy?”

  Barry hung his head as his father yelled at him.

  “I done got you outta this kind of thing once before and now you damn well gone and done it again?”

  Barry shrugged his shoulders. His father didn’t understand. He didn’t know what the itch felt like. He didn’t feel the burning desire to control and ultimately to decide the fate of another human being.

  “I didn’t mean to,” he whined. “It just kinda happened. And they had it comin’ too. Hell, the blonde one—”

  He was interrupted by a hard backhand to the left side of his face. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he’d felt his cheekbone crack.

  “Yer just as stupid as yer whore mother, do you know that, boy?”

  Barry lay on the floor in a fetal position cradling his face. He knew better than to get up or to protest. Any such outburst would bring another, harder blow from his father.

  “I shoulda known leavin’ you with her would make a sniveling idiot outta you. God knows I tried, but that wench didn’t leave me no choice. Screwin’ around town. Hell, when I left, there wasn’t no one in town she hadn’t banged. Stupid woman.”

  Barry almost defended his mother, but she was gone now. What was the use? And he’d just get hit again. So, he waited.

  A boot hit him just below his ribs lifting him up over on his back. He lay there looking at the ceiling trying not to let the tears come. Tyron the Tyrannical did not cry.

  His father leaned over him. He was an ugly man. Damn gray braids hanging down from under a tie-dyed bandana framed his dark-tan face. His eyes were the pale blue of a cataract sufferer and his belly bulged over his belt. Why didn’t the man ever wear a damn shirt?

  “Get yer ass up, boy.”

  Barry inhaled and a sharp pain stung his side. Probably a broken rib. He pushed himself up on his elbows and to his surprise his father reached out a hand to help him up. Barry glared at it and curled up to a sitting position without taking his hand. Eventually, he was able to stand. He was shorter than his dad by a couple of inches, but his old man was a strong guy. He toyed with the idea of tackling and overpowering him…throwing him overboard…but quickly abandoned the thought. He’d probably just get a worse beating out of the failed attempt.

  “Sit,” his dad said, pointing to a small table near the front of the boat.

  Barry slumped into the bench seat and leaned forward over the table holding his stomach. His father went to a cabinet nearby. He pulled out a couple of paper cups and an unmarked bottle of dark liquid. He sat the cups on the edge of the table and poured some of the liquid into each one. He picked one up and slid the other over to Barry.

  “Drink it.” He jutted his chin out and slurped his down in one gulp.

  “What is it?” Barry asked without reaching for the cup.

  “Just drink it, ya puss,” his dad grunted and filled his own cup again.

  Barry picked up the cup and took a small sip. The liquor burned his lips, tongue, and throat. It felt like a hot brick when it hit his stomach. It threatened to come back up, but Barry clenched his throat closed. He almost put his hand over the top of his cup to stop his father from filling it again.

  “It’s just rum, ya baby. Drink another one and it’ll start to taste better.”

  For one time in his life, his father was right. The second drink went down a little smoother, and the pain in Barry’s face and ribs slowly began to go numb.

  “Now start from the beginning. Don’t skimp on the details. If I’m gonna get you outta this, I need to know what I’m freakin’ dealin’ with.”

  Barry recounted the night that he’d become Tyron the Tyrannical, the mighty orc, in real life. Those bitches had laughed at him for the last time. By the time they’d left Fish Heads that night, they were so damn drunk. He told them he was a cab driver and they had climbed into his car without blinking. They passed out for the ride, so Barry was able to get them out to his trailer without a struggle. And that’s when Kim had woken up and started screaming. She hollered for Troy to come save her, that asshat.

  He had to cut her throat to keep her from waking the neighbors and the damn blade had gone all the way through her neck in one clean sweep. He hadn’t intended to cut her head off, but it was so cool he had to try it again. Dana never woke up before she lost her head. By that time, he was in full warrior mode and he needed more blood. He dragged their bodies into the cooler out back, but he’d kept the heads with him in a garbage bag for trophies. He tossed them into his car and headed out to find Troy and take his damn head too. But when he’d finally gotten the damn rowboat out to Troy’s cutter, the jerk wasn’t there. Probably still at the bar.

  And a plan began to form in his mind. A plan to take him down. He’d plant the girl’s heads somewhere on the boat. At first, he’d laid them on the pillows in the bedroom with blood splashed all over…but then he decided to get creative. And that’s when he’d pulled the lobster trap up and flung them inside. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.

  “So, what’s the problem then?” his father asked when he’d heard the story.

  Barry licked his lips and held up his cup. His dad poured more of the liquor in it and waited. Barry took a sip and sat the cup on the table.

  “There’s another girl.”

  His father raised his hand and Barry flinched and threw up his arms to block the blow…but it never came.

  “Are you that stupid? You’re thinkin’ about killing another girl? This ain’t happenin’. Whatever you’re thinkin’ of doing—”

  “She knows,” Barry interrupted his dad’s tirade. “She knows about the bodies. She knows everything.”

  His dad sat back, too stunned to speak. His chest rose and fell. Finally, he scratched his chin and spoke slowly.

  “Okay, then…I guess she’s gotta go too. Goddammit. This ain’t good, boy. Where the hell does this girl live?”

  Barry smiled, and his dad, who most folks called Jamaica Jack Barron, even flinched a little at the evil in the grin.

  “Currently, she lives in the hold down below.”

  “Sheeiiit,” his dad shook his head. “As in…on this boat? My boat?”

  Barry nodded his head.

  “Sombitch,” Jack moaned. “Ain’t this just a shit show…”

  Jamaica Jack Barron watched as the cloudy night sky began to go from light gray to charcoal to black and wondered what the hell he was going to do with his murderous son. First things first, he’d sink as much of the evidence against him that he could. Second, he’d knock some damn sense into the fool boy’s head. And before he did any of that, he needed a plan to deal with the young girl that was currently chained to the wall in the cargo hold of his boat. Apparently, she knew everything about Barry and his inclination toward…killing. Jack shivered again and wondered how the hell his son had wound up becoming a serial killer. But then, the poor boy had lived at home with his whore of a mother until she up and died, leaving the boy to fend for himself. But shit, he’d known plenty of kids that practi
cally raised themselves and never turned to beheading for fun.

  “A damn shit show,” Jack muttered as he tossed the smoldering butt of a cigarette over the boat’s rail into the black water below.

  “Dad?” Barry’s voice was soft from behind him.

  “What?” Jack snapped.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I been tryin’ like hell ta figure that out, boy. You done gone and got yerself into a real heap of trouble now, ain’t ya?”

  Barry walked up beside him and looked out over the water. “I guess. Those last two bitches had it comin’. They laughed at me and called me names.”

  Jack thought about smacking the kid again, but instead said, “Son, ya don’t go around cuttin’ people’s heads off for sticks and stones bullshit. Are you freakin’ kidding me?”

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Ain’t no time for sorry now. We gotta clean up this mess. And then you’re comin’ out on the boat with me for a while. Let all this blow over before you come back. And while you’re out there with me, you’re gonna get enough of blood and guts and chum to last you for a lifetime.”

  “So, what do you want me to do now?”

  Jack ran his tongue over his back molar that had long been replaced with ceramic. A thought occurred to him and he thought maybe he’d had a bright shining moment of brilliance. Turns out, it wasn’t that at all. It was in fact, the beginnings of a stroke that manifested in bright sparkly lights flashing in his eyes. But, it was a mild one and didn’t affect him in any noticeable way…except that his grin was a little lopsided.

  “Right now,” Jack widened his crooked grin and turned to the boy. “I want you to start cuttin’ bait.”

  “What the frick—”

  Jack’s backhand interrupted Barry’s question. “You don’t question my authority on my boat, boy. Is that clear?”

  Barry fell back a step, clutching his cheek. Jack saw a dark red and purplish stain start leaking into the boy’s eye on that side. Broken capillaries. Shit happens, thought Jack.

  “Yes, sir,” Barry said as he spit blood from his swollen lips.

  “Good.” He turned around and opened a box on deck.

  He pulled the blade out that he and Troy had found inside the shark a few days ago. It was still wrapped in an old sheet, but he watched the recognition flash in Barry’s eyes and nodded.

  “I thought this might be yours.” Jack tossed it to him. “Only a freak like you would use a damn Japanese knife to cut bait.”

  “It’s not a knife, it’s a—.”

  He stopped short as Jack raised his hand, threatening to strike him again. He cowered back, even though he held the sword now. Sniveling bastard of a son, Jack thought.

  “Well, tonight,” he said lowering his hand, “you’re gonna cut bait with it. Chum that girl up good and we’ll feed her to the sharks. Don’t leave nothin’ bigger’n a finger in once piece. You got me, boy?”

  For the second time, Jack was taken aback at the pure evil he saw creep across his son’s face. The leering smile was wide and narrow and his son’s eyes seemed to sink back into the shadows of his eye sockets.

  “I got you,” Barry said, but the inflection was different and Jack wondered what meaning the boy put into the words.

  “Okay…okay then,” he felt himself stammer a little with a tinge of doubt inching into his mind. “Important thing is, ya gotta get that girl’s blood all over the blade, and don’t clean it when yer done. And wear some damn gloves, will ya?”

  “Why?”

  Jack let the boy’s insubordinate question go.

  “Cause it still has that idiot Troy’s fingerprints and blood on it,” Jack said. “He thinks I took it to the cops, but I held onto it and cleaned up the places on the handle where I’d been holdin’ it when I recognized it was yours.”

  Barry’s face still showed confusion, but anger started to flicker there too at hearing Troy’s name.

  “I see yer still stumped, ya dumbshit.” Jack walked toward him and slapped a hand on his shoulder.

  Barry flinched, but didn’t pull away.

  “When we’re done dispatchin’ that girl in the hold,” he said as the left corner of his mouth curled up in a grin, “we’ll take the bloodstained blade to the cops, say we found it in the water near where Troy parks his boat. With his prints, his DNA, and this girl’s blood, he’ll find himself on the wrong end of the anchor.”

  Finally, Barry seemed to understand. Geezus Christ, Jack thought. Kid’s as dumb as a sack of hammers.

  “I don’t think I need ta tell ya ta wear gloves when yer…doin’ the deed, do I?”

  Barry laughed long and low. “Nah, I got this. You ain’t gotta worry no more, Dad.”

  Jamaica Jack was absolutely sure that he did need to worry some more. He had a sneaking suspicion that his son’s desire for blood was not going to be quenched tonight. And he had no idea what to do about it. What he did know was that he damn sure needed a beer.

  “Now you get down there and get started and be quick about it.” Jack waved toward the back of the boat. “I’m gonna take the Jon boat into the pier and grab a beer.”

  “Sweet.” Barry sniffed. “Get me some Bud Light.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you actually drink that swill, son?”

  Barry propped the blade of the sword on his shoulder and said, “Only when I’m workin’.”

  Meira Carr coasted Troy’s borrowed truck into the parking lot at Jennette’s Pier. She hadn’t noticed, but all of the running around town had drained the gas tank dry. She pulled into the handicap parking spot not giving a flying hoot if anyone said anything about it. Running up the stairs two at a time to the pier, she slipped on the last one and banged her knee hard on the rough stair. The six-inch-long scrape on her shin began to ooze blood immediately. But pain was nothing she cared to spend time thinking about right now.

  She jogged down the pier to the small bait, beer, and gas shop at the end, flung the door open and sent a rack full of postcards fluttering in all directions. The clerk behind the counter jumped.

  “Geezus Christ, lady. What the hell?”

  “I need gas.” Meira slammed both hands down on the counter, sending him stumbling back a step.

  “Lady, I don’t know what kinda shit you’re on, but we don’t serve junkies here.”

  Meira took a deep breath and slowed her speech. “I’m not a junkie and I’m not high on anything, but I don’t have time to chit chat and have a lovely conversation with you about the weather. My daughter has been kidnapped and is in a shitload of trouble and I need gas in my truck, now.”

  “Your truck?” the clerk looked confused. “We got gas out on the dock for the boats, but I ain’t never filled up a truck before.”

  “Well, Sparky, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?”

  The kid stared blankly at her for a second and Meira wondered if every cashier in this town was this stupid.

  He scratched his head and then shrugged. “Unless you can get your truck up the stairs or out there in the water, I don’t think the hose’ll reach it.”

  “Shit!” Meira’s hands flew from the counter to her hair and she grabbed handfuls of it.

  She began to sob and felt herself losing it. And then an idea came to her.

  “Can? You got a gas can?”

  “Nope.”

  “What the ever-lovin’ hell? You have gas, but no gas cans?”

  “Lady, most folks bring their own cans and they take up too much space for us to keep them in stock out here.”

  “Well, ain’t that just flippin’ grand. Son of a b—”

  “I gotta can ya can use, darlin’,” a scratchy voice interrupted her.

  She whirled around to see a deeply tanned fisherman standing there with a wide smile on his face. He looked a bit like Willie Nelson, if the singer had been made of leather and was a hundred years old…which Willie might be, she couldn’t be sure.

  “Oh, God, thank you.”
>
  The man turned to the cashier, slapped a hundred dollar bill on the counter. He nodded toward the twelve pack of beer under his arm and the one in his hand.

  “This should cover the gas and this beer, yeah? If there’s any left over, you keep it.”

  “Yes, sir!” The kid smiled so that Meira guessed there would be quite a big tip left out of the large bill.

  The man put his arm around Meira’s shoulder and led her out the door.

  “Come along, little lady. The can is on my boat. We’ll grab it and fill it up and get you on your way.”

  Meira was shaking with relief. She wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “I can’t thank you enough. I just don’t know what to do. I need to find my daughter.”

  “I heard you talkin’ ‘bout that in there. No offense. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop on yer private conversation.”

  “It’s okay.” Meira would’ve laughed any other time. “I’m not trying to keep it a secret. My daughter is in real trouble. I think someone’s kidnapped her and I just can’t help but think it might be the same kid that murdered those two girls. And I see my baby and I…I…”

  She couldn’t continue as the sobs began to wrack her body again.

  “There, there.” The man squeezed her shoulders and she felt comfort in his arm. “I’m sure everythin’s gonna be alright. Did you by any chance call the police yet?”

  Meira blinked. “Um…uh…no, I…I guess I haven’t called them yet.”

  She pulled her phone out and started to dial 9-1-1. The man clasped his hand over hers with the phone.

  “S’not worth tryin’ from here, darlin’,” he said. Meira saw a hint of something flash across his face, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. “Signal’s shit out here. Ya can’t get through.”

  For a second, Meira considered breaking away from the man and running, though she wasn’t sure why.

  “Let’s get this gas in yer truck and then you can get the cops on the job.”

  She nodded, numb from the experience. “You’re right.”

  “Here,” he pointed down to a small metal boat. In the back of the boat, she could see the familiar red of a large gas can. “Hop in and hand me that can.”