Villains and Vixens
The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series
C.L.R. Dougherty
Copyright © 2019 by C.L.R. Dougherty
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Contents
Villains and Vixens
Nassau, Bahama, and the Exumas
George Town, Great Exuma Island
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
Mailing List
A Note to the Reader
About the Author
Also by C.L.R. Dougherty
Villains and Vixens
The J.R. Finn Sailing Mystery Series
Book 5
Vigilante Justice in Florida and the Bahamas
1
My target was in the townhouse. I saw lights turning on and off in different windows during my two-plus hours of surveillance, and there was movement behind the Venetian blinds.
There was only one entrance — two if you counted the attached garage. No one arrived or departed while I was watching. It was nine p.m. now — a little late for a casual, unannounced visit, but not late enough to cause alarm. I decided to go for it.
I locked my rental car and walked the hundred yards to the front door of the townhouse. It took us over a month to track her to this place in Gainesville, Florida, in a neighborhood near the University. It was a nice place, given that it was in an area catering to the college crowd. The market for these townhouses must be faculty members. They were a bit too upscale for students, by my reckoning.
I was dawdling as I approached the front door, anxious as I thought about what might happen in the next minute or two. This could be one of those "kill or be killed" moments. Stepping onto the little porch, I took a deep breath and knocked.
"Coming," a woman's voice called, her tone cheerful, even expectant. I heard a security chain sliding free, and then the clunk of a deadbolt being drawn. The door opened, and the woman's jaw dropped when she saw me. A whole gamut of emotions played across her face in a split second.
"Finn." She frowned; her jaws clenched.
"Were you expecting someone?" I asked.
"Not you," she said, shaking her head.
"No, I guess not."
"How did you find me?" she asked.
"Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Her gray eyes were icy as she took her time, looking me up and down. After several seconds, she stepped back and swung the door open. I went inside, and she locked the door, replacing the security chain. She squeezed past me in the small foyer and went into the living room.
"Have a seat," she said, motioning to a brown leather couch in the middle of the open-plan living room. "I need to take care of something. I'll be right back." She went up a staircase as I settled into the cushions.
While she was gone, I didn't drop my guard. She might come back shooting. In my 20-odd years as an assassin, she was the most dangerous woman I ever encountered.
Retired from a small, obscure group in the Department of Defense, a group that handled government-sanctioned assassinations, I now work for an organization called Phorcys. Founded by several retired senior U.S. military officers, Phorcys is committed to cleaning up rampant corruption that reaches to the highest levels in our government.
My mission tonight was unusual. I didn't normally socialize with my targets before I executed them, but this woman was different. She was an enigma; we weren't sure what to make of her.
"You should have called first," she said, coming back into the room after a couple of minutes. "I had plans for the evening." She scowled at me, then stared over my shoulder.
"I didn't know if you would take my call," I said, as I glanced behind me, making a quick visual sweep of the room. I wondered what she was looking at, but nothing caught my eye.
The furnishings were tasteful, expensive looking. But there were no personal touches. Did she pay a decorator to furnish this place? "And I didn't have your number, anyway."
"You shouldn't have dropped in like this."
"How long do we have?" I asked.
She frowned. "Before what?"
"Before your guest comes." I was fishing; when she came to the door, she acted as if she were expecting company. "Or did you reschedule?"
"That's not any of your business, Finn."
"Maybe not," I said, "but since you mentioned plans, I thought I'd ask."
"I don't owe you an explanation," she said.
"No?"
"No. What makes you think you're entitled to show up unannounced like this, after all this time?"
"The way we parted in Charleston."
I last saw Mary a little over a month ago, in Charleston, South Carolina. We were working together then. Or at least, that's what I thought, along with the others who made up Phorcys. She and I were their front-line troops. When all else failed, they deployed the two of us to eliminate dishonest bureaucrats and politicians, as well as the occasional plain old crook. We were also a couple, which introduced its own set of complications.
She was abducted as she was staking out one of our intended targets. I intercepted her captors as they were delivering her to a yacht belonging to a Russian gangster. I rescued her. She was a little dopey from the drugs her kidnappers gave her, but otherwise, she seemed all right. I took her to our hotel to let her recover, but that night she slipped out of our room.
I found her again the next morning. During the time she was on her own, she went after the Russian. She talked her way aboard his motor yacht, only to find that he wasn't there. Frustrated in her quest for personal vengeance, she killed the entire crew of his yacht — the very people he expected to capture her.
That derailed our mission. Consulting with Phorcys, we decided to regroup and let things settle down. We left town separately, planning to meet in St. Thomas a week later. When Mary didn't show up, our employer and I began looking for her. Given what happened in Charleston, we assumed the Russian was behind her disappearance.
Two days ago, we found her here in Gainesville, living in this townhouse. I was here to find out what she was doing, and to deal with her as I thought appropriate.
"Don't be cryptic, Finn. What are you talking about? The way we parted? I'm confused."
"You aren't the only one. When you dropped me off at the airport in Charleston, we were expecting to meet in St. Thomas in a week. Like you said, that was over a month ago."
She frowned. "St. Thomas?"
"In the U.S. Virgin Islands."
"I know where it is. Why were we meeting there?"
"You wanted to sail to Isla de Aves and chill out for a while. We were between missions, after what happened in Charleston."
"You and I were the
re once, weren't we? At Isla de Aves?" She had a faraway look on her face. "On a boat?"
"We were, yes." This is surreal. Is she playing some mind game with me?
"That was your boat, wasn't it? What was she called? Island Girl? Or something about a princess?"
"Both. Her name is Island Girl, but we changed it to Carib Princess for a little while."
"Why did we do that?"
"We were on the run," I said.
"Um ... From Rory O'Hanlon, right?" she asked, nodding. "And Frankie Dailey. I met you in Puerto Rico, didn't I?"
I struggled to make sense of what she was saying. Taken individually, the pieces of information she tossed out were correct, but the context was garbled. She had things out of order, and there were lengthy periods of time between the occurrences she referred to.
"What's going on with you, Mary?"
"Kathy," she said.
"What?"
"Kathy. Short for Kathleen. I'm not Mary now."
"Okay," I said. "Kathleen Riley, right?"
"Yes. How did you know that?"
I'll just let you wonder about that for now. Two can play this game. "When did you start using that identity?"
"I don't know, exactly. I used it all through college, so when I came back here, I picked it up again. I came here because I needed time with Sam."
"Who is Sam?"
"I'm not telling you that. Maybe soon, but not just yet."
"I see."
"No, you don't."
"Okay. Whatever you say."
"I'm in control," she said.
"Yes, you are." This gets stranger and stranger. "All right. Tell me why you didn't come to St. Thomas."
"Okay. Sam says I'm ready, but I don't feel ready."
"Ready? Ready for what?"
"To deal with everything. Don't push me, okay?"
"Sorry. I don't understand, but I'm trying."
"I know. I've had some problems, but Sam's helped me figure things out. Now I just have to piece everything together. Sam said it would help if I could talk with you about it all. But I wanted more time. I'll try to tell you what's happened."
"Okay." I nodded.
"Before I start, can I get you a drink? Coffee? Wine? Anything?"
"I'm okay for now, thanks."
I held Mary's gaze as she took several deep breaths. After a few seconds, she raised her eyebrows. I nodded, and she began her story.
2
"All right, then. Here goes. I'll start with Charleston. In layman's terms, I flipped out after I left you at the airport."
In layman's terms?
She looked me in the eye, waiting for my reaction, her lips pursed. I kept my expression neutral and nodded for her to go ahead.
"Sam says I was suffering from what's called a Brief Psychotic Disorder. It was probably triggered by being drugged and kidnapped. It was aggravated by my killing those people that same day. Twelve people, on that big boat, you remember? I blew them away without even a minute's thought. Twelve people. And I left a bloody, gruesome mess. But I think they deserved it."
"Anastasia," I said.
"That was the motor yacht?"
"Yes, that's right."
"It belonged to a Russian gangster, didn't it?" she asked.
"Yes, it did. And you're right; those people deserved to die."
"Okay. Those things help. I have a lot of disjointed memories that I'm trying to put together. I've got a decent grasp of what happened after Charleston, but before is a jumble."
"Okay," I said.
"About the killings. To me, it doesn't matter that they deserved it."
"No?" Is she remorseful? That's not the woman I know.
"No. I acted on pure impulse. I didn't think things through; I just went wild. I lost it. I wasn't professional."
"Uh-huh," I said, nodding. Not remorse for the killings. Regret for acting on the spur of the moment. "Maybe so, but you still did a professional job. No evidence left behind; nobody has a clue what happened. The cops think it was the Russian and his enforcer who did it. But those two have disappeared."
"You got that from those people?"
"Those people? I'm lost. Which people?"
"The ones we were working for."
So you remember something about that.
We were both new to Phorcys, although Mary started working with them before I did. She was involved in recruiting me, but neither of us realized that at the time. Mary, despite her youth, was a well-established contract killer. We made a good team, she and I did. Or so we all thought.
In one of those bizarre quirks of fate, her uncle was one of the founders of Phorcys. Lt. General Bob Lawson, U.S.A. Retired, — her Uncle Bob. Bob was also the man who recruited me from the Army twenty-odd years earlier to join that secret group within the DoD.
Bob's sister, Mary's mother, was a drug-addicted prostitute. Despite Bob's efforts to help her, she succumbed to an overdose, leaving Mary to fend for herself at age twelve. Mary had a rough life, growing up on her own. Bob tried to help, but she wasn't receptive.
By the time Bob joined with some of his colleagues to form Phorcys, Mary was making a living as a killer for hire. That was how she paid her way through college.
Because of Bob, Phorcys began using her for the occasional job. Within a few months, they were keeping her busy full time, although she was still a contractor when they sent her to watch over me. But that's another story. Several other stories, in fact.
"Yes. I got that from Phorcys," I said, in answer to her question. "Aaron, specifically."
"Right. Aaron," she said. "Your old Army buddy. Hernandez?"
"No, Sanchez. Aaron Sanchez."
Aaron Sanchez was the intelligence officer within Phorcys, and an old friend of mine from our early days in the army. Before Aaron became part of Phorcys, he was the intelligence officer for that group I worked in at the DoD.
"And did he and his people find me? Did Phorcys send you to bring me back?"
"There's more to it than that, M-Kathy. But yes, he found you. Don't let me get you off the track. My story can wait."
"Okay, but I want you to tell me everything, once I finish." She nodded once and took a deep breath, then said, "Brief Psychotic Disorder is a rare thing, I'm told. Have you heard of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders? DSM-5, it's called."
"Heard of it, but that's all," I said. "Why?"
"Brief Psychotic Disorder is described in there. There are several symptoms: delusions, paranoia, hallucinations, that kind of thing. That's what most people think of when they hear 'psychosis.' But mood changes and disorganized thinking are part of the package, too. That's me. Disorganized thinking — it sounds simple, but … "
She shook her head. "When you're caught up in this web of conflicting — oh, hell, Finn. I can't describe it. Up seems like down, but then all of a sudden you think it's not down, but it's sideways, or inside out. That doesn't make any sense, but … "
"I'll take your word for it," I said, shaking my head.
She cleared her throat. "I freaked out after you got on that plane in Charleston. I was scared out of my mind."
"You? Scared? Why?"
"You were the only person I trusted; the only one I ever remember trusting. And you left me."
"You wanted me to leave you. You were the one who decided to stay in Charleston while I went ahead to Tortola. You wanted to take care of some things while I got the boat ready, you said."
She nodded, frowning. "I believe you, but I can't remember that. It seems odd that I would want you to leave when I was afraid without you. But that's why it's called crazy, I guess. I'm not supposed to use that word, crazy. But … shit! I was crazy then. That's all there is to it; I was crazy."
She paused, looking down at her hands. She picked at the cuticle on her left thumb and shook her head. After several seconds, she looked up at me.
"After you left, I came back here. The University's the only place that ever felt like home, see? My col
lege years were the most stable period of my life. I wanted that sense of security back. I needed a place to hole up and lick my wounds, get my bearings again. And Sam's here.
"Now that I've been seeing Sam, I've been working on putting all the broken pieces back together.
"I want to recover what we had, Finn. Can you forgive me for running out on you?"
"Yes, but there's more to it than my forgiving you. Resuming our life together involves more than just you and me. Have you worked that out, yet?"
"You mean Phorcys?" she asked.
"Phorcys is part of it, for sure. And there's Lavrov, and the rest of the bad guys, the ones from O'Hanlon's list. You remember all that?"
"Yes and no. I remember pieces of it, and the more you say, the more I recall. I can't say I've worked it out yet, but I'm not ignoring them — Phorcys or the others. I've been trying to rank my problems, put the things that are most important to me first. You understand? I lost all that when I broke down. You're the most important part of my life, Finn. If I can recover with you, I can deal with the rest. If I haven't lost you."
"You haven't lost me, but don't underestimate how tough those other things will be."
"I'm working on that. But it would help if you could refresh my understanding. Have I told you enough for now? Enough so you're willing to tell me how you found me? And why you came looking? I would like to think it's because you love me, but I know there's more to it than that. And I need to deal with the reality of my situation. What have I missed since Charleston?"
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