BOOKER Box Set #2 (A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense): Volumes 4-6

by John W. Mefford

I spotted the handle of a skillet. Then I caught another waft of the sweet smell—this one far more pleasant than the one that turned out my lights.

  A window on the other side came into focus, a dark, ugly curtain covering it up. Was it day or night? It felt like I’d been sleeping a while. My sweat had long since dried. Where was I?

  Who had me? It had to be members of the Amador Cartel.

  Suddenly, I heard boots clopping off the hard surface, moving closer. My body tensed. I slammed my eyes shut, but I couldn’t keep from sneaking a peak. A curtain flung open on the wall to my left, and my heart skipped a beat. A large man emerged, dressed in camouflage and military boots, walking in long strides. Was he holding…another skillet?

  With his back to me, he torqued the pan and something tossed into the air. Then he set it down on the counter. The sweet smell had turned tangy. Grabbing a spatula, he scraped a plastic bowl and poured a gooey substance into the first skillet.

  The itch returned with a vengeance, and I couldn’t help but flinch, my face contorting like a coiled snake, knowing I couldn’t reach the irritation.

  But I’d also just blown my cover of sleep. He knew I was awake. Turning my eyes back to the makeshift kitchen, I half-expected to see his ugly grill a foot from my face while tossing a three-foot machete back and forth between his hands.

  I only saw his back.

  “The shot I gave you is giving you the itching sensation,” he said with a flat accent. “Just give me a second here and I’ll take those cuffs off.”

  I replayed the words three times before I admitted to myself what I’d just heard.

  He was trying to play the role of the good guy, or least the best of the bad guys. Or was he playing me, just like everyone else had since I landed on the island?

  A metal skillet clanged against metal. It must have hit a burner of some kind. Then I saw boots and camouflage trousers walk toward the cot. The man leaned down, and I could hear his nasal passages forcing out breaths. He either had a cold or a broken nose.

  As he fuddled with a small key chain, I caught a glimpse of his neck, the skin slightly pliable. Was that a scar blending in with one of the creases? He twisted his head a bit, and the discolored skin disappeared.

  His hair was an odd combination of blond and chestnut, with a few visible streaks of gray, a bit of a curl at the ends, almost like a baby’s.

  This guy was some old fart. I’d take him down in seconds. He just needed to un-cuff my hands, and then I’d figure something out. My neurotransmitters weren’t firing like they should. Connecting thoughts and memories were coming in short bursts.

  One wrist became free, then he pulled off the second cuff and tossed the pair and the keys on the cot.

  “Feel better now?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that question; the itch from hell roared back, and I scratched like a dog covered in mosquitoes.

  “You look like a dog going after a mosquito invasion. If you had a tail, it would be waggin’,” he said, releasing a slight chuckle.

  Sitting up on an elbow, I hesitated, wiping my rubbery face. The phrase he used sounded similar to what I’d just thought. He wasn’t native to the Dominican Republic. I’d guess east coast of the United States, nothing south of the Mason Dixon line. Something didn’t add up here.

  Unless I was being set up. But why? For what? By whom?

  His chuckle echoed in my mind. Staring at a swath of concrete, I searched my memory database, trying to connect sound to a saved image. Something was there, but an association was murky, making me think it was an illusion, brought on by the drug combination, possibly the fatigue and stress of my wilderness adventures.

  “You need hydration right now. Drink up,” he said, sticking a glass in front of me. Damn, he was good at sneaking up on me.

  Then again, with my current limited faculties, King Kong could scamper up next to me and I’d hardly notice.

  Swirling the water for a moment, I brought the glass to my lips and paused.

  “Are you just trying to drug me again?”

  “Ha. Ever the cynic, aren’t you?” he said with his back to me.

  His voice was garbled a bit, but was sounding more familiar. Another quick reflection, but I couldn’t connect it with anyone I’d met. Or so I thought. Trusting my memory and cognitive ability was a dangerous proposition, mostly for my well-being.

  Without much thought, I downed the glass of water so fast the last third dripped down my wrist, spilling onto my face.

  “Nice,” I said, stretching my shirt to soak up the liquid.

  Swinging my legs over the side, I sat up and instantly felt a wave of queasiness.

  “That fentanyl will make you sicker than a dog. We’re starting to see a trend here, you and a dog.” He chortled once again, then started whistling like it was a lazy Sunday morning and he was cooking breakfast for the family.

  Bringing both hands to my face, I pinched the corners of my eyes, somehow distracting my rumbling gut.

  I lifted my eyes without shifting my neck. The man was vulnerable right now, absorbed in his cooking and whistling a tune that might have reminded him of when he was thirty years younger. Or maybe it reminded him of the last time he abducted a person and always kept drugs flowing through that person’s system.

  But what was his angle, if he wasn’t a member of Amador’s drug police?

  Maybe he’d gone rogue and wanted to hold me for ransom to fund his own drug-smuggling operation. Or possibly he was part of Amador’s gang, was given the role of playing friendly, but was nothing more than a mole. It would be the perfect cover, using a guy who spoke English, acted like he was American, warming up to me, slowly gaining my confidence and trust.

  What was next, him offering up to help me on my mission?

  “Once you’re able to put two sentences together without slurring your words, I want to talk about why you’re here. Maybe I can help.”

  Was this guy a fucking mind reader?

  Peeking between my fingers, I watched as the man never stopped moving. He pulled two fold-out chairs from behind the magical gray curtain, flipped each one open and plopped them down on the concrete. Then he kicked over a round, plastic table, fluorescent green…like I might find in Samantha’s bedroom in the future, although hers would have to be purple.

  Staring back at the long curtain, I wondered who or what was behind it. Two guys pointing sawed-off shotguns right at me, salivating, waiting to get the green light to pump me full of lead? Was it more of a closet that spilled into a bottomless staircase? His little playground to experiment on all the poor souls stupid enough to be traipsing around the mountain in the thick of night?

  “You still don’t know what happened. I can fill you in.” He reset the folded chair, scraping the legs on the concrete. Just as I glanced up, he turned away and went back to assembling his food items.

  “I’m not sure I can stand up,” I said, pissed at my inability to overcome the effects of the drugs.

  “You’ll get there. Just gotta fight through it.”

  “Easy for you to say. You’re the asshole who drugged me. Why, I still don’t know.”

  He ignored my comment.

  I watched him peel back the purple-flowered fabric under the counter, open a small fridge, and pull out a carafe of what appeared to be orange juice.

  “Join me for a bite. Your system needs some food.” He set down two small plates and two glasses of orange juice.

  He could have easily slipped a couple of Roofies in my juice.

  Damn, I was questioning everything. I was a cynic. At least today I was.

  Leaning back, I thrust my weight forward and pushed myself to a standing position. Head rush. Dizziness clouded my equilibrium, my calves bumping against the cot. Waving my arms, I couldn’t help but fall back right where I started.

  “Tell me you did that on purpose,” the man said with more than a hint of sarcasm. “Kind of reminded me of a Conan skit. Next thing you know you’re going to pretend to use
puppet strings to pull up each side of your body. You’ve seen that, right?”

  This dipshit was trying to act like we were old friends, yet I still had the faculties of a two-year-old.

  I blew out a breath, closing my eyes for a brief second.

  “Conan the comedian? The rebel who wouldn’t let NBC screw him over? My kinda guy,” the man said, clearing his throat.

  His voice sounded like it was perpetually gargling. Maybe he’d recently lost his voice or had a throat cold.

  “I know who he is.” I sounded like an old curmudgeon, maybe a hint of Uncle Charlie in me.

  Suddenly, a honking noise came from outside. I could hear the whine of an engine pulling up just on the other side of the flimsy wall. The man marched behind the curtain. Before it settled, he flipped back through the opening. He wore a shoulder holster, with a gun tucked in the pocket.

  “Who is it?” I asked just as his hand touched the knob on the door.

  He turned his head halfway, and a quick shot of adrenaline zinged my chest.

  Maybe he heard me gasp, but he paused, then swung the door open and slammed it shut.

  Rubbing my eyes with the butt of my palm, I knew I couldn’t trust any of my senses. They felt an odd combination of hyperactive and imbalance.

  Loud voices jarred my attention. More than one person, speaking Spanish quickly, like auctioneer fast.

  The man barked back, battling for supremacy over a rumbling engine. I couldn’t decipher much with his croaky tone. Just a few phrases. Tilting my head toward the metal wall, I made out a “pay you,” then “hombres,” and finally a “keep it quiet.”

  I had no clue in what context he had used those terms.

  The engine revved, and in a few seconds, I could smell the sickening exhaust. The place was definitely not well insulated.

  Crack!

  A gunshot. I flinched, a jolt pinging the base of my skull. I wondered if the man was being attacked. What the hell was going on? A drug deal gone bad?

  I lunged to my feet, releasing a grunt. Spreading my legs, I righted my balance. I plodded toward the door, reaching first for the flimsy chair. It buckled under my weight but served its purpose. My legs stiff as board, I focused on the next step, and then the next, a waft of that tangy sweet smell brushing under my nose.

  Pop-pop!

  Two more quick gunshots. My heart cracked my chest wall, wondering if the man who had ambushed me hours earlier was face down on the ground outside being force-fed his own blood. Why did I feel compelled to help or even check on him? Why the hell didn’t I go through the door with the curtain? I could have found a weapon or maybe a way out that wouldn’t cross paths with the thugs who’d shot the man with a garbled voice.

  Ignoring my own indecision, I lunged forward two more steps, falling toward the doorknob. I turned it, but it didn’t budge. Setting myself, I cocked my forearm, putting more weight into it. It seemed to be pushing back. I tried again and felt the same response.

  I was trapped inside. Without hesitation, I flipped on my heels, setting course for the gray curtain. Just then, the doorknob turned as an engine revved and tires squealed. Spanish voices hollered. I turned and took a step back to the door, wondering if one of them was coming inside to take me out. I saw a boot but didn’t wait to see anything else. Pushing off my back foot, I threw my shoulder into the door, crunching the person against the doorframe.

  “Ahh!”

  The man’s throaty yell. He was alive.

  I grabbed the door and pulled it away from his body just as he took a step in my direction. We locked eyes, a foot away from each other.

  My gut erupted into my back of my throat.

  His pale blue eyes twitched ever so slightly, but he didn’t look away this time. A thousand images flooded my frontal lobe, some of the man, some of me all alone cursing his absence, even a few of me as a five-year-old crying myself to sleep. Ten, no, twelve years had clocked by and nothing in return. It was like he was dead.

  “Hiya, Booker. It’s been a while.” His lips tried to turn up at the corners.

  My pulse redlined. “Not long enough. Dad.”

  9

  “I’ve grown to love the greats in the world of jazz and R&B,” Sean Adams said, a hand on his knee while he snapped off a piece of bacon. “From Duke Ellington to Stevie Wonder, Marvin Gaye. Most came out of Motown. Doesn’t get any better than that. Your mom got me going on that music years ago. Just can’t stop whistling the classics.”

  He released a guttural cough, as if attempting to dislodge a ball of fur. I wondered if he’d acquired a rare jungle disease while prowling around the dark landscape searching for people to mug.

  Crossing my arms, I sat six feet from a man I hadn’t seen since I was a sophomore in college. He had shown up to a Longhorns football game, even got to see me warm up on the sideline. I think he saw me as a possible future meal ticket, ride my football coattails, as it were. He probably wanted to join me on stage, shake the hand of the commish, share stories with other parents about how they supported their kids through years of tribulation and helped them overcome so many obstacles to allow them to be drafted into the National Football League.

  But that sure as hell didn’t materialize. Not that I didn’t dream of it when I was going to Madison High School in South Dallas. But dear old Dad never supported any of my goals or dreams. The more I thought about it, the more I realized I used his absence as motivation to show the world what I could do without a father.

  I realized it drove me to this very day.

  That night in Austin was the closest I ever came to taking the field in a live college football game, which is probably why Sean Adams never appeared again in my life. Not a postcard or phone call, text message or email. Nada. He’d missed everything that ever mattered to me, including the first six years of Samantha’s life—his granddaughter. Irreplaceable moments.

  But I’m not bitter. I would have laughed out loud, had I not wanted to deal with his annoying questions.

  “You going to tell me who those gun-toting thugs were outside?”

  With his head leaning over his plate, he shoveled in a mouthful of syrupy pancakes. I’d yet to touch my food.

  “You don’t want to talk about Duke or Stevie, huh? I get it. We’ll have plenty of time for small talk.” He coughed again, attempting to clear a throat that seemed like it was coated with hardening wood glue.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m responsible for people’s lives. I don’t have time to sit around and shoot the breeze,” I said, palming my eyes again. “Just need a little more time to clear my mental cobwebs, then I’m outta here.” I glanced at the door, wishing like hell I was already outside walking to anywhere, my focus back on the case that impacted a young boy’s life.

  “You do important work.”

  “Is that a question?” I asked.

  He opened his mouth.

  “Forget I said that. You’re prying into my life. The life I created without a bit of help from you.” I realized I’d been stabbing the air with my finger.

  He crunched through more bacon, then wiped a napkin across his mouth. I just noticed how different he looked. Age had something to do with it. He must have been close to sixty years old. His hair had some type of coloration issue going on, but his face was different. And then there was his voice.

  “I deserved that. And more.” He sipped his orange juice, then forked another chunk of goopy pancakes.

  Somewhat surprised to hear him admit to any wrongdoing, I could hear my stomach rumbling.

  “I don’t get the chance to eat like this very often. That’s why I’m being rude and stuffing the food in without waiting for you to start. I apologize.” He glanced at me, then returned his focus to his food.

  Sean appeared to be in decent shape, especially for his age. No visible underbelly or extra tire around this guy. I noticed a couple of veins snaking down his arms. He’d matched my strength on the other side of the doorknob earlier. Well, my strength when
sapped by a drug that could knock out an elephant.

  Another tangy waft caught in my nostrils. Inhaling, I could feel a void of core energy, even with my brain clearing up.

  “What the hell,” I said, reaching over and snatching a piece of bacon off my plate.

  A few seconds later, I’d finished off another piece of bacon and taken two heaping bites of pancake.

  “How do you like the recipe?”

  “Eh,” I said. “You got any fruit?”

  Lifting from his chair, he chuckled and walked to the counter. He reached under the counter and pulled out a red bowl.

  “Pineapple, banana, or orange?”

  “My body needs some vitamin C. An orange will work.”

  He picked up an orange and inspected it, like he was checking a baseball for a grease mark. He even tossed it in the air once. Then, without looking at me, he hurled the fruit on a frozen rope over my head.

  My instincts took over, and I leaped out of my chair, lunged a step and snatched it about nine feet off the ground. I felt a click in my right shoulder, and I moved it around.

  “Did you hurt that shoulder of yours again?” he asked, sitting back down opposite me.

  I’d been rubbing my upper arm, hoping I hadn’t partially separated it…again. It had been an issue since I’d been blindsided in a high school football game.

  My eyes pinched together. “How did you know I ever hurt it?”

  He nodded, a slow smile parting his lips. “We’ve got lots to talk about, Booker. While you were sleeping off your injection, I came to the realization that this was fate, you showing up in my life in the Dominican. It’s time to share everything with you.”

  I could feel my pulse surging for no particular reason. When I’d crammed my body into the Mini Cooper hours earlier, I mentally prepared myself for everything I could imagine, mostly involving tortuous, inventive ways to get me to talk, if I’d been abducted by the same cartel who had Esteban. But I wasn’t equipped to deal with revisiting my entire life, not in the Dominican forest and not while I was accountable for bringing home a kidnapped boy to his father…and my murderous ex-fiancée.