by D P Lyle
“Good. Now one more question. And this one is very important. Anyone else know where you were going?”
“Only Raul,” Darrell said. “He told us where to meet the boat and what time to be there. Ask him.”
“I would but I don’t think he’d tell me.”
“Sure he would. Why wouldn’t he?”
“Raul’s dead.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Darnell said.
“Jesus has nothing to do with this.” Borkov stood and nodded to Zuma. “Go ahead.”
Zuma and Boyd hoisted the brothers to their feet. Boyd arranged them back to back while Zuma wrapped more duct tape around them, binding them together.
“What are you doing?” Darrell asked, his voice high pitched with panic.
“Cleaning house,” Borkov said.
Darnell heard the clanking of metal on the deck. Then Zuma was beside them, a thick chain in his hand. He and Boyd wound it around the brothers, securing it with a padlock, leaving a three-foot tail. Boyd and Zuma left the deck for a minute and returned with a rusted metal disc. Thick, four feet in diameter, heavy enough that the pair struggled to settle it on the deck near the stern. They then shuffled the brothers to the stern, lifting them up on the seat where Darrell and Grace had sat earlier.
“Don’t do this,” Darrell said. “We won’t say a word.”
“I know you won’t.”
“We’ll help you find Heather.”
“I think I can manage.”
Zuma fastened the metal ring to the chain with a clamp. The two men lifted the ring, their heavily muscled arms rippling. He looked at Borkov. Borkov nodded.
They muscled the ring out over the water. Darnell felt a sharp yank and his feet lifted from the seat. He floated over the rail and seemed to hang in the air for a brief moment, then the water was cold and dark. The pressure on his chest built rapidly and his ears popped as they plunged deeper. He felt Darrell writhing against his back. Pain knifed through his head as his eardrums ruptured.
Oh, Jesus.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
GRACE MADE HER way below deck, through the galley, and down the hallway to the master stateroom. Not an easy journey. She was hammered. She banged into the stair railing, the galley table, and a doorjamb along the way. Why had she drank so much? Not to mention the meth Darrell kept feeding her. She managed to scrub off the sparse makeup she wore and smeared moisturizer on her face, her nightly ritual. Wasn’t easy. She eyed the head more than once, stomach churning, thinking she might throw up.
She stretched out on the bed, not bothering to undress. The gentle rocking of the boat seemed more forceful than usual. Her stomach rocked with it. She took a few deep, slow breaths and closed her eyes. It’ll pass, she thought. She focused on a single spot on the ceiling and thankfully her nausea began to settle.
She pictured Darrell. He was cute, even hot. Another time, another place, she would have been interested. But not here, not now. She enjoyed his attention, of course—what girl wouldn’t?—but that’s all it was. A brief flirtation with the help. Victor was her future. She had made that decision a dozen months ago and wasn’t about to screw up this gig. She’d seen and done things that she never imagined. Paris, San Francisco, Hawaii. Places she had only dreamed about. Not to mention the days and nights on this amazing ship.
Victor was good to her. Very good. The best of everything. Clothes, food, wine, whatever she wanted, he made happen. Effortlessly. All she had to do was make him happy. Not an unpleasant task. Victor was the best lover she’d ever had. Not that there had been that many, but he was amazing. Big, hard, and the stamina of an athlete. Even at his age.
No, Darrell was a momentary distraction. A fun little game.
Victor understood. He knew she liked to flirt. Knew it was only a game. Knew she was his and wouldn’t do anything stupid. In fact, he encouraged her flirting with the men he brought on board. He said it made them relaxed, unfocused, and more malleable. She remembered he had used that exact word. She had had to look it up to see what it meant. It made her feel good that she could not only make Victor happy but also help with his business dealings. It made her feel needed.
Another wave of nausea rose. A few deep breaths didn’t help. She swung her legs off the bed and sat up. That didn’t help, either. Everything seemed wobbly, off-balance.
Ginger ale. That’s what she needed. Victor always kept it in the fridge. Said it was great for seasickness, settling the stomach. She glanced at the bedside phone, thinking she’d call the staff and have some brought to her. But that would take ten minutes or so. She needed it now.
She stood, her legs wavering. Steadying herself against the wall, she made her way back down the hall to the galley and tugged open the refrigerator. The can she pulled loose from the plastic six-pack ring felt icy in her hand. She rolled it across her forehead, the cold a welcome relief. She snapped open the pop top and took a gulp, the liquid chilling her chest and stomach. Better. Another gulp.
She heard voices. Not normal conversation but high pitched, pleading.
What the hell?
She placed the ginger ale on the counter and walked halfway up the steps, just until she could see across the deck toward the stern. She froze.
Darrell and Darnell stood on the rear seat. Back to back. Odd. Then she saw they were wrapped with duct tape. What the hell was going on? Boyd and Zuma crab walked into view, shoulders hunched, struggling with something heavy they carried between them. They turned as one and she saw it was a thick metal ring. They swung it back and with audible grunts tossed it over the ship’s stern. Darrell and Darnell seemed to leap airborne, hovered briefly, and then they were gone.
She recoiled, losing her balance, stumbling back down the steps. She crashed to the floor.
“What the hell was that?” Victor’s voice.
She scrambled to her feet. Nausea swept over her. Her heart tried to escape from her chest. Sweat popped out everywhere. Cold. She felt the room spin. She staggered to the sink and vomited. Ginger ale, Champagne, fish tacos, and bitter bile rushed upward, burning her chest. She vomited again.
Then Victor was there.
“What’s the matter?”
She kept her head down, shoulders rolled forward. “Too much to drink.” Her stomach lurched again. “Maybe too many tacos.”
Victor glanced toward the stairs. “I see.”
He rested a hand on her shoulder. He was suspicious. She could hear it in his voice. Knew the real question he was asking: Had she seen what happened? Maybe he didn’t care. Maybe he trusted her. Maybe he didn’t. Not a chance she could take.
Play sick. Play dumb.
“I’ll be okay. Just give me a minute.”
“Want to lay down?” Victor asked.
She nodded and swiped the back of one hand across her mouth. “I think I should before I fall again.”
He helped her to the stateroom and she tumbled on to the bed, rolling to her back, one arm over her face. “I’m so stupid.”
“How so?”
“Drinking that much. It’s Darrell’s fault. He kept filling my glass.”
“So I saw.”
“I hope he’s not sick, too.”
“I don’t think Darrell’s having much of an alcohol problem about now.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
HEATHER MACOMB WAS pissed. Darrell had said they’d be back early. “At dawn,” he’d said. But here she was waiting for nearly two hours and still no Darrell. Yet again she’d cut her morning classes. For this? Not that she minded ditching school, but not to hang around the marina wasting time.
She walked to the end of one of the piers and gazed out toward the Gulf. A few boats cut through the water but they were small fishing rigs, heading out for a day of fishing. Not the massive boat Darrell said he and Darnell were going out on. Surely if it were anywhere out there she’d see it. A bump on the horizon. Something. But the water was flat, the horizon line crisp and unbroken.
What an asshole. She should dump
his sorry ass. He treated her like shit. Like a toy. A plaything. She deserved better.
“Can I help you, young lady?”
She turned. The man was old, thin, slightly stooped, and wore khakis, a loose t-shirt beneath a dark-blue windbreaker, and a cap, also dark blue, Marina Staff stamped on it.
“No, thanks. I’m waiting on someone.”
“Out fishing? The one you’re waitin’ on?”
“Yeah.”
“Probably got into a hot spot and lost track of time.”
“Maybe. But they’ve been out since yesterday morning.”
“Ah, an overnighter.” He scratched the stubble on his chin. “Used to do that myself. When I was younger. Not now. My old joints won’t take being out on the water that long anymore.”
“Sorry.”
“Not your fault. But Old Mother Nature can be a bitch.” He tilted his cap back. “Course youngster like you don’t got to worry about stuff like that.”
“You work here?”
“Sure do. Try to keep the boats moving in and out. Keep things clean.”
“You get here early?”
“Five thirty. Like clockwork. Been doing it nearly thirty years now.”
“Did you see a large boat come in today?”
“How large we talking?”
“I don’t know. But from what I was told, very large.”
“Nope. Not today. Course we don’t get many big ones here. They mostly come and go out of Pensacola. You think they might’ve docked there?”
“No. He said he’d be here around dawn.”
“Ain’t been in here. Not no big boats.”
“Maybe they didn’t dock. They went out on a smaller boat. Out to meet the bigger one. Maybe they came back on that. You seen anything like that?”
He shook his head. “They’d’ve settled right out there if that was the case.” He pointed toward the Gulf. “I’d’ve seen any boats large enough to have a tender boat. Can’t hardly miss ’em. Specially as flat as the water is today.”
“Thanks.” She walked past him, back up the dock.
“They’ll be along before too long, I suspect,” the man said.
“Hope so.”
She returned to her car. Leaning against it, arms folded over her chest. Now what? Did they go to Pensacola? Or maybe back where she had left them out near the old fort? Darrell would’ve called if that was the case. Maybe. Reliability and Darrell had never actually met. But she was their ride home, after all. Unless, of course, Darrell the flake forgot that.
She tried Darrell’s phone for like the millionth time and yet again it flipped over to voice mail. She didn’t bother to leave another message. Twelve should be enough.
She stood there fuming for a few minutes and then decided to swing by their apartment. Maybe they got back middle-of-the-night early and went home to sleep. Well, she’d just go wake his ass up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
GRACE FELT LIKE hell. Her head seemed as if it were stuffed with soggy paper, her eyes and throat dry and scratchy, her mouth sour and metallic. Daylight pressed against the stateroom curtains. According to the bedside clock it was 9:15. Victor was already up and gone. Probably on the deck, making phone calls. She had slept in fits and spurts, but he had no such problem. Moving little, snoring softly, he slept as if all was normal. After tossing two men overboard? What the hell?
Several times during the night she had rolled to her side and stared at Victor’s sleeping profile. Trying to decide if she really knew him. Truly understood his nature.
She had met Victor a year earlier, while she waitressed in a Naples resort restaurant. He had been charming and flirty. Handsome in a rugged way and obviously in charge of all around him. Zuma and Boyd hovering constantly, speaking only when spoken to, ready to jump every time Victor so much as nodded. Victor wore wealth and power easily. Heady stuff. She had resisted his advances. At first. But he persisted and she finally agreed to dinner. Innocent, she told herself. But by midnight she found herself in his palatial suite, on her back, him on top, whispering in her ear, taking charge of her body like no one she had ever encountered. Within a week she quit her job and sailed away on his yacht. They had been together ever since.
Her mother had been horrified, but Grace assured her that Victor was kind and generous and offered her a way out of serving tacos and tequila to jerks. Her mother argued but ultimately gave up, saying, “It’s your life so do what you wish.” More resignation than endorsement.
The past year had been filled with glamorous trips, the best food and Champagne, and parties with celebrities and sports stars and business types. Victor seemed to burn through money like the supply was unending. For him that was apparently true. It had all been dizzying for a girl from a modest background. The boys she had dated were just that—boys. Silly, stupid, and falsely macho. Not Victor. He was a man and he was in complete control of his world. But in the middle of this whirlwind life she had chosen, something happened. Something she never would have predicted. She fell in love with Victor Borkov. Deeply in love.
But now?
She knew Victor was shady. She wasn’t stupid. She’d overheard bits and pieces of conversations that hinted of illegality. The Mexican drug dealer that spent a week with them fishing and diving off Cozumel. The three Eastern European types who had unloaded boxes of automatic weapons from the Sea Witch and then disappeared across the Gulf in their high-speed boat. The Armani-suited businessmen who brought bags of hard cash to the frequent meetings Victor directed. Not to mention the stream of pro athletes who powered through the bikini-clad blonds that seemed to pop up like weeds at Victor’s estate in Naples.
She rationalized this is as simply business in the upper echelon of society. Choosing to ignore the signs she should have taken more seriously. Given what happened last night, much more seriously.
She sat on the edge of the bed, trying to gauge her balance. She realized the ship was no longer moving. Where were they? She stood and pushed back the curtain. The light seemed harsh, but as her eyes adjusted, she realized they had docked. How had she slept through that?
After a quick shower, she slipped on a pair of white pants and a red long-sleeved pullover, sweeping her damp hair back over her shoulder. She swiped on a bit of lip gloss and stared at her reflection in the mirror, steeling her nerves. Could she pull this off? Did she have another choice? Her mother had always said she’d make a great actress and now she would have to prove it. If Victor believed, or even suspected, that she had seen what had happened on deck what would he do? Trust her? Kill her? Either was possible.
She slipped on her sunglasses and headed toward the galley. Zuma and Boyd greeted her when she walked in.
“Have enough to drink last night?” Zuma asked.
“Way too much. My head feels like the drummer for Metallica is having a practice session in there.”
Boyd laughed. He handed her a mug of coffee. “This might help.”
“Thanks.” She cradled the mug and took a sip. “Maybe this and a brain transplant.” Another sip. “Where’s Victor?”
Zuma jerked his head toward the stairs. “On deck.”
She made her way up the steps and took a seat at the table across from Victor. He had his laptop open, the remnants of a Bloody Mary next to it.
“Good morning,” he said. “Sleep okay?”
“Sorry. I don’t know what got into me. I never drink that much.” He smiled. How could he be so relaxed? So unconcerned? “I didn’t even know we had docked.”
“About an hour ago.”
“Where are we?”
“Pensacola.”
She massaged her scalp. Even it hurt. “Where’s Darrell and Darnell?”
“Gone.”
“Gone?” Was he going to confess? If he did, how should she react?
“I had a job for them. They took off as soon as we docked.”
Liar, she wanted to scream. Instead she said, “I hope they weren’t as hungover as I am.”
“They aren’t.” He drained his drink. “Maybe you should have one of these.”
“Oh, no, I don’t want to see alcohol for a long time.”
“Hair of the dog. It’ll help.” He waved a hand and Brian Wirtz, the ship’s chef, appeared as if by magic. “Make me another. And whip one up for Grace.”
Before she could protest, he was gone.
“What’s on the schedule today?” she asked.
“I have a couple of potential investors boarding around noon.”
“I need to go to the mall at some time,” she said. “To pick up a few things.”
“Not today. Maybe tomorrow. We’ll be here a few days.”
She started to protest but thought better of it. “That’ll work.”
“These guys’ll be on board a few hours so you’ll be on entertainment duty.”
Meaning that she was supposed to look sexy, be flirty, make them feel welcomed and relaxed. Show them what the good life was like. That hooking up with Victor would be a good thing. That opening their checkbooks would buy them a slice of all this. It was the game. Victor had trained her well. She knew what was expected.
Brian returned, two Bloody Marys in hand. He placed them on the table. “Can I get you something to eat?” he asked Grace.
“That would be great. What did you make today?”
“I have a smoked ham and Swiss quiche, croissants, and fruit. Or I can make an omelet. Whatever you want.”
“Maybe some fruit, yogurt, and granola?”
“No problem.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
RAY, NICOLE, AND I easily found the Wilbanks brothers’ nondescript Gulf Shores apartment building in a quiet neighborhood maybe a mile as the crow flies from the beach. According to the manager, one Clifford Rucker, a middle-aged, balding guy who wore the mark of alcohol and cigarettes on his creased face, the brothers lived in Number 22, upstairs, back side. He stood in the open door to his unit, a cigarette with a dangerously long ash perched in one corner of his mouth, bobbing as he spoke. Yellowed fingers clutched a glass of amber whiskey and partially melted ice. Getting the day started early.
