Now You See Him (Roy Ballard Book 4)

by Ben Rehder

  “I didn’t know Jeremy Sawyer,” I said. “But from what I understand, he was a great guy. Whatever happened on the boat, his family deserves to know the truth.”

  His expression changed, and I had a hard time reading it. Anger? Remorse? Guilt? Didn’t matter. Either way, it was a tell. Starlyn’s story of the kiss may or may not have been true, but something else happened that caused the cover-up. I was sure of it now.

  I said, “I’m sure it’s nerve-wracking to be in charge of the safety of so many people—especially a lot of young drunk people behaving like idiots. When you throw in all those laws and regulations, it’s probably hard to make sure you do everything just right. The heat of the moment—people are panicking. ”

  Meatball was a large man, but he seemed to be shrinking into himself. He was holding his sunglasses, but they slipped from his hand and landed softly on the carpeted deck. He bent to retrieve them, and that’s when something peculiar happened.

  I began to think about the carpet. The tan carpet. Just your basic water-resistant carpet that you find on boats, docks, and outdoor patios. And it was right then that I realized the carpet on the two decks wasn’t identical. Here on the lower deck, the carpet was just plain tan. But the carpet on the upper deck was tan with a faint herringbone pattern to it. Such a small detail—and yet it told me so much. How had I missed it for so long?

  I looked up and saw that Meatball was watching me. I should’ve turned and left. I had what I needed. But I wanted more. I wanted Meatball to confirm my new theory, and to come forward with his account of that night.

  “The kiss wasn’t the problem, was it?” I asked.

  It appeared that Meatball wanted to talk, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it.

  “It had nothing to do with Anson Byrd being jealous,” I said. “The problem was bigger than that.”

  Meatball’s reaction—or lack of one—told me I was right. I paused again. Meatball remained silent.

  “You’ll have to tell the truth eventually,” I said.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Meatball said. He put his sunglasses on—no longer wanting to make eye contact.

  “You sure?” I said. “Or are you just too scared of Gilbert Holloway and Eric Moss?”

  “Dude,” Meatball said, shaking his head.

  He seemed right on the verge of coming clean—like he was torn between telling the truth or staying loyal.

  But ‘seemed’ is the key word, because that wasn’t what was actually happening. No, he was shaking his head for an entirely different reason—more like, Oh you poor son of a bitch—but before I could figure it out, I was hit from behind, hard, on the side of the head. My knees buckled and I fell forward, unable to stop myself as I fell into the gap between the boat and the dock.

  27

  I don’t know if I lost consciousness or not, but I was suddenly aware that I had an up-close view of the carpet in question. Just tan, no herringbone pattern, which meant I was on the lower deck. I was lying on my belly, with my right cheek pressed flat on the deck, and my shoulders were killing me.

  That’s because I’d been hogtied, tightly, by someone who knew what he was doing. Made sense. Plenty of rope on a boat, and I’m sure Meatball had mastered a variety of effective knots.

  I was soaking wet, with water still trickling from my hair and running down my face, indicating I hadn’t been out of the water for long.

  My head was hurting pretty badly, too, although not as much as I would have expected. Just a medium-sized headache at the moment.

  A foot stepped over me. The foot was clad in a basic leather sandal, so I knew it wasn’t Meatball. The other foot followed, and now I saw hairy calves, and he stepped further away, so I could see his khaki shorts and teal-colored polo shirt, and then his face. And his captain’s hat.

  Gilbert Holloway.

  Then someone else stepped over and joined him.

  Anson Byrd.

  They both stood looking down at me. I realized now that the boat was moving.

  “If you’re not careful, your boat is going to get a bad reputation,” I said.

  “Shut up,” Holloway said.

  “Good point,” I said.

  Holloway looked away—checking the horizon. I assumed Meatball was at the helm.

  Anson Byrd was still glaring at me.

  “Nice to meet you, Anson. Pardon me if I don’t shake.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “What an odd greeting.”

  “Eat shit.”

  “That’s just rude,” I said. “I thought we might be friends. Maybe play squash together.”

  “You ain’t seen rude yet,” he said.

  “Or proper grammar,” I said.

  I could tell that he was seething, but he kept quiet.

  The lower deck had a hip-high railing around the perimeter, with a running bench beneath that for passenger seating. Unfortunately, the area beneath the bench was used for storage, so I couldn’t see through it. I had no idea where we were on the lake or whether any other boats were nearby. It also meant no passing boats would be able to see me.

  Holloway was looking at me again, waiting patiently, and I figured I wouldn’t like where we were going or why we were going there.

  “I understand why you’re trying to protect Starlyn,” I said, “but you’re only making it worse.”

  Anson said, “You really need to shut the—”

  Holloway held a hand up and Anson went quiet. Holloway was much more composed than the previous time I’d encountered him. Like he was angry, but resolved.

  I was fairly certain we were heading in a northward direction, based on the position of the sun. Lake Travis had an average depth of more than sixty feet when it was full, as it was now, and some places between Hudson Bend and Volente were more than two hundred feet deep. In the past few decades, at least nine people had disappeared into the lake and never been found. I tried to push that thought from my mind.

  “Hey, can we go down the slide later?” I asked. “Maybe break out some of the water blasters? That would be fun.”

  Neither man replied.

  “I have to say, the name Island Hopper just doesn’t fit this boat. Surely I’m not the first person to point this out. The colors are all wrong. Too sedate.”

  I was acting calm. Cracking jokes. But inside I was a mess. Starting to panic. I tried to pull against the ropes, but there was absolutely no chance of breaking free.

  “The cops will find my car at the marina,” I said.

  “We’ll move it later,” Holloway said. “Maybe drive it to Dallas or Houston. Or take it to the middle of nowhere and set it on fire.”

  “They’ll track my phone,” I said.

  “I already turned it off and tossed it into the water,” Holloway said.

  Anson Byrd had a look of smug satisfaction on his face.

  “Come on, guys,” I said. “Think this through. It’s almost impossible to get away with murder nowadays. Too much technology. Think they won’t find surveillance cameras at the marina?”

  Holloway laughed. “Funny you mention that. A lot of the boat owners have been bitching at the marina management to install a security system. Some of the boats got vandalized a few weeks ago after a frat party.”

  His phone emitted a tone, so he pulled it from a holster on his hip and checked the screen, apparently reading a text. Then he stepped over me again and walked to the other end of the boat. A few minutes later, I could hear him talking, but I couldn’t make out the words.

  The barge kept moving right along. Not fast—just the same kind of pace you’d expect on a leisurely outing.

  “You shouldn’t get messed up in this,” I said to Anson.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he said. He was practically licking his lips.

  “Really?”

  “Paybacks are hell,” he said.

  “Payback for what?”

  “Being a pain in the ass.”

  “You’re ruining your future.”
>
  “Maybe so, but I’m gonna ruin yours first,” he said.

  “I have to admit I admire a clever retort,” I said.

  Now Meatball and Holloway were having a conversation behind me, but I still couldn’t make out any words. They were intentionally keeping their voices low.

  By this point, my shoulders were screaming, my thighs were cramping, and my neck was beginning to ache.

  “Does Eric Moss know what y’all are doing?” I asked.

  “Be quiet,” Anson Byrd said.

  “Could you flip me onto my side?”

  “Nope.”

  “Loosen the rope a little?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’m a sensible guy,” I said. “No matter what happened that night, Starlyn wasn’t responsible for Jeremy Sawyer’s death. I can keep it to myself. Won’t tell a soul.”

  Holloway came back. “What’s he saying?”

  “Trying to talk his way out of it,” Anson Byrd said. Then, to me, he said, “They will never find you.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  The pitch of the barge’s motor dropped a little. We were slowing down.

  Anson Byrd hadn’t answered my question, so I said, “You’re making things worse for Starlyn. When they find my—”

  “They will never find you,” Anson Byrd repeated.

  “You’re dreaming,” I said. “They’ll send divers down, and if that doesn’t work, they’ve got underwater drones with sonar and HD cameras.”

  “It’s a big fucking lake,” Anson Byrd said. “And if they do find you, so what? They won’t be able to tie it to us.”

  “They’ll put pressure on all three of you,” I said, “and one of you will eventually break. That’s the way it always happens. One of you will take a sweet deal, and the other two will probably get the death penalty. Like Ben Franklin said, three people can keep a secret—if two of them are dead. Oh, hey, Eric Moss knows about this, too, doesn’t he? So that makes four of you. And you don’t think anyone will talk?”

  Now the drone of the engine dropped even lower. We were idling.

  Holloway walked behind me again and was gone for several minutes.

  Then he came back and dropped an anchor on the deck directly in front of my face.

  “Should’ve minded your own business,” he said.

  Mia was on her way over to Dennis Babcock’s house, but she pulled over to call me. It went straight to voicemail.

  She said, “Hey, I’m meeting with Roscoe and Lorene in a little bit, and I was hoping to talk to you beforehand. Did you get my voicemail earlier? Call me in the next thirty minutes if you can, okay?” Then she added, “This morning was nice, by the way. I’ll see you later.”

  “Speaking of Moss,” I said, “how much is he paying you to do this?”

  Gilbert Holloway’s expression changed just enough to give me an answer.

  Anson Byrd tried to laugh it off. “Dude, you are so desperate.”

  “Oh, come on,” I said. “Think about it. Moss is the only one who isn’t here, and he probably wants me gone more than any of you. Plus, he’s richer than hell. When you get caught, and you will, he’s gonna say, ‘Hey, I had no idea what those knuckleheads were doing.’ Then he’ll get the best lawyers money can buy—for himself, but not for you.”

  “Shut up,” Anson said.

  “And despite all that, y’all haven’t asked him for a dime? Use your head, man.”

  Anson grabbed the anchor, which obviously wasn’t for the barge. Too small. Something you’d use for a sailboat or a buoy. Probably weighed about thirty pounds. Mushroom shaped. It would certainly pull a body to the bottom of a lake—but would the body stay there? Considering that the bottom of this particular lake was littered with the remnants of old trees and other collected detritus, yeah, there was a good chance the anchor would get the job done. Anson began to remove the existing rope from the anchor and replace it with fresh new rope. Chain would be better, but I wasn’t going to offer that little bit of advice.

  I noticed that Gilbert Holloway hadn’t moved. He was just standing there, possibly pondering what I’d said.

  “Fifty grand would be nothing to Moss,” I said. “Or even a hundred grand. Hell, ask for a quarter million and see what he says. The man is worth some serious cash. You’re taking all the risk. What’s he doing?”

  Anson picked up the anchor like it was a toy and moved it closer to my feet. He began to tie it to the rope around my ankles. Holloway didn’t move.

  Anson looked at him. “He’s just stalling.”

  “Yeah, but he’s got a point.”

  “Seriously? Now you’re gonna think about that?”

  “Why not?”

  Anson shook his head.

  “You think he’s going to be your father-in-law someday?” I asked. “He’s not going to want you in Starlyn’s life after this.”

  “You shut the hell up,” Anson said.

  “Can you imagine sitting around at Thanksgiving, having this secret between you? A constant reminder of the worst thing he’s ever done. Why would he subject himself to that?”

  Anson Byrd said nothing. I was starting to get to him.

  “Might as well get some money out of him instead,” I said. Then I looked at Holloway. “And what about you? You’re buying this boat from him, right? Bet he’s financing it for you, huh? The least he can do is call that loan square.”

  Holloway’s expression told me he was surprised I knew about his purchase of the Island Hopper.

  “What’s he gonna say?” I asked. “No? Fat chance. You’ve got the upper hand. How often does that happen when you’re dealing with a guy like Moss? You’d be an idiot not to take advantage of it.”

  “He’s just trying to buy himself some extra time,” Anson Byrd said.

  “Well, of course I am,” I said. “Wouldn’t you? But that doesn’t make what I’m saying any less sensible. It’ll take five extra minutes. Why not call him?”

  I really didn’t have much of a coherent plan at this point. I was stalling, because what was my alternative?

  I waited, trying not to appear terrified.

  “Come on, Gilbert,” Anson Byrd said, getting more agitated. “We don’t have time for this shit.”

  I said, “It’ll take five minutes.”

  Byrd suddenly kicked at my face, but I managed to pull my head back, which brought renewed aches from my burning shoulders.

  “Hey! Cool it!” Holloway barked.

  “You let this kid tell you what to do?” I said to Gilbert. “He’s the one who caused all the problems to start with.”

  Byrd said, “We need to—”

  “Just be quiet for a minute and let me think,” Holloway said.

  “What’s there to think about?”

  “You don’t think you deserve some money for this?” Holloway asked.

  “Maybe,” Byrd said. “But it’s too late now.”

  “Why?”

  Byrd just shook his head. He had no answer.

  I realized I was holding my breath. I wanted more time. Even a few extra minutes might make the difference.

  After a long pause, Holloway said, “Fuck it. I’m calling.” Then he stepped around me again and walked to the other end of the boat for some privacy.

  28

  Mia called a third time and left another voicemail. “Hey, slacker, you got your phone turned off, or did you fall down a well? Give me a call, okay? Or shoot me a text if you’re in the middle of something. I’ll be meeting with Roscoe and Lorene in about an hour, but I just want to hear from you, so I know you’re okay. Text me, call me, something. Please.”

  Fifteen minutes passed. We were waiting, and I was smart enough to keep my mouth shut. Every minute that ticked by was a minute in my favor.

  Obviously, Holloway had not reached Eric Moss. He was waiting for a call back. Great news for me. I later learned that Moss—being what many people might call “a rich douchebag”—owned two homes: his primary residence here in
Austin and an oceanfront cottage in San Diego. I was fortunate that Moss and his wife were, at that moment, on a plane bound for San Diego. I was even luckier that the plane had no Internet access. Moss was effectively out of touch until the plane landed.

  Gilbert Holloway and Anson Byrd sat on the bench near me, mostly silent, but every now and then Byrd would say something, like, “We can’t wait all day.”

  “Just a few minutes longer,” Holloway would reply.

  “You keep saying that.”

  “Because you keep opening your fucking mouth every five fucking minutes.”

  The bickering was fine with me.

  Anson resorted to shifting around impatiently, but he didn’t speak. Every now and then, Holloway would check his phone, looking for an incoming text or call that hadn’t come yet.

  Mia was less than a mile from Roscoe and Lorene’s house when she remembered our conversation earlier that morning and had an unsettling idea. She pulled over and dialed my number yet again.

  “Roy, seriously, maybe I’m overreacting, but now I’m starting to get worried. Did something happen with Garlen? Where are you? Give me a call. I’m going to blow off my meeting with Roscoe and Lorene for now. So... let me hear from you.”

  Her mind was beginning to race. Did Garlen catch Roy snooping around his car? Did they get into another fight? It wouldn’t be out of the question for Garlen to carry a gun.

  Then she remembered the tracker on Garlen’s car. Was it still on there? Checking the data might provide some useful information. She opened the tracker app—and stared for a long moment at her screen, slightly confused. According to the map, the tracker was now located in the parking lot of the marina where the Island Hopper was docked. It threw her for a moment.

  Did Roy go out to the marina again?

  Confronting Gilbert Holloway again would’ve been a stupid idea—possibly even dangerous.

  Is that why Roy isn’t calling me back?

  She had another useful tool that might provide an answer. She opened the Find My iPhone app. We both had each other’s Apple ID and password—for events just like this. She logged in with my password, saw a graphic of a compass calibrating, and then a map appeared, showing the Hudson Bend area. She noticed that my phone wasn’t at the marina itself, but was instead in the middle of Lake Travis, and that it had been offline—either out of range of a tower or turned off—for one hour and seventeen minutes. That didn’t make sense. Mia knew that area was well served by cell towers. Getting a signal wouldn’t be a problem, even out on the water.