Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller Box Set 2

by David Berens

  Troy’s amazing time-slowing-down ability returned, and he knew what was about to happen. He tackled Alain hard to the side and the two of them slammed into the wall of the storage unit.

  “Down!” Troy yelled as loud as he could as they fell.

  RayRay raised his gun and aimed it at an approximation of where Becky was standing.

  The kid must be completely blind again, Troy thought.

  At almost the exact same instant, both Bobo and RayRay fired.

  But upon hearing Troy yell ‘Down’, Becky hit the floor, burpee style, and the shot from Bobo instead tore into RayRay.

  The shot from RayRay’s gun, aimed slightly high, then turned Bobo into the headless horseman.

  In a rain of blood and gore, they both crumpled to the ground.

  “Everybody okay?” Troy pulled himself to his hands and knees.

  No answer.

  Dangit, they’re all dead, he thought. But he realized he couldn’t hear his own voice over the ringing in his ears.

  Alain was moaning through the cottony air.

  Becky was holding a perfect plank position.

  Samantha rolled over, and Troy saw she was holding her arm. Something had hit her.

  He ran to her and found that she was hit, but not bad, just a scratch on her arm where a shot had grazed her.

  Everybody was alive… except Bobo and RayRay, both of whom were torn apart in a gruesome pile of grossness.

  And that’s when Troy heard the sirens in the distance. Dozens of them. At least a hundred cops – Troy never knew Savannah had that many – had finally shown up. Some cavalry.

  As they began to arrive on the scene, Alain said he’d called them and had tried to explain that something bad was going on and that he needed a cop to come with him to the storage units out by the airport. They’d swept it under the rug as a prank call, until someone reported hearing shots out at the same units. That’s when the call went out – ‘All units, come on down’.

  Troy helped the paramedics load Samantha into the back of the ambulance. One of them noticed his hand and insisted that he come and get treated for what looked like third degree burns. Begrudgingly, he went along for the ride.

  46

  Savannah Smiles Again

  Troy sat beside the hospital bed where Samantha was spending the next day recovering from her gunshot wound. Although it was only a scratch, the staff had insisted she stay for at least twenty-four hours to watch for infection. He’d had his hand bandaged and was diagnosed with mostly second-degree burns, and was given a good chance to live by the cute nurse who’d treated him.

  “So, they found the painting, eh?” Troy asked as she sipped on a Sprite.

  “Can you believe it?” she said. “Old LeFleur had it the whole time.”

  Troy shook his head. “I guess that was the print I saw when I went on my date with him.”

  “Uh huh,” she said, and smiled. “Says he didn’t even know it was there. Claims he got those tubes from the museum.”

  “Yeah, that would make sense,” Troy said. “I’m bettin’ old Bobo stashed that thing in the storeroom at the Jepson, thinkin’ he’d be able to keep an eye on it, and somebody else gave LeFleur the old tubes not realizing it was in there.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “maybe.”

  “And I heard that a rich dude from Silicon Valley bought the painting and the funds were deposited into your account.” Troy smiled and sucked his teeth.

  “Now, that much is true,” she said. “I got a bid from a contractor on what it would take to build a new battered women and children’s shelter here in Savannah. Mr. Gates… er, I’m not supposed to tell anyone that… but anyway, he paid that exact amount and then some to help us get started.”

  “A very worthwhile endeavor,” Troy said with a smile.

  “I’m going to call it the Tayler Evan House,” she said in a thick voice, “in honor of him. And his print will hang in the common room.”

  “Nice.” Troy felt his throat get heavy too. “A nice tribute.”

  They sat in silence for a second. It was one of those afternoons that sent sunlight streaming in through the blinds as the dust motes circled in the air. Troy’s eyes felt heavy.

  “Well,” he said, slapping his good palm on his leg and standing, “I gotta be ramblin’ on.”

  “Where will you go?” Samantha asked. “We could always use help around the build site.”

  “As much as I’d like to,” Troy said, “that ain’t my story. I’m the guy who gets out of Dodge when things get real.”

  “You know,” she said, “you could change that story.”

  “Yeah.”

  Troy stood looking at her from the doorway. She was the perfect image of the painting Tayler had created. Her left shoulder was bruised and the sheets behind her flashed with sunlight… almost like a smoldering fire. But this girl’s eyes were different… beautiful, and full of hope. He almost walked back into the room…

  Instead, he tipped his Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat, and said, “See ya ‘round, kid.”

  One stray tear fell from her eye and traced a path down her cheek as he turned and walked away.

  Becky Patton and Alain Montgomery greeted Troy in the lobby. Shockingly, Alain was dressed in black spandex pants and a fire-engine red tank top… crossfit gear. Becky was dressed the same.

  “Well, well, well,” Troy said, smiling at the pair. “She’s gotcha doin’ the old crossfit, eh pardner?”

  “Yeah,” Alain said sheepishly, one hand tugging at the embarrassingly tight shorts. “I promised I’d at least give it a try.”

  “Good for you, pal,” Troy said and smacked a hand on his shoulder, “anything it takes to please a woman is a worthwhile endeavor.”

  “Can I get that in writing?” Becky said and laughed.

  “You bet,” Troy said, “I’ll send it to you on a postcard.”

  “You’re moving on then?” Alain asked with a little surprise in his voice.

  “Yup,” he said, “that’s how my story goes. I come to a new town and wear it out for a bit. If I stay too long, I start getting’ antsy and such… like a junkie without his stuff.”

  “That’s too bad,” Becky said, a wry smile on her face. “I might’ve had you crossfitting before long.”

  Troy laughed and tipped his hat back on his head. “Darlin’, the last thing anybody wants to see is this old butt in those tight shorts.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” a voice said from behind them.

  They all turned to see Mortimer LeFleur standing at the doorway with his arms crossed and leaning against the jamb.

  “Look, Troy,” he said, “I never meant to be cross with you. I just thought it absurd that you would even think such a terrible thing of me as to… to murder one of my best students.”

  “That truly is my bad, Mr. LeFleur,” Troy said, extending a hand to shake the professor’s. “I reckon I was goin’ on bad info.”

  “No offense,” LeFleur said, then turned his attention to the hallway behind him. “How is our Samantha?”

  “Aw, heck,” Troy said, “she’s fine, they just don’t wanna let her out just yet. Runnin’ up the insurance bill, I s’pose.”

  “I’ll just pop in and say hello then,” he said, shaking Troy’s hand.

  As their professor walked away, Alain turned to Troy. “Can we at least give you a ride somewhere? Airport? Bus station?”

  “Nah,” Troy said, “I’m good. I was actually able to procure a little scooter that was parked out behind the storage units. I’m not positive, but I think it was RayRay’s from after his eyes got better.”

  “The cops let you have it?” Becky asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “What they don’t know,” Troy said with a wink, and put a finger to his lips, “won’t hurt ‘em.”

  She rolled her eyes and tugged on Alain’s shirt. “Let’s go see Samantha.”

  They turned and made their way down the hall. As Becky reached Samantha’s door, she
leaned back out and blew Troy a kiss. He reached out his hand and caught it.

  Well, Troy thought, time to scoot on out of here.

  47

  Sailing Away

  Two-hundred miles out of town, in the middle-of-nowhere, Georgia, Troy pumped gas into the little red scooter he’d borrowed from the scene of the crime. He was been trying to stop the meter at exactly ten bucks – the last of his Club One earnings. Unfortunately, his reflexes being what they were, he overshot by two cents.

  He walked into the gas station and handed the attendant the ten-dollar bill. “You got two pennies?” he asked.

  The kid pointed at a sign on the front of the counter, that read: No Extra Change For Gas Purchases.

  “Dangit,” Troy muttered. “Hold on a sec. Lemme see if I can wrangle up two cents.”

  He walked back out to the pump and kicked around the ground. Nothin’. No change, just a bunch of crumpled straw wrappers and a few lumps of old chewing gum. He pulled up the seat of the scooter that covered the storage compartment. Inside, he found a black canvas backpack.

  “Gotta be some change in there,” he said to himself, pulling the pack out of the scooter.

  He unzipped it and almost fell over. Inside were stacks and stacks of hundred dollar bills wrapped in paper rings.

  “Well, I’ll be…” he said to no one.

  He pulled off the top bill and walked back into the store.

  The kid behind the counter pointed at another sign that read: No Change For Bills Larger Than Twenties.

  “You’re kiddin’ me, right?” he said, stuffing the bill into his pocket. “You got a mop or somethin’ like that?”

  The kid pointed to a dingy bucket behind the counter with a mildewed mop sitting in it. “Clean the bathrooms,” he said, “and we’ll call it even.”

  Backpack strapped tight on his back, Troy made quick work of them – having done plenty of similar duty back at boot camp. Then he hopped on the scooter and headed north on I-75. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but he was already making plans for the money. Something with a really big sail… and a pirate flag… and a little Buffet on the radio.

  Skull Wave

  A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller #5

  Part I

  I’m On A Boat

  “Fortune brings in some boats that are not steered.”

  -William Shakespeare

  1

  Yes, I Am A Pirate

  Troy Clint Bodean woke to the gentle sloshing of waves patting the side of his new sailboat. A fortuitous finding of a stash of cash that had come from a couple of bad guys funded his recent purchase of the 1998 Island Packet 40 foot cutter. She was gorgeous and big! Hell, he had more room here than he’d had back on the houseboat in Key West.

  He stretched out his arms to both sides and couldn’t touch either wall. Sun streamed through the oval windows and the rocking of the waves almost put him back to sleep. He had brought his new boat up to Nags Head preferring to skip right on past South Carolina – too many bad memories there – and had found a fun little fresh fish and seafood restaurant to work in. Just a smidge better’n a dive with a hokey fiberglass shark on the roof, the place did a ton of business.

  Troy caught fish for them and worked as a line cook part time for those customers who – as the menu put it – “didn’t want to do the cookin’.” He knew how to do both those things, and he did them well. As a bonus, the seafood that was about to go out of date was handed over to the employees to do with as they wanted. More often than not, Troy had more to eat than he could handle.

  He sat upright quick remembering that he’d had a shrimp boil with Kimberly and Dana, a couple of the waitresses from last night. He didn’t remember them coming back to his boat, but neither of them was in bed with him, so that was a good sign. He sat up and stretched out the cricks in his neck and his head swam – definitely too many Coronas last night. But the girls were cute, the food was fantastic, and the music was tropical… a fun time was had by all.

  Pulling on his khaki shorts, he grabbed his hat and threw it on his head. His new Ray Ban Wayfarers – the Costas had fallen into the water a few months back – perched on his face nicely and made his grin turn more from McConaughey into Cruise… at least that’s what the girls had told him.

  He tapped his knuckles lightly on the other stateroom door. Nobody answered. Probably still hung over as hell. He decided to leave them be for a bit, maybe catch a few fish and throw back a mimosa or two… or maybe a bloody Mary. As if on cue, his head began to pound. The fridge revealed that his orange juice was out of date and empty to boot. The champagne bottle clinked around on the floor – just as empty. There were two beers sitting sideways in the fridge so he grabbed one and popped the top off.

  “It’ll have to do,” he muttered to himself and took a long gulp.

  When he began to feel slightly more human, he decided to head up on deck and see what the lobster cages had caught. Hauling them in by hand, he was pleased that they felt heavy. A good score would put a little money back in the bank for fuel and bait.

  Hand over hand he pulled the cage up and was happy to see several big guys clicking around the wire mesh. And that’s when everything stopped… or more precisely began to run in slow motion. At the center of the cage, with a lobster climbing on it, was a head… a human head. It had been chewed on for sure, but it looked like it hadn’t been there long. Dragging the cage on board, he got a better look at it and saw that there were – to his horror – two heads in the cage.

  The first was Dana’s… the second was Kimberly’s. Troy dropped the cage and bounded down the stairs to the stateroom. For reasons he didn’t understand, he knocked. He pounded. Nothing. He stepped back and put his foot up. Slamming it into the door, the jamb splintered and it sprung open. Inside the room were two beds covered in huge pools of blood.

  “Dangit.” Troy muttered. “Here we go again.”

  2

  Tuesdays And Thursdays

  Troy tried to recall how many times he’d been handcuffed, dragged from his home – or boat on some occasions – and thrown into a jail cell. Some of his days in Vegas and Louisiana were a bit hazy, but he could remember the odd instance here and there through the years. He tried desperately to shake off the blackout from last night and remember what the hell had happened, but it was hidden in margarita slush.

  He could remember most of the shrimp boil from down at the Austin Fish Company where he worked on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Kim and Dana had made a batch of shrimp with the wrong seasoning, so it had to be done all over again. Pounds and pounds of Cajun shrimp would be thrown out without even gettin’ cooked and the girls would foot the bill for screwing it up. Troy thought that was a crime, so he’d paid the tab, bought the shrimp, and offered the girls a meal after work if they could bring the beer. They’d laughed and giggled all the way to the Seaside Six Pack and back. Not long after that, the evening had started to glow. Troy boiled up the shrimp in the closed shop’s kitchen. Then they’d all sat underneath the scraggly palms out back at the picnic table, peeling shrimp, dippin’ ‘em into cocktail sauce, crackin’ open beers, and singin’ Bob Marley tunes until well after dark.

  And that’s pretty much where it all went black. Troy assumed he’d gone to the boat after that to sleep it off…and obviously the girls had come with him. Waking up to find the empty, blood-soaked beds would’ve been bad enough, but then to find their heads in the lobster cage. He shivered at the thought. What the hell had happened?

  The door to the cell opened and the officer who’d brought him down here cuffed him again, ushered him out. The island station wasn’t very big and Troy guessed there might’ve been four officers working including Darla at the front counter.

  “Hey, Troy,” she called and waved at him.

  “Darla,” he said as he nodded and realized his cowboy hat wasn’t on his head.

  Had they taken it from him or had he left it on the boat? He had no idea. As the officer led him down the hall towa
rd one of the offices, he asked him about it.

  “Did I come in wearin’ a cowboy hat?”

  “Don’t remember no hat, buddy.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Troy hoped it was somewhere on the boat. Then he wondered if that was a ludicrous thought. He might never leave this jail again. The officer stopped them at the last door and knocked.

  “Y’all come on in,” a slow South-Carolinian drawl called from behind the frosted glass.

  The door read: Samuel F. DeFur in gold leaf, bold type letters. The officer opened the door, led Troy in, un-cuffed him, and directed him to sit in a chair across from a man sitting behind a slate gray steel desk. The surface of the desk was neatly organized into piles of manila folders, yellow pads, and loose sheets of paper. They were stacked meticulously. What the man didn’t have was a computer, a stapler, or a cup with various types of pens and pencils in it. He was holding a black Ticonderoga pencil in his left hand, the only writing instrument Troy could see anywhere in the office. The man’s right hand was on the yellow pad, tracing lines of notes written on it. His lips moved as he read silently. Every so often, he’d mumble something incoherent, make a small notation, and then continue on. Troy waited for what seemed like ten minutes before Sam looked up at him.

  “Well, well, well,” the detective said in Morgan Freeman’s voice. “Mista Bodean. What have we got here?”

  Troy took a deep breath. “Sir, I know what this must look like, but I didn’t have anything to do with those poor girls getting’—“

  “I see you served in Afghanistan, Mista Bodean.”

  “Sir, yes sir.” Troy felt himself inclined to answer that way, but he wasn’t sure why.