by David Berens
“Get the hell off my boat, ya scurvy rat! Yer stinkin’ up the place!”
The voice surprised Troy and he looked up. It was Jamaica Jack…but he wasn’t yelling at Troy. He was instead standing a few feet away from and old, gray man holding an oar. Mel. The crusty seaman was holding the paddle up and preparing for a fight. Jack was grinning and Troy saw why. In his hand, he held a massive machete-looking knife. Amazingly, Mel took a step toward Jack, who stood his ground. And why not? Only an idiot would bring an oar to a knife fight, Troy thought.
He opened his mouth to shout at Mel and tell him to get away. Before he could say anything, his eye caught a flutter of movement just to Jack’s right. Riley…covered in blood. Troy wondered how badly the poor girl was injured. And then, Mel lunged at Jack. Oar held forward like a spear, he nearly dove at the much larger man.
Jack stepped easily to the side and Mel’s wooden oar thumped against the cabin of the ship. The bigger man laughed and his hard, leathery belly shook giving Troy the unmistakable image of some sort of sick tropical Santa Claus. He brought his machete up and was about to swing down on the wiry back of Mel, but before he could, the old guy swung sideways hard with the oar. It connected with Jack’s torso, and Troy was sure he heard a crunch.
Jack’s eyes flared with anger as he clutched his side. Mel stood up and grinned.
“If I’m a scurvy rat,” he wheezed at Jack. “I’m carryin’ the black death for you, Jack.”
Troy couldn’t help but cock his head to the side. He understood the reference, but it wasn’t exactly the kind of thing that would strike fear in most people. In fact, Jack looked a bit puzzled.
“Ya know,” Mel felt the need to explain, “the plague…black death…1300’s? Bubonic Plague, man. Do ya not know what I’m referrin’ to?”
Jack snapped. “I know what yer talkin’ about, old man.”
Troy lost track of the banter between the two old sailors when he saw Riley jerk upright to a sitting position. Luckily, neither man noticed. He felt his eyes go wide and was relieved to see she was looking right at him. He held up a finger to indicate that she should stay quiet. She gave him the smallest, most imperceptible nod. He returned it with a slight nod of his own. He inhaled slowly, trying desperately to think of a plan.
But suddenly, Mel was taking another swing at Jack, this time from his right side. The blow connected higher on the salty dog’s shoulder and sent him flying down to the deck. He rolled away quickly, his blade clattering as he did. Troy saw a chance. Mel moved to follow his prey and Troy leapt up. He ran to Riley with his arms outstretched. She saw him coming and jumped up. He grabbed her by the forearms and jerked her backward toward him. She almost flew off her feet and Troy was happy to find that she was lighter than he expected. In one swinging motion, he flung the girl back over the shattered aft rail of Jack’s boat and onto Mel’s tug.
“Run!” he hissed at her.
She didn’t ask questions. When her feet hit the deck of the boat, she turned around and sprinted toward the cabin of the tugboat. And that’s when Troy realized the damage done to Jack’s boat was more serious than he had guessed. They were taking on water and the boat was getting closer and closer to dipping into the waves. The boat was sinking. Once water got up onto the deck, it would sink pretty dang fast.
He jerked his head around and saw Mel standing over Jack. He had his oar pressed into the man’s throat and was shoving downward hard. Jack’s face was bright red and he was gasping hoarsely.
“Mel, no!” he shouted.
And then the first bad thing happened. Later, Troy would call it the worst timing ever for a PTSD episode. He no longer saw Jack or Mel.
He saw Harry Nedman. Screaming in the sand. He heard nothing; the blast that had ripped Harry in two had deafened him. Dang I.E.D. The oddest sensation was the cold sweat that sprang up on his forehead in the searing heat of the desert.
He yelled and screamed and tried to run to Harry. But they were taking fire from somewhere above. Troy sank to his knees as he watched the light fade from Harry’s eyes. He died with his hand outstretched toward his friend. Troy put his face in his hands. He kept them there until he felt the water splash up on his thigh. Water? What the hell?
He pulled his hands away and opened his eyes. And the episode was over. Gone as quickly as it had come on. As the scene in front of him began to crystalize, he saw that something had gone terribly wrong for Mel. He was not hovering over Jack anymore with his oar jabbed into the man’s neck. Mel was now leaning back on the rail of the boat, his oar was gone, and Jack had his sword raised and pointed at the man’s chest.
Troy yelled something, but no sound seemed to come out. Jack plunged the sword forward and Troy watched as it sank into Mel. The old man’s eyes went wide and his tongue jutted out of his gaping mouth. No, Troy thought, I’m not losing another Harry. In an instant, he was running. His knee screamed in pain, but he sprinted as fast as he could toward Jack, whose back was toward him.
And then the second bad thing happened. The boat tipped back suddenly, it’s bow rising high in the air. Water surged under Troy’s feet and he slipped and fell into the knee-deep water. They were about to go down. That’s when Jack saw Troy. He bared his teeth in an awful grin…a grin full of madness. Troy tried to get up, but his feet couldn’t find solid purchase in the ever-rising blackness of the water. And Jack was on him. He lifted the machete high over his head. It was going to come down in the middle of Troy’s skull.
A crack of what might’ve been thunder interrupted Jack’s murderous swing. He stumbled backward, clearly surprised. Troy saw a dark red spot of blood bloom on the man’s right shoulder. His arm immediately went limp and the blade flew out of his grip. His gaze went up above Troy’s head and his eyes widened, but then turned into slits of anger.
He growled something unintelligible and another crack spit the air. Troy turned around to see the angel of death standing on the bow of Mel’s tugboat. She was naked and glowing in the darkness. And in her hand was the fire.
Clarice stood on the deck with a pistol held in both hands. Her eyes were determined and calm. She rolled her head around on her neck and Troy was sure he could hear the cracks of her spine. She raised the pistol slightly and closed one eye. Jack must’ve realized she was getting ready for the kill shot because he turned around and bolted away. Clarice pulled the trigger and the shot hit him high in the back. He stumbled and fell to a knee, but then stood again and ran. He dove right over the top of Mel’s unmoving form and leapt into the darkness. Troy heard the splash as the man entered the shark infested water. He’d chosen death by beast rather than by beauty.
As if waking from a nap, Mel looked up at him in apparent surprise.
“What’s all this about?” he muttered.
Troy crawled toward him and grabbed the rough man’s hands and pulled him up.
“Let’s go old timer, this rig is goin’ down and I don’t wanna be on it. Too many sharks in the water ‘round here.”
He pulled Mel’s arm over his shoulder and heaved the man up to stand. They swayed and stumbled in the rocking wreck of the boat and Clarice helped pull them on board when they reached Mel’s tug. Even in his injured state, the old man leered at Clarice’s nude form.
“Really, Mel?” Troy asked him.
“What? What? I might be old, but I ain’t dead yet!”
“This is true.”
“But ya know what I’m wonderin’?”
Troy wasn’t sure he wanted to follow the man’s line of thought, but he couldn’t help himself.
“What is it, Mel?”
“Where’n the hell was she keepin’ that gun all this time?”
Troy reached up to slap his forehead and was stunned to find that it was still there. The Outback Tea Stained straw cowboy hat had survived the entire ordeal. And then in the blink of an eye there were four Coast Guard boats surrounding them. As Jack’s boat gave a lurching gurgle and began to sink faster, a familiar voice crackled over a louds
peaker.
“Troy, you okay out there?”
Troy almost slapped his forehead again.
“Yer a little late to the party, Duffy.”
And then it was gone. All of it. Jack’s boat, Jack, Barry, and…Meira.
22
Off Into The Sunset
The search for Meira’s body lasted three weeks before the Coast Guard and local authorities leading the effort assured them she was truly gone. The ocean had taken her. No, Troy thought angrily, Barry had taken her. Fitting that the bastard had gone down with her. Riley had given the whole story to the police as she sobbed uncontrollably. Her grandmother had flown into town from Boston and custody of Riley was turned over to her. She would be okay. It would take time—a lot of time—but with the help of therapy, she would eventually find some peace.
Troy wondered if therapy would help him as well. His episodes of PTSD had gotten worse recently and he wasn’t sure why. And he’d made up his mind after Meira’s memorial service that he wasn’t staying in Nags Head. He had no idea where he would go, but this town was over for him. Riley was gone to Boston. Meira was gone into the sea. There was nothing for him here now.
He’d left a lot of towns in a funk, but this was bad. In the space of a week, he’d lost his boat, his belongings, and…his love. He had run from problems before, but now he wasn’t sure his problems wouldn’t follow him. He sat at the bus station on a bench with no bags, no belongings, no ticket in his hands. Tears didn’t come anymore, but neither did emotions.
“Hey,” a voice called to him.
He looked up to see a red convertible Mercedes idling in the road. A woman was driving and it took Troy a few seconds to come up from his fog to realize who it was.
He couldn’t help but let a small, half smile raise his lips.
“Howdy, Clarice.”
She nodded toward the bus station. “Leaving town?”
Troy shrugged his shoulders.
“Not really sure about that yet. Not sure where I can run to that all this…” He waved a hand around. “Where all this won’t follow me.”
She pursed her lips. It was a good look on her. Troy shook the thought away. With Meira freshly gone, he was dead set against that kind of feeling emerging any time soon. A breezy silence floated in between them.
“How ‘bout you?” Troy asked. “You headin’ out?”
“Yeah.” She smiled as she said it. “Not much going on here. Protests are over. Todd bolted after he made bail and so did the rest of my friends.”
“With friends like those...” Troy let the thought hang unfinished.
“Ha. I know, right?”
Another silence. Clarice reached over the passenger’s seat and opened the door.
“Get in,” she said.
“Huh?”
“Come with me.”
“I dunno, Clarice. Lot’s of really bad stuff seems to follow me around and I don’t want to get you tangled up in all that.”
“Troy.” She arched an eyebrow. “I’m a big girl. Besides, it’s Martha’s Vineyard. What could possibly happen there?”
Troy thought about it for a second. He’d left a lot of places, but he’d always left alone. And usually, he didn’t feel very good about his prospects. But as dark as things had turned in his last days on Nags Head, he thought he saw a little light in his future. He wasn’t sure what to do with this smart, sassy, beautiful, and seemingly rich young protestor, but he thought he might one day enjoy finding out.
He stood up and walked to the car. She smiled and patted the leather seat next to her.
“Come on,” she said. “I promise I won’t bite.”
And Troy smiled full on for the first time in days.
“I ain’t worried about that,” he said. “Just got one request.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And that is?”
“No Rolling Stones on the radio.”
He reached down and punched a button on the dash. The Bose sound system of the expensive car lit up and the speakers came to life. Tom Petty began to sing “Free Fallin’” and as Clarice pulled out of town, Troy found himself singing along.
The man’s fingers clutched at the rocky sand on Coquina Beach. His face was red and cracked from exposure, and his hands shook from the shock of being recently shot. His gray braided ponytail had come undone long ago and his stringy hair plastered his cheeks as he crawled ashore. He rolled over on his back as he pulled himself up out of the surf. The sun was warm on his skin after drifting for so long in the cool water of the ocean. He took a slow easy breath. Luckily, the bullet hadn’t hit his lung. Best he could tell, it had gone clean through without doing much damage. The voices of a few nearby tourists began to get closer. They had obviously realized he needed help.
And then the anger began to rise. Jamaica Jack Barron propped himself up gingerly on his elbows. He’d need some time to recover from his injuries, but he knew what he was going to do after that.
He was going to hunt down the naked bitch and rip her limb from limb until she screamed for him to kill her. Then he would do some more. And when he was through with her, he was going to find that asshole in the hat and make him pay.
He was going to kill Troy Bodean.
Shark Wave
A Troy Bodean Tropical Thriller #6
Part I
Some Beach
“Home alone, sittin’ by the phone,
waitin’ on the tide to come and take me on home.”
-Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood
1
Quiet Vineyard Haven
Troy Clint Bodean had been here over a month and he still couldn’t get used to the fact that he was lying on the beach in front of a 13.5 million dollar mansion. Tucked down into the sand beside him sat a cooler with three Coronas, half a dozen orange wedges, and three empty bottles.
A football-sized speaker belted out a vintage tune that Troy had never heard before. Clarice had turned him on to a whole new catalog of Bob Marley songs. He missed that girl—or at least he missed the fact that she often walked around naked. His Outback Tea-stained Cowboy hat was perched back on his head and the sun warmed his skin to something just below sizzling. Life is good, he thought. He took the last sip of his tepid beer and reached into the cooler for another.
He popped the top using a bottle cap opener cleverly engineered into the bottom of his Reef flip-flops and shoved an orange wedge into the bubbling beer. The beach was quiet today with only the distant sounds of children playing a few mansions down and a group of gulls diving into the surf.
Farther out in the brilliant green-blue ocean, he saw a pod of dolphins jumping and turning in tall splashes and sprays of water. It made him think of Clarice again. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected from his relationship with her, but he’d needed something to fill the void left in his soul when Meira had died. His eyes still watered when he thought of her. She was something special and he wondered if he would ever find love like that again.
As he watched the dolphins travel south and fade out of view, he raised his beer bottle toasting them.
“Happy trails, fellas,” he said, taking a sip. “If y’all run into Clarice, tell her I don’t hold it against her.”
He inhaled deeply picturing her pert, tan-line-free bottom running around the house. She’d done that with giggles and smiles until her old boyfriend Todd had called and broken the good news. Their ragtag band of activist millennials had been accepted on the next voyage of The Sea Shepherd.
Paul Watson and his save-the-whales warriors were setting sail for another season of harassing the Japanese whaling fleet, and they needed a crew for a new boat they’d purchased for the trip.
“It’s the opportunity of a lifetime,” she’d told Troy while packing her bags.
Though he knew there was nothing between Clarice and Todd, he still felt small pangs of jealousy. But more than that, he felt the shock of suddenly being homeless again, because Clarice had chosen that time to let Troy know the house wasn’t really
hers. It was an Airbnb.
“The rent runs out on Saturday,” she’d said and pecked him on the cheek. “So you can at least stay till then.”
As her Uber drove her away, he worked out that it was Friday.
“Dangit.”
2
Prosperity Returns
Warm hazy dawn light cascaded through the thin wooden slats that lined the cabana walls. Troy’s back screamed at him for choosing to fall asleep on the teak lounge chair without the cushion. Truth be known, he hadn’t chosen to fall asleep at all. The empty Corona bottles made it clear that he had passed out there.
He sat up and stretched. The creaks and cracks in his back were nothing compared to the gritty grinding in his bad knee. He figured at some point, he was going to have to get the thing looked at by a doctor. For now, he rubbed it until it warmed up enough to let him stumble up to the house.
He guessed it would take him five minutes to pack his things and vacate the rented mansion. That left him at least thirty minutes to shower and search the house for some Icy Hot to rub on his knee. He gathered as many of his bottles as he could and slogged up the sand to the wooden stairs. He turned around and took a good long look at the gently rolling surf. It was going to be a beautiful day. At least it was here. He wasn’t sure where he was going, or what it would be like when he got there.
