by J K Ellem
Shaw held his ground, lost for words.
Then as quickly as the nuclear explosion had detonated, the mushroom cloud began to disperse. Abby's expression softened and her face returned to her composed, confident self. She smiled, reached up and kissed Shaw on the cheek. "It's not your fault, Ben." Shaw kept his eyes on Abby as she let go and turned back to her car. She let out a breath of frustration, hands on hips. "I'll take it into the shop on Monday. My paint guy will take care of it. He's the best."
Shaw was stunned at her transformation. From calm and carefree one minute, to a raging whirlwind that threatened physical violence the next.
"Jesus, Cobb. Where did you find her?"
Cobb dropped the room key on the bedside table, next to a vial of yellow liquid and a syringe.
The room was small and musty, beige cinderblock walls, with worn laminate furniture, chipped and faded, from an era when orange, brown and lime green was fashionable. A television flickered in one corner, the volume turned up just enough to mask the sound of the restless moaning. A double bed with thread bare covers was pushed up against one wall. On the bed lay a young woman, bound and gagged. Her head lolled on a sweat-stained pillow. Her eyelids fluttered half-open, her gaze unfocused, her mind adrift in a comatose sea of drugs that Cobb had injected into her. A backpack sat on a chair in the corner next to several plastic water bottles and discarded take-out coffee cups.
"Found her hitch-hiking along the highway yesterday. Heading towards the bay." It wasn't like Cobb was out trawling in his car. He just happened upon her and his mind kicked into gear, thinking about the possibilities. She stuck out one long tanned arm to thumb a ride, his mind went into overdrive.
"Yesterday?" Gymp asked in disbelief. "Shit, dude, I'm impressed."
Cobb picked up the woman’s purse. He'd already gone through its contents. “Sofia Larsson, twenty-seven, from Sweden."
Gymp edged forward and gazed down at the woman. She had long blonde hair, her legs and arms were long and supple, tanned with a shimmer of fine hair. She wore cut off denim shorts and a white cotton singlet top, a lacy pink bra peeked out from beneath. A moan escaped her lips and she frowned like she was having a bad dream. Her reality was going to become a lot worse.
"God bless Sweden," Gymp muttered as her reached for her. "Roger Federer is my favorite tennis player."
"He's from Switzerland you idiot." Cobb rolled his eyes.
"Who cares," Gymp replied as if in a trance by the prize that was on the bed. "She looks like Maria fucking Sharapova with Serena Williams's boobs." The woman moaned again as he ran his fingers up one honey-tanned leg. It was incredibly smooth and soft. Women from Nordic countries had always fascinated Dean Gymp ever since he started watching Vikings on Netflix. The women in that show were incredible, cooped up for months in some icy fjord while the men went off raiding and plundering only to return to fuck them senseless.
Women from those countries were all tanned, blonde and wore skimpy clothing all year round. Mind you, he hadn't seen many around here. They all seemed to flood Central Park in New York City in the summer.
Gymp turned and smiled in appreciation at Cobb. "Thank you, brother. It's like Uber Eats for adults.”
"Don't thank me," Cobb replied. "This little appetizer is courtesy of Teddy." Cobb had shared his last minute plan with Teddy who had approved. Kicked in some cash as well to fund the little pre-party entertainment for the crew.
Ambrose said nothing. Just stood perfectly still, his skin had stopped itching. His tongue was thick in his mouth, a swollen, painful throbbing in his groin. The woman on the bed was roped-up like a steer at a rodeo. Ambrose liked to hog-tie women, Teddy had shown him how to do the knots properly. Women knew their place when they were tied up.
Gymp seemed mesmerized by the woman on the bed. "If she's just the appetizer, what's for main course?"
Cobb picked up the syringe. "You'll have to wait for the party tonight to see." He placed the syringe back into the zipper pouch that lay next to it. The last dose he'd given her would keep her quiet and docile for a few more hours. He placed the spent vial into a plastic bag and slid it into his pocket. He would dispose of it later after he had cleaned the room of all traces.
Getting the woman into his car wasn't a problem, he was an expert at this. Getting her compliant and into the motel room was another matter entirely. That's where the cocktail of drugs came into play. Once he jabbed her she was easy to handle. It also meant that afterwards her memory would be patchy at best.
When they were done, Cobb intended to dump her on the side of the road. Someone would find her, take her to a hospital, maybe. When she came around, she would be disoriented, confused and unsure of what had happened. The police would be called and a blood test would be done. Then they would discover the drugs in her blood system. The authorities would conclude that the entire incident was nothing more than a misfortunate series of events: a European backpacker, who probably took drugs on a regular basis, had dosed-up on a little too much. She would be cautioned, her visa cancelled and then sent packing back to whatever goat-herding shithole in Sweden she'd come from.
Cobb had it all planned. A small quantity of cocaine in a plastic bag planted in her backpack would seal her fate.
Running his hands further up her legs, Gymp found the buttons at the top of her shorts and hungrily undid them.
Cobb cut the ropes that bound the woman, stood back, pulled out his cell phone and activated the recording function. "Teddy wants a memento of the occasion for his collection. An Academy Award winning performance, boys. Nothing less.”
"Always happy to add another one to the collection," Gymp replied, pulling down his pants before swiftly removing the woman's shorts and panties together with one, deft tug.
Ambrose couldn't contain himself any longer. He stepped forward and wrenched Gymp off the bed, throwing him aside like a rag doll. "Me first," he growled like a rabid dog.
Gymp looked up from the floor, his pants a tangle around his ankles. "Shit man, I was here first."
Cobb directed the phone at the huge shape of Ambrose as he stripped off his clothing. The mattress sunk heavily to one side as his towering bulk rose over the woman, his body trembling, his muscles bulging under tight skin that shone like polished obsidian.
Cobb smiled and pressed record. "Go easy, man. Leave something for poor Gymp."
18
They arrived back at the Brenner Estate by mid-afternoon to find a security company van pulled up in the driveway, the gates wide open and a man with a tool box working on the keypad panel.
Abby drove on through and parked in the garage. She got out and walked back to the gates and spoke to the man. Shaw watched from inside the garage. Abby pulled out the map Shaw had drawn and handed it to the man. The man's face furrowed into a scowl as Abby explained. He wasn't happy being told his job. He glanced up to where Shaw was standing, the source of his grief.
Then Abby walked backed to the garage. "He's the contractor who installed the system and the fence for my father. He'll fix it all but there'll be a charge."
Shaw nodded, his eyes never leaving the man who went back to working on the keypad panel.
"I'm going to change and call the auto shop to see when I can get my car fixed."
Shaw held her arm. ”Just wait a second," and walked off towards the driveway gates.
"They’re rich, you know. Got a lot of money,” Shaw said as he approached the contractor. The man peered around the edge of the stone column, a big wrench in his hand and stared at Shaw. "What?"
"The Brenners," Shaw replied, and jerked his thumb back to where Abby stood. "Like everyone else around here. Big houses, nice cars, plenty of money, I imagine."
The man frowned. "So?"
"So, do you think that gives you the right to overcharge them?"
Now the man was angry. He stepped closer to Shaw. The wrench in his hand came up a little.
"Sorry," Shaw apologized. "Let me make it easy for you to understand.
Does it give you the right to rip people off? To get them to pay more simply because they have money?"
The contractor tightened his knuckles around the wrench. "What are you accusing me of?" he hissed. He was bigger, but older than Shaw and he certainly wasn't used to being questioned about his work.
Shaw smiled. "Your workmanship is shoddy at best. You used substandard materials. You didn't bother to secure and weather-proof that panel you're now fixing. You skimped on the installation of the perimeter fence. The metal and coating is substandard and you didn't dig the holes deep enough nor did you pour enough concrete."
The wrench came up and the man pointed it at Shaw. "Listen pal—"
Shaw didn't give him a chance to finish. He grabbed the wrench and twisted. It easily came out of the man's hand. Shaw dropped it to the ground. "I'm not your ‘pal’ but this is what you're going to do. You're going to fix everything for Miss Brenner, bring it up to industry standards and to the quality that the family paid for but you failed to deliver."
The contractor didn't seem so smug now he was more than a little taken back at how easily he’d lost his wrench.
"And when you're done, I'm going to check everything. If it's not to my liking then you're going to stay here until it is. And it's at no cost to the Brenners. Call it warranty work. I don't care what you put down on the job sheet.”
"And if I don't?" the contractor said, looking down at the wrench on the ground, thinking if he should pick it up and smash it into Shaw’s face.
Shaw shrugged. "Well then for a start I'm going to tell all the locals about your little business and the poor work you do. I've got photos to prove it."
The contractor started to protest but Shaw continued. "Maybe some of the people around here are past customers of yours. Maybe they'll start checking the work you've done for them. Maybe they'll be calling you sometime soon as well to fix what they discover."
Shaw could see the contractor’s eyes dart back to the wrench. If he went for it Shaw would make certain he would wake up in hospital. "Then I'll plaster it all over the Internet, how you rip off your customers, make it go viral."
The contractor’s shoulders slumped, defeated. He knew when he was beat. That was the last thing he wanted, to be called out, named and shamed on social media. He had a mortgage, family to support, bills to pay. His business would be ruined. This guy wasn't kidding either.
Shaw picked up the wrench and handed it back. "I'm asking you just to do a good job for what these people already paid for."
The contractor took the wrench and nodded sullenly.
"Buzz the intercom when you're done," Shaw said before turning and walking back to Abby.
Abby stood in the shade of the garage, her arms folded, watching. "What was that all about," she asked.
"Just a union meeting with the workers," he replied. "There will be no charge to fix everything."
Abby looked at Shaw in disbelief. "No charge? What did you do?"
"He should have done it right the first time," Shaw answered. "Don't worry, I've taken care of it." And with that, Shaw made his way back to the guest house.
The boat shed sat at the end of the dock near the seawall at the rear of the Brenner property. A small concrete path ran along the top of the seawall that continued to a navigation beacon perched at the end that faced the channel. A jetty sloped gently down to the dock with a ladder leading down to the dark waters below and where Edwards Brenner's sailing boat would have been moored. The boat shed was the size of a single car garage, made from timber and had a pitched roof of tin sheeting.
Shaw had asked Abby if he could take a look and she gave him the key. She didn't want to go there. Bad memories, she said.
When her father had vanished the police had searched the boat house and found no clues as to the whereabouts of Edward Brenner. No charts showing a planned course, no written notes, nothing that indicated where he intended to sail on that fateful morning.
The padlock was worn but well-oiled and turned easily when Shaw slid the key into it.
Timber creaked and stale air shifted as Shaw stepped across the threshold and entered a world of ghosts and past memories not his own.
Under the floor boards, the faint sound of waves lapping against the posts could be heard. Shaw paused in musty gloom, his eyes adjusting. There were three small windows, the glass covered with grime, that blurred the views of the channel, the line of the coast and of the main house on the right.
The ceiling was a lattice of dark wood, exposed beams and rafters. Old sail cloth, rolled and bound tight with rope was stored overhead together with planks of lumber and an old sailing mast. Marine wire hung from hooks and so did bunches of sailing tackle and loops of rope.
Shaw found a light switch next to the door but the solitary bulb that hung from above was dead.
A long wooden workbench that looked handmade ran the length of one wall. Above this sat rows of shelving made from old recycled planks that were crammed with an assortment of tins with lids, plastic containers, glass jars with screw tops, small cans of oils, varnishes, lubricants and other supplies required to keep an ocean-going sailing yacht in good working order.
A layer of dust and time had settled on every surface. Everywhere Shaw looked he saw order, care, organization. Ropes were carefully bound. Containers clearly labeled. Woodworking tools, grouped by function—cutting, screwing, sanding and shaping-- and hung with military precision on the walls.
A framed nautical chart of Long Island and the surrounding waters hung from one wall. A small photo, faded and curled with age was pinned to a cork board. It was a picture of Wind Dancer moored along the jetty outside. The picture was taken of the stern of the boat by someone who was standing along the seawall. There was no one on deck, no one in the photo, just the boat. Shaw imagined where the boat would have been, just a few feet away from where he now stood, rocking gently. Now it was gone.
Shaw unpinned the photo and slid it into his pocket.
A nautical chart was unrolled on a table, the chart pinned down by pieces of driftwood and an old brass compass and sextant. An old slide rule lay on the chart next to an open note pad and pencil. Edward Brenner was an old-fashioned engineer who trusted his timeless skills and training. The chart was of Erin's Bay and further out to sea. The note book was blank. Shaw slid off the makeshift paperweights and lifted the chart to the dull light of a window. Dust billowed as he blew across its surface. There were no markings, no scribbling, no clues, just the outlines of land, coastlines, and numbers marking water depths.
Shaw carefully replaced the map and stood for a moment in the middle of the boat house taking in what his senses were telling him.
The order, the neatness spoke of a man not easily given to chance. The boat house was Edward Brenner's domain, a private sanctuary, a place where he would retreat to when the world became too complex and too confusing. It was a place of solitude, a place of thinking while capable hands went to work making things. To cut, to sand, to shape and hone. Shaw could picture Edward Brenner here, lovingly varnishing a piece of wood, or fixing a sail.
This was a place where Edward Brenner would come to solve, to reflect, to work. This was a man not prone to mishap, who didn't blunder forward with reckless abandon. This was a man who understood the perils of the ocean, who didn't act on a whim, who gave careful consideration to everything before he acted, who planned, perhaps down to the infinite detail and who then even had contingency plans if those initial plans failed.
Edward Brenner was confident in own ability and knew all too well his limitations. He was more than capable of tackling the open ocean alone, had done so on numerous occasions according to Abby.
If the sea had in fact claimed Edward Brenner, then either something catastrophic had happened or, other parties had played an ominous role in his demise.
As Shaw closed the door and replaced the padlock, he had the distinct feeling that Edward Brenner didn't fall fate to circumstance. Something had happened to him. Some
thing deliberate. Something planned. Something intentional. Shaw had no proof. It was just a gut feeling.
The wind blew and it was cold as Shaw walked out to the end of the seawall. The navigation beacon winked at intervals and Shaw faced seaward, thinking about where the sailing boat was and what had happened to the man who loved it so much.
Out past the channel the limitless expanse of ocean boiled, dark clouds formed on the horizon in the distance.
Where do you start to look for a man who is lost at sea? It was a daunting if not an impossible task.
And as he stood looking at the ocean, Shaw's eyes kept coming back to the tall, slender shape of the lighthouse.
Behind Shaw, perched on the cliff tops, the Ballard mansion sat, cold and lonely. If Shaw had turned at that exact moment, he may have seen the shape of a person standing in one of the windows of the Ballard mansion, a person whose cold, ruthless eyes were intently watching him.
19
This time, Shaw borrowed a less conspicuous vehicle. There was an old pick-up truck on the estate that the gardeners used to ferry supplies and hardware when needed. Abby was disappointed when he told her that he wanted to drive up to the cliff tops to take a look and then have an early night. She pouted as she tossed him the keys to the truck, but was surprised when he asked her if she had a spare cell phone. "Why?" she asked. "You told me you prefer not to have a phone, that it ties you down."
"I know," Shaw replied. They were standing in a huge kitchen in the main house. "But just in case you need to call me."
Abby found an older prepaid phone she’d kept as a spare. It was fully charged and she programmed her new cell number into it. "Now I can call you if I need you," she said handing the phone to him with her trademark cheeky grin.
