by David Berens
“What do you have to say for yourself?”
She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a squeal of pain. Her jaw was definitely broken or dislocated, or maybe both. And after all of this, after all they had been through together, after being caught flashing her body to the damn pool boy, she folded her arms to cover her breasts.
“You … bitch.” he said. “You love your damn pool so much. You can have it.”
He flung her into the deep end. She screamed and bobbed up and down for a second, her arms churning the surface. He watched as she tried to push up off the bottom, but her ankle wouldn’t support her. It was all over in less than thirty seconds. Her body floated to the top.
“Pool needs cleaning,” Buff said to no one. “Too much trash in it.”
He stared for a long moment at his wife’s lifeless form drifting in circles in the center of the pool. Now that he’d had a few minutes to calm down, he realized that he had overreacted. He dialed a number on his burner phone.
“Jed,” he said. “We’ve got a little situation here.”
He described what had just happened and blamed Florence’s demise on a bad fall into the pool. He’d tried to save her, but she was drunk and drowned. He knew Jed would understand that was a slightly skewed version of events, but it didn’t matter. The man was his foot soldier in this war and would do whatever it took to protect his leader.
“Well,” he said, “looks like we’ll have an extra crate for Country to drop.”
Buff tilted his head to the side. Not a bad solution. Has to be done.
“And speaking of Country,” Jed continued, “I’m thinking we need to do something about him, too. He’s headed off the deep end and I’m not sure he’ll make it back.”
“Any ideas?”
“Someone has to take the fall for all of this. Why not him? I can work the drop to look like Country was dropping off his own dirty work and then sink his boat ... while he’s on board. A tragic accident that couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.”
All the loose ends tied up in a single outing, thought Buff.
“And I’ll come along and discover the dastardly plot against you. The sentiment for you and your loss will swing the vote hard in your favor.”
All the loose ends wrapped up in a win.
“I like it. Make it happen.”
He hung up the phone and decided to pour another cocktail. He sipped his scotch and wondered idly if his mistress would be back on schedule.
Part III
Low Tide
“When the tide is low, don’t you know, don’t you know.
There ain’t nowhere to go. No. Nowhere to go.”
-Ronnie “Wayfarer” Hobgood
25
Finding Prosperity
Troy woke up to find the hazy Sunday sun of dawn beaming through the windshield of Michael Banks’s retired police cruiser. He had circled the island of Martha’s Vineyard three times in search of a place to catch a few minutes of shut-eye. He had no money in his pocket, and even if he did, he would have spent it on something besides a room to crash in for just a few hours.
With no place nearby to go, he decided to park at the one place on the island that was open twenty-four hours and would likely have other people sleeping in their cars—the hospital parking lot. He had found a distant parking spot, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and drifted off to the sound of the waves crashing across Beach Road.
He rubbed his eyes and glanced down at his cell phone. There were three missed calls from Country. He jerked upright and clicked the number. Last night he had been lost for what to do next, and this call, like a bolt out of the blue, seemed to be telling him the way.
Country picked up on the first ring. “Damn, cowboy. I been callin’ you all mornin’.”
“Sorry, man,” Troy said. “Had a long night. What’s up?”
“You remember that job I was tellin’ you about?”
“I do.”
“Well, I got one before that. It’s kinda like a test,” Country said. “If you pass the test, you git ta move on to the big time. Got something to get rid of and need some help doin’ it. Whadda ya think?”
Troy’s heart raced and he felt his breath pumping quicker in his chest. This was his chance. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought this job had to be related to Prosperity's disappearance. He figured Country was asking him to help dump her body. He shuddered at the thought, but he had to know. If that’s what this was, he had to go along. If for no other reason, to know for sure that she was … he stopped the thought before it got too dark.
“I reckon I’m in,” Troy said. “What is it? And when are we goin’?”
“What it is, is for me to know and you to ... well, you ain’t never gonna find out. And as for when, what you got goin’ on right now?”
Troy looked around the sparsely populated parking lot. An ambulance rumbled past him and turned into the emergency room lane.
“Not a thing.”
“Then meet me at the dock.”
“Black Dog?”
“Yup.”
“On my way.”
Troy hung up and immediately dialed Michael’s number. No answer. He called again. Still nothing.
“Dangit,” he muttered putting the cruiser into gear.
He wasn’t sure if he was excited or sick, but at least this would tell him exactly what was going on. And if he couldn’t save Prosperity, he felt sure that he could follow Country’s trail and connect it all to Winchester Boonesborough and Frank McCorker—formerly known as Buff Summerton.
Prosperity heard a distant door clang before she could open her eyes. Her head hurt fiercely and she could feel the cottony effect in her brain of a mild concussion. She tried to raise her hand to rub her head, but it jerked to a stop. She slowly opened one eye and saw that she was handcuffed to the bed in the same prison cell she’d been in before. The door was closed and probably locked this time, but even if it was wide open, she couldn’t get to it. She pulled against the handcuff to find it was locked tight on her wrist, and she had a raw, red ring just below the palm of her hand. It burned, and blood welled to the surface. Tears began to run down her cheeks, and her stomach growled. She was ferociously hungry and felt weak from dehydration.
Footsteps and an odd sliding sound grew closer. A long shadow appeared on the floor ahead of the strange sounds. Prosperity laid down on the bed and closed her eyes. She thought it would be best to pretend to be asleep. Through a narrow slit between her eyelids, she saw Country appear outside the bars of her cell. He was huffing and puffing, and eventually she realized he was dragging a large canvas bag of some kind. From the sound of his breathing, a very heavy canvas bag. He pulled it up to the door of the cell and dropped the end of it. He thrust a hand into his pocket and yelped.
Though she couldn’t tell exactly what had caused the pain, it was clear he was having some kind of distress in his ... crotch. She twisted to see a little more of what he was doing, and her handcuffs clinked against the metal bed. She clamped her eyes shut and held her breath. She waited for him to say something, but he never did. She heard the sound of a key clinking into the lock. He turned it and the door screeched open. She heard him drag whatever the bag thing was into the cell, grunting and groaning as he came. She risked a peek and saw that he was sliding it against the far wall. When he finished, he stood up and cracked his back.
“Good riddance,” he said, and kicked it unceremoniously.
He turned and clomped out of the cell, locking it as he left. She listened to his echoing footsteps fade into the distance, and when she was sure he was gone, she sat up. Now that she could see the bag with her eyes open, she knew exactly what was inside. From her work at the morgue, she was ninety-nine percent sure it was a body. But whose?
She stretched her arm out and reached for the bag. Her fingertips brushed the bag, but she was too far away to grab it. She turned and put her leg out and easily hooked her foot on the middle of the bag. She tried to d
rag it toward her, but it wouldn’t budge. It was too heavy. She thought about it for a second and thought if she could get both feet on it, she might be able to move it. She inched across the floor and laid her feet over the bag. She steeled herself for the effort and curled her heels back toward her butt. The canvas was slick and her feet slipped off. She needed to reach farther over to the other side of the bag. She regrouped and caught her breath, a sheen of sweat starting to cover her skin. With a deep breath, she stretched until her shoulder felt like it might pop out of joint, but instead of that happening, her slick wrist pulled halfway through the handcuff. With one more quick tug, this time on her hand, she was able to wrench it out and she was free. She rubbed her wrist and sat up on her knees over the bag.
She pulled the zipper, and her fears were confirmed. There was a dead woman in the bag. She clearly hadn’t been dead long, but she was starting to bloat. Prosperity had seen a few cadavers in her school labs, but none of them were murder victims. This woman, whoever she was, was dressed like she had been out boating: white one-piece swimsuit, navy and white striped cover-up, wide-brimmed floppy sun hat, and Gucci sunglasses. The only odd thing was her flip-flops. They were royal blue. No woman with this amount of taste would mix royal blue and navy blue. She pulled the hat off the woman’s head and was struck with a sudden wave of familiarity. She knew her. She wasn’t sure exactly where she knew her from, but her face was definitely one she had seen before.
“So,” a voice startled her and she jumped back from the bag. “You’ve met Florence? Good. Y’all are gonna be sharin’ a grave.”
Country was standing at the door. She had no idea how long he had been standing there. She had been so intent on checking out the body, she hadn’t heard him come back. He unlocked the door of the cell and swung it open.
He lunged at her, and she jumped backward away from him. Her head, already suffering from a concussion, maybe two, banged against the steel commode. As she blacked out, she had two thoughts. First, she thought, I’m buying a helmet. Second was Florence … I knew I recognized her. She was Florence McCorker. She had met her once at a rally picnic serving beers in plastic cups to the potential supporters of Frank McCorker. What the hell had happened to her? And what the hell did he mean about sharing a grave with her? She blacked out before she could think about it anymore.
26
Bank On It
Troy’s cell phone rang and he picked it up as he turned onto State Road heading toward the Black Dog Tavern and ultimately the dock behind it. He thought it might be Country calling again, but it turned out to be Michael.
“Sorry, partner,” Michael said. “I was on the other line taking a call from your pal, Country.”
Wow, that was some serious synchronicity, Troy thought.
“Oh?”
“Ah, yup. Apparently, he’s in need of a few extra hands on deck for his job today and decided a retired, out of shape, narcoleptic police officer was a good choice.”
Michael laughed and Troy couldn’t help but join in.
“Well, he’s already recruited a washed up, unemployed, homeless former soldier, so why not complete the pair?”
Michael laughed again, “I’m sure you two will have a lot to talk about on the boat ride.”
“You mean all three of us will.”
“Troy, you know I can’t be involved in this mess. Hell, I’m already getting stiffed on my pension. If something like this goes down and I’m involved, I’ll be shit out of luck.”
“But you’d be a hero if you saved a young girl and stopped a corrupt politician running a drug and gun operation out of Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Son, with my narcolepsy, I’m not even legally supposed to ride a motorcycle at this point. Besides, I don’t have any doubt that you can handle Country on your own.”
A long moment of silence hung between them.
“Backup,” Troy said.
Michael said nothing, the line still quiet. For a second, Troy wondered if the man had fallen asleep again.
“Michael? Are you still there?”
“Ah, yup. I’m here.”
“If you didn’t hear me, I said—”
“I heard what you said, Troy.” His voice was soft and stern, the jolly tone gone.
“There’s a young woman in trouble,” Troy said. “I don’t have any problems doin’ this on my own, but I do know when things get rough, I could use some backup. And right now, I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather have at my six.”
He could hear Michael taking in a long, slow breath. He gave the man a minute to digest it all.
“He says he’s got somethin’ to get rid of,” he finally said. “If it’s Prosperity’s body, I’m gonna need help.”
“Help doin’ what?”
“Takin’ him in.”
Michael huffed. “Country ain’t gonna let you take him in. Hell, you might have to shoot him.”
“So be it.”
The phone went silent again. Troy pulled the cruiser into the parking lot at the Black Dog Tavern.
“Well, I’m here to meet him,” Troy said shutting the engine off. “If something happens to me, I’m putting the keys to your car up under the dash.”
“Now, just hold on a second, Troy,” Michael protested. “I haven’t said no yet. If I do this, it’s gonna go down my way. I know how to deal with thugs like this and if I get involved, we aren’t moving to take him down alone.”
“What’d you have in mind?”
“If we discover he’s got the girl’s body, we let him dump it and think all is going like he’s planned.”
“Okay.”
“Then, you and I circle back around later and pull her up with the help of some officers I know from up Providence way. At that point, Country won’t have any reason to hide and we can bring the cavalry to take him in. Safer for all of us.”
“I like the way that sounds.”
“Of course you do, because it’s a damn good plan.”
Troy laughed, and he was struck by how similar it sounded to Michael’s laugh.
“Now, you keep old Santee busy so I’ll have time to get down there. I’ll be a half hour or so. That way my boat will be there for us to take out after he brings us back in.”
“Santee?”
“Yeah, that’s Country’s real first name.”
Something deep in Troy’s memory threatened to spark. He thought he had something important to remember, but he was interrupted by a sharp knocking on his window. There was Country grinning into his window.
True to his word, Michael showed up and went straight to work helping Troy load the crates onto Country’s boat. Troy was sure that two of the crates were too heavy for guns. He nudged Michael and pointed to the two suspicious ones and tried to send a telepathic message for the white bearded man to check them out when he got a chance. The former police officer picked up immediately, signaling back by laying a finger on the side of his nose.
“Say, Country.” Michael patted the man on the shoulder. “How do you feel about me whipping up a batch of lemonades for us? We rum it up and have a real nice frame of mind for the sail.”
Country eyed him suspiciously, and Troy wondered if the old man had gone too far. He looked down at his watch and then back up at Michael.
“Works for me, but hurry up.”
Michael made a show of climbing off the boat, then patted his pockets. “Oh, crap. I seem to have left my wallet back home. You got some cash?”
Country rolled his eyes. “You gotta be kiddin’ me.”
Troy spoke up quickly. “I’ll get it. I’ve got a few bucks.”
“We’ll need ice, too.” Michael said, raising two fingers. “Two bags oughta do it.”
“Fine,” Country said. “Troy, you get the fixins. I’ll get the ice. Old man, you stay in the boat and don’t let nobody go pokin’ around.”
“Roger that,” Michael said, plopping down onto one of the crates.
Troy and Country stepped off the boat and hea
ded toward the tavern. Country dragged a big cooler around to the ice machine on the far side of the building. Troy disappeared inside.
Michael watched out of the corner of his eye until he saw Country disappear around the building. He knew he had seconds to get inside the crates and see what was inside. He jumped up from the crate he was sitting on—one of the ones Troy had indicated seemed suspicious. There were four metal clasps holding the top on. He flipped them one by one and tugged. It didn’t budge. He examined the lid and realized it had been nailed shut at the corners. He pulled out his pocket knife and was able to wedge one corner up enough to get his fingers under it. He looked up again, and seeing no sign of Country, jerked the top up and off. Inside, he found bundles of drugs. Gotta be a million dollars’ worth or more, he thought. A crap-ton of blow. He put the top back on the box and used his shoe to get the nails more or less back into their holes.
He moved to the second crate and opened it up. Inside this box were the guns. AK-47’s. At least thirty of them. They looked ragged and worn and no care had been used in packing them. These were budget rifles most likely headed for a terrorist cell or third world army.
“So, we are lookin’ at a pretty good sized drop here,” he muttered to himself as he put the top back on.”
He went to work on the third box and finally found what Troy was looking for—the body. The woman was dressed for sailing, and at first Michael couldn’t tell how she had died. One thing was pretty clear though, this wasn’t the young girl Troy had told him about. This woman, whoever she was, lay face down, bent in half, her gray hair matted around her head. Michael reached into the box and pulled her up by her shoulders. Her head hung limp and her jaw flopped at a strange angle. She’d been beat up pretty bad. It only took him a second to realized he knew the woman from all the television coverage of the election. Florence McCorker—soon to become gubernatorial first lady. Wife of Frank McCorker.
