MICHAEL LISTER'S FIRST THREE SERIES NOVELS: POWER IN THE BLOOD, THE BIG GOODBYE, THUNDER BEACH

by Michael Lister

  As he pushes me back toward the car, he holds up a badge.

  —Looks real, I say.

  —Cop I took it off of was, he says. I’m gonna fuck you up a little extra just for the aggravation.

  As we near the car, he stumbles on a piece of asphalt that had come off the street, and I sling my arm out of his grip. Lowering my shoulder, I lunge into him, and he goes down.

  Running toward the road, I find the first biker who’s by himself.

  —I need help, I yell. Guy’s not a cop. I swear. You can take me to the first cop you see.

  —Hop on, he says.

  He’s a tall, thin older man with a long gray goatee and a ponytail coming out of a red bandana, do rag. The goatee reaches down below his chest, his ponytail halfway down his back.

  —Guy’s really not a cop, I say.

  —Don’t give a fuck if he is.

  —He’s trying to kill me, I say. He’s part of a group who abducted a young girl. You can take me to a real cop if you don’t —

  —Hang on.

  The big guy is up now, running toward us.

  The traffic is not moving.

  He’s gonna get me again, I think, but the biker turns and speeds down the shoulder on the wrong side of the road in the direction we had just come from.

  Holding on the best I can to the sissy bar with my cuffed hands, it feels like I could bounce off at any minute, and it reminds me of something I overheard about riding bitch. It was just a random snatch of conversation, two guys talking about how they’d never wrap their arms around the waist of another dude — even if their life depended on it. There’s a reason there’s nothing back there, one of them had said. When your bitch is riding bitch you want her holdin’ on to you.

  When I look back, the big guy is getting in his car. With the traffic, there’s no way he’ll catch up to us.

  The biker dodges pedestrians and receives verbal abuse for a mile or so before getting back on the road.

  —Where you wanna go?

  —My car’s at La Vela, I say, but you can drop me anywhere. Thank you so much. You saved my life — and that’s not hyperbole.

  —Not what?

  —No exaggeration.

  Back in the parking lot of La Vela, I look for someone who can take the cuffs off. The best I can do is a vendor booth that sells tires, windshields, and wheels that has a set of bolt cutters. I explain the situation, but the guy who does it for me doesn’t seem to care.

  With my hands untethered, I pull out Kevin’s phone to call Rashard and Frank Clemmons, the bracelets sliding up and down my wrists as I do.

  When I move my finger across the screen to unlock it, I see that Casey’s phone is showing up again — and she’s here at La Vela.

  My quickening pulse pushes relief and excitement through me like a good drug, and I feel near euphoria.

  Racing through the crowd, I follow the signal inside the club, up the incline to the left and to the information desk.

  —Can I help you? the twenty-something brunette with a dark tan yells above the Metallica music.

  —I’m looking for my daughter, I say, holding up Kevin’s phone. My Family Map app says she’s here.

  —Huh?

  I explain.

  —I found an iPhone in the parking lot, she says. I just turned it on to try and call the owner.

  —Let me see it.

  —Call the number to let me know it’s the right phone.

  —You have more than one? I ask. Mine fell out of my pocket in the mens restroom in the Thunderdome.

  —Who’s that one belong to?

  —My son.

  —I tap in Casey’s number and a sweet, romantic ringtone begins to play.

  She hands me the phone.

  —Where exactly did you find it?

  —I can show you. What about your phone? Call it and I’ll give it to you.

  —I key in my number, my phone beeps, and she hands it to me.

  —Come on.

  She leads me out of the club and into the parking lot to a vacant spot between two tractor trailers with colorful murals on the sides — one for leather apparel and saddlebags, the other for performance parts.

  —Right here, she says.

  —Between these two — I begin, but then it hits me.

  I remember what was parked here. I saw it last night. Pure Pleasure Massage and Escort Services.

  She’s nodding, when I become aware of her again.

  —The trailer that was here, Pure Pleasure, when did it leave?

  —I’m not sure, she says. Hasn’t been very long ago.

  — I think she’s on a truck, I say. In a tractor trailer. Says Pure Pleasure on the side.

  —What? Frank Clemmons asks. What makes you —

  I give him a quick rundown of what I know and what I think.

  —How sure are you?

  —It’s just a best guess, I say, but the guy acted like they’re a big operation. I figure they’re trafficking girls. Case is probably just one of many — chosen specifically for this Grantham guy.

  —I’d hate to have every one of our guys looking for this truck and her not be on it.

  I spot Gerry standing in front of the booth for the Bitches Pro Shop and have an idea.

  —Then don’t, I say. Put it out there and use some of your resources, and I’ll get some extra help.

  —How’re you gonna — he begins, but I end the call and head over to a booth across the lot.

  The Bitches Pro Shop is an all female motorcycle club that works to raise awareness about and resources for womens’ issues, particularly domestic violence. I had featured Gerry and her girls in a piece I wrote on violence against women about a year ago.

  This girl power group, in which nobody rides bitch, is perfect for helping find Casey.

  —Hey Merrick, Gerry says as I walk up. You a rider now?

  —Hey Gerry. I need your help.

  —Name it.

  As fast as I can, I tell her what’s going on and what I need.

  —So you just need us to locate the truck?

  —As quickly as possible, I say. Do you guys have a way to communicate with each other?

  —Radios and cell phones.

  —Have them call nine-one-one when they spot it. Give them the location and tell them to let Detective Frank Clemmons of PCPD know immediately.

  —Can do, she says. We’ll split up, spread out, and run his ass aground.

  As Gerry begins to gather her troops, I turn to scan the crowd, wondering if the big guy is going to show back up, and see Rashard walking toward me.

  —Got your message, he says. What the hell’s going on?

  I tell him.

  —Fu-uck, he says, holding it out.

  —You gotta a handcuff key? I ask, holding up my wrists.

  He pulls one out and takes off my bracelets.

  —What’s the word on Vic? I ask.

  —Got an undercover set up on his house. We’ll have him when he goes home tonight — if not before.

  —He started all this.

  —We’ll get ’im.

  I nod, and began to look around.

  —Whatta you about to do? he asks.

  —Call in a few favors and start looking for the truck. You?

  —Look around here a little bit. Talk to the manager — see what they know about the guys who rented the lounge for their little private party last night.

  —Good idea.

  —After all that’s happened, he says, I want you take a couple of my friends with you when you go out looking for the truck.

  —Sure. Who?

  —Smith and Wesson.

  Back in my car, this time with Rashard’s friends, I try to figure out the best way to go. There was nothing in the man’s phone conversation that let me know which direction they were headed. But he did say he was going to meet them, didn’t he? He was headed west. Is that what they’re doing?

  There are only a few ways out of Panama City Beach — all highw
ays, no interstates. If they are going west, they could be picking up I-10 in Pensacola, but they could just as easily be heading up 79, north through Ebro, or back through Panama City, picking up 231 to Dothan or 20 to Tallahassee.

  I call Gerry.

  —Are your riders concentrated in one area more than others?

  —Most of them are out here around the beach, but some are up at the Outpost in Freeport or at Granny’s in Wewa. All over. The ones here I’m sending out in every direction.

  —Good.

  —But with the way traffic is, I don’t think they will have gotten very far.

  —True. Thanks.

  When she’s gone, I think about what she said. She’s right. There’s no way the truck has made it very far at all. Chances are, they’re trapped out here.

  With an event like Thunder Beach on top of how congested PCB usually is, they had to know this could happen.

  Do they even know we’re aware of them? They could be just continuing their operation at a different location. But if they do know we’re onto them, what will they do?

  They seem too organized and well funded not to have a plan for just such a situation. What would it be? What are their options?

  Easy — if you can’t run, you have to hide.

  Where and how can they hide?

  The where is among other semis — like a truck stop, but there’s not one anywhere on the beach. They were at the best place to hide — next to other Thunder Beach trailers. That’s it. What if they just moved to a different Thunder Beach venue? The Boardwalk or Frank Brown Park or Edgewater.

  I pull onto Thomas Drive and head toward Boardwalk.

  I have an idea about how to get most of the people in the area looking for the truck, but wonder if going public might endanger Casey even more. If they don’t know we’re onto them, we’d be tipping them off, but we’ll probably find them much, much quicker this way. Eventually, I conclude that involving more people is the way to go. It’s a risk, but we’ve got to find her fast. I’m afraid if they get her out of town, we’ll never see her again.

  Withdrawing my phone, I call Emily Balazs, the news director of the local NPR affiliate WKGC.

  When she answers, I explain the situation to her, give her Frank Clemmons as a contact for verification, and ask her to go on the air with a plea for help in finding Casey or locating the Pure Pleasure truck.

  Emily agrees to help. Not only will she have an announcement on the air within minutes, but she’ll contact the other radio stations in the area and ask them to run it as well.

  Next, I call the two TV news stations, reaching Donna Bell at WJHG and Amy Hoyt at WMBB. As with Emily, I had worked with the two women on investigative reports over the years, and they agree to go on the air to make a plea for help finding the Pure Pleasure truck.

  I then make one final call to Tony Simmons at The News Herald, who agrees to post the information on the paper’s website and print it in tomorrow’s edition.

  At Boardwalk, I run toward the parked tractor trailers and begin to look around.

  The approaching storm is much closer now, thunder rolling right off shore, lightning scribbling across the dark night sky, and I wonder how much longer the people will stay outside.

  As I near the trucks and trailers, I see that some vendors are already beginning to pack up their products.

  The atmosphere is electric, wind snapping vendor tent flaps and whirling bits of trash around. It won’t be long now.

  Like the trailers at the other rally locations, the ones lined up here are elaborately and intricately decorated, their sides enormous canvases for artistic advertisements of mostly motorcycle related gear.

  Even in the darkening night, even from a distance, I can tell the Pure Pleasure trailer isn’t among the twelve or so parked here, but I move closer to make absolutely certain.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to see that it’s Gerry.

  —One of our girls thinks she’s spotted it, she says.

  —Where?

  —West end of the beach. Almost to Pinnacle Port.

  —That’s great. Good work.

  —She’s moving in to get a closer look now. I’m not far from her, so I’m gonna head that way.

  —Have you called Detective Clemmons?

  —Waiting for confirmation before I do.

  —Is it moving or —

  —Yeah. Headed west on Back Beach.

  —Let me know, I say and end the call.

  I was wrong, I think. Not hiding. Running.

  I walk back to my car, thrilled the truck has been found and disappointed I’m not there.

  When I’m behind the wheel, the first smattering of raindrops pelt the windshield. Turning on the wipers, I smear them off.

  The radio comes on and I hear Emily’s impassioned voice.

  Local police are asking for your help locating a Panama City girl who is believed to be in danger. Sources close to the case identify the girl as Casey Saunders, who is five foot five inches tall, with short blonde hair and green eyes. It’s believed that Saunders’ abduction may be related to a suspicious death of a woman whose body was discovered in the Marie Motel Friday night.

  Investigators believe Saunders is being held in the back of a trailer last seen in the La Vela parking lot. The trailer has logos that read Pure Pleasure Massage and Escort Services, and is believed to be here for the Thunder Beach weekend.

  Again, authorities believe the abducted Casey Saunders is in extreme danger. If you have any information on the location of Casey or have seen the Pure Pleasure Massage and Escort Services trailer, you’re urged to call 911 and ask for detective Frank Clemmons.

  As I begin backing out, my phone vibrates again.

  —Where are you? Rashard asks.

  —Leaving Boardwalk.

  —Waitress working the Posh Ultralounge for the private party last night said the man paying the bills is staying in a suite at Sterling Reef.

  —That a condo?

  —Yeah.

  —Which one?

  —On Front Beach right across from Miracle Strip. Said he kept bragging about his martinique sunset room, trying to get her to join him.

  —Grantham?

  —Yeah.

  —She got a room number?

  —Yeah. I told you, he wanted her to come over.

  —What is it?

  —I’m about to head over there, he says. You can meet me if you promise to —

  —What’s the goddamn room number? Casey could be in there. If I get there first, no way I’m waiting to go in.

  I reach Sterling Reef before Rashard — by how much I’m not sure — but know he can’t be far behind me.

  It’s raining now, steady, but the thunder and lightning, though much closer, are still out in the Gulf.

  Parking in Alvin’s Island’s lot near the giant shark of Shipwreck Golf, I cross through the motorcycles on Front Beach in the cold rain, into the plush condo lobby, and up to Grantham’s room, my two new best friends in my pocket.

  In the elevator, my phone vibrates, and as I pull it out I see that it has very little charge left.

  —Oh God, Merrick, Gerry says. This is so...

  —What?

  —These sick fucks. They actually have sex slaves in this truck. It’s... I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve —

  —Is Casey there? Have you seen her? Is she okay?

  —Let me check, she says. Let me just walk around and see if... Actual slaves. Some are foreign, but some are young American girls. Very young. It’s just... I’m having a hard time not throwing up or running past the police and pummeling one of these pricks. I’m so glad we’re here, though. Several of the members of our club are helping the girls. Talking to them. Calming them down. Liz Jameson just got here. She’s taking care of —

  —That’s great, but what about Casey? Did you find her? Can I speak to her?

  —One more second. I’ve passed her picture out. I’m trying to find her now.
<
br />   —How many are there?

  —Eight.

  It sounds like she covers the phone with her hand, her voice muffled and I can’t make it out. She’s gone for a minute or more.

  As the elevator continues to rise, my stomach begins to sink, and a sense of dread descends on me.

  —What is it? I ask.

  No response.

  —Gerry. What’s wrong?

  —Merrick, she’s not here.

  Before Gerry’s call, I was actually thinking about waiting for Rashard outside Grantham’s door, but with the increased likelihood Casey’s on the other side, I have to go through it.

  My plan is to knock on the door, say I have a message for Mr. Grantham, then turn so all he can see out of the peephole is the back of my head, but when I reach his room, I discover I have no need to do anything but walk in.

  The door is kept open by the loop end of the door guard lock.

  I suspect this means he’s gone, but pull out the small revolver Rashard gave me, and slowly push open the door.

  It’s been a while since I’ve held a gun, and I’ve never done so in a situation like this. The last time I shot was at the range with my dad about three months ago.

  The room is dark and cold and smells faintly of cigarette smoke and industrial air freshener.

  Holding the gun with one hand while feeling for a light switch with the other, the wet copper smell reaches my nostrils just before I locate the lights and turn them on.

  A lamp on a table in the foyer comes on, and reveals the large man who had drugged me earlier in the evening. He’s lying on the floor on his side, his clothes and the area around him soaked in blood.

  I can’t be sure he’s dead, but he doesn’t appear to be breathing and there’s so much blood, I don’t really see how he couldn’t be.

  Carefully stepping around him, I venture deeper into the condo, bumping into nice furniture and feeling for light switches as I do.

  The décor looks like something out of a discount catalog — the work of a busy interior designer — nice, but not too nice. Shades of cream, peach, and sea foam green. Definitely intended for a rental.

  In the hallway, in the doorway of the bedroom, I find a large, older man lying face down in what looks to be more blood than one body can hold — shot to death like the first guy.

  I assume it’s Grantham, and a moment later the wallet on the bedroom dresser confirms my assumption.