Gator Wave
Page 26
But he knew it was no use. An alligator in the water could swim nearly twenty miles per hour. It was only three feet away now and picking up speed, preparing to thrust at its prey. As the creature’s toothy jaw opened wide, showing its mouth full of razor sharp daggers, Chad saw something sparkle. A glittering shimmer of something lodged in the beast’s maw.
Just before it took him, the infamous author of semi-famous Florida Fiction novels Frog Nuggets and Hammerhead Gal, could see the source of the shining.
Are those … sequins? As the mama gator slammed her jaws shut around him to protect her nearby nest of twenty-seven freshly laid eggs, Chad’s last thought was, who in the world wears pink, sequined camouflage.
And then she took him under along with the last, jagged piece of orange kayak he was holding tight in his hands.
Epilogue
Troy Clint Bodean felt sure that Lucas Walsh—the resident tennis pro of the Islamorada Tennis Club who’d raced off to Miami to win back his cheating girlfriend—wouldn’t mind him borrowing the dusty Prince backpack for a bit. He stuffed a couple of dirty t-shirts, two pairs of khaki shorts, a Woody’s t-shirt (that he’d found lying under the ash in the remains of the building,) and a pair of green and purple flip-flops that sported a Wimbledon logo. The collector’s edition flip-flops had been under the bag and were equally dusty. Lucas probably wouldn’t care because he might never notice that the things were missing.
He swallowed the last gulp of a tepid Corona, no orange, and tossed the bottle into a full recycle bin next to the refrigerator. It clunked against another one as it settled into the basket. Troy inhaled slowly.
“All used up,” he said, tipping his charred cowboy hat at the mess. “But headed for better things, I reckon.”
He looked around the apartment above the tennis pro shop. It was what some would call a crap-hole. The shredded green carpet and hole-ridden linoleum would appear to some to be a sign of disrepair, but to those who spent any time here, they would be signs of use—lots of loving use. Troy couldn’t remember how many nights he had actually spent in the room, but the ones he could count … they were good ones. Most of his time had been spent outside, on the island. He slung the backpack over his shoulder and walked out on the porch. He pulled the door shut, slamming it hard three times before it would latch. He turned the key, locking it, and slid it under the doormat that proclaimed:
IN TENNIS LOVE MEANS NOTHING.
He walked down the stairs dragging his fingertips along the bright pink bougainvillea that were blooming furiously as if to shout, “we want you, Troy.”
He answered them in kind, “there ain’t no livin’ with, with a killin’. There ain’t no goin’ back from it. Right or wrong, it's a brand, a brand that sticks.”
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he saw Sheriff Paul Puckett leaning against the ash-covered Ford Explorer that he’d been in just two days earlier. The sheriff looked tired, bags under his eyes and pale. But he wore a smile on his face that almost seemed real. He stood as he saw Troy hit the last step.
“There's no going back,” Troy muttered.
“If you’re hoping I’ll shout for you to come back as you ride off into the sunset, well, I might,” Paul reached out a hand.
Troy took it and shook it like the man was an old friend. He hadn’t been around the sheriff much, but in the short time he’d been down at the station giving his statement, he’d grown to like him, or at least not dislike him.
“I’m losing Ian, you know?” Paul said. “He’s headed back to the FDLE with the glory of catching The Cowboy Killer.”
Troy nodded. Ian had left the day of the big fire with the gangly man who’d reportedly killed a dozen people, maybe more since the day Troy had run into him at Benny’s World of Liquor. Lord, how long ago was that? A month? A year? He had no clue.
The sheriff waved his hand toward the Explorer. “I can give you a lift, if you like?”
Troy shook his head. “Appreciate the offer, sir, but I’ve spent enough time ridin’ around in the back seat of that thing.”
“I’ll let you ride up front,” Paul laughed.
“That’s mighty kind of you, sheriff,” Troy touched the brim of his hat as he said it, “but I’ll still pass.”
“Afghanistan, eh?”
Troy tried not to let his face show any emotion. “For a short time, yes, sir. How’d you know?”
“A soldier knows a soldier, son,” Paul said, picking imaginary dirt out from under his fingernails. “And also, I saw your file in Ian’s things.”
Troy wondered what that file would look like. He reckoned it might be seven or eight books worth of stuff. The Troy Bodean Omnibus, he thought, chuckling inside. Probably not worth the paper it’s printed on.
“Pay ain’t all that great,” the sheriff continued. “The benefits … well, they aren’t all that great either, but you’d get to cruise around the island in this guy.”
He slapped his hand against the hood of the Explorer exposing the white paint under the soot from the inferno at Woody’s.
“Much obliged, sheriff.” Troy sniffed at the air. “But, that ain’t really my thing. I figure I’ll just head to the bus station from here and figure it out from there.”
“Bus station, eh?” Paul Puckett reached out and took the backpack from Troy. He chucked it into the back and motioned to the passenger’s seat. “Least I can do is give you a ride up to seventy-four. There’s a Greyhound stop up there. You can ride in the front and I won’t even cuff you.”
Troy considered it for a second. It was only two miles, but he was tired, so very tired. “How can I turn down that?”
He got in and the sheriff clicked a button on the radio. Lindsey Buckingham was belting out the familiar chorus of “Go Your Own Way” by Fleetwood Mac. It was as if someone was scripting it all out. As Troy listened to the classic breakup song, he figured it was appropriate. He was, in a sense, breaking up with the sleepy little island town of Islamorada. As the sheriff droned on about the job at the police station, Troy watched the azure water swim by his window, wondering where he would go next.
“So, if I can’t talk you into it,” Paul said, pulling over at the bus stop, “where will you go from here?”
Troy extracted himself from the SUV with more aches and pains than he expected from such a short ride. He pulled his backpack out and pushed his hat down on his head.
“Ain’t sure. Maybe south. Maybe north. Won’t know until the wind kicks up and fills my sails.”
Air brakes hissed as a bus pulled in behind them. He glanced up at the destination sign on the front of the Greyhound.
“Key West it is,” he said, waving to the sheriff and stepping on.
THE END
Afterword
Over these past few books, Troy Clint Bodean has become less mythical character and more old friend to me. When he isn’t appearing on the screen as my cursor races across it, I wonder what he’s up to, where he is, and what trouble has found him this time.
This book is the longest and most complex Troy book to date and I hope you appreciate the hard work I put into it. I want each of these to be better than the last, and I put a lot of time and effort into making them as good as they can be.
Though Troy is always fun to write about, it does me good to write about other people, places, and things. (See the Also by David Berens page for info.)
There is VERY likely to be another Troy book, but my attention is shifting to another project that will introduce a whole new character named Amber Cross. She will exist wholly outside the Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller universe and will likely be more “thrilling” as well. Her first book currently titled Her Lost Alibi is a thriller about a case involving a man imprisoned for a murder even though he has seven alibis stating he was a thousand miles away. Surely, he’s innocent … right? Find out in January in a massive anthology project I’ll be involved in.
Don’t worry, there is a way to keep up with all of this—sign up for my newsl
etter.
Please be sure to visit TropicalThrillers.com/readergroup and join the BeachBumBrigade Reader Group so you’ll be among the first to know about my promotions, events and specials!
Fair weather and following seas, my friends,
Also by David Berens
As a thank you for buying this book, I’d like to invite you to join my BeachBumBrigade Reader Group. You can get 4 FREE BOOKS for joining (like some of the prequels mentioned below.)
JOIN HERE: www.tropicalthrillers.com/readergroup if you haven’t already.
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GATOR WAVE
A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller #8
All Rights Reserved © 2020 by David F. Berens
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.
Tropical Thriller Press 2020
Printed in The United States of America
Contact the Author at:
www.TropicalThrillers.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.