Dead Girl Beach (14 page)

The boats drifted further out into the middle of the lagoon. There, the water quickly changed—one minute calm, the next turbulent. On the surface, the dome of a powerful undertow churned and boiled beneath them in a violent surge of strength and power. Waves whipped out and lashed at them. Wide circles of water swirled out across the lagoon and hurled the boats together in the terrifying sound of a loud crash.

The noise ripped through the boat hulls and sent Greta lunging forward, off balance. Her report went wide and whizzed past Seabury's left ear, inches short of killing him.

The gun shook in Greta's hand. Caught off guard, shocked, panicky and not thinking clearly, she was unsure of her next move. Crouching low, Seabury saw it, now—his advantage.

Reacting quickly, he swung the oar and knocked the gun out of Greta's hand. With his free hand, he reached up and seized her wrist. Squeezing hard with his powerful hand, he leaned straight back and pulled her over into his boat as they spun around and shot past the undertow.

Greta pitched forward, over the top of him, and went flying into the middle of the boat, but she regained her feet and turned back around. Startled, Greta's eyes went wide in disbelief as she stared at the big man scrambling to his feet in front of her. She cracked a smile and shrugged. Her hands flew up in front of her face, waving them back and forth in a sign of truce. She didn't want trouble.

Seabury stood up, and Greta walked toward him. She moved closer and stopped in front of him. Cocking her head to the side with a cunning smile, she drew Seabury closer. Seabury glanced down at her hands, at the big knuckles and the strong fingers, and he stepped toward her.

“I don't want any trouble,” she said, still turned to the side and luring him closer.

“The fact is,” Seabury said, “you
are
in trouble. I know you killed them.”

“Killed who?”

“My fiancé, Dao Suttikul…and the other women.”

Greta smirked and shook her head, as if disputing the accusation. “You're wrong. I never killed anyone.”

Seabury stood in silence. The muscles of his jaw relaxed. He took another deep breath and let the air out slowly. He stared straight ahead, anticipating her next move, and let his hands drop to his side.

The instant his hands dropped, Greta turned back and sprang at him. She swung a looping right hand, which Seabury ducked under, and she came back with a left hook, grazing the side of his jaw.

Her last blow—a right hand that traveled in a short, compact arch toward Seabury's temple—he trapped in his left hand. He squeezed hard. A network of blue veins ruptured beneath her skin. Then, in a burst of sudden anger, he twisted his wrist outward and snapped the bones in her arm in two at the elbow.

She screamed in pain. He spun her around, her back to him. He shoved her forward, and her head slammed against the metal seam at the bow of the boat. A loud, sickening sound filled the air.

Seabury found the coil of rope on the bottom of the boat, under the front seat near the bow. He wrapped the rope around Greta's neck. Dazed and stunned, she fought back. She kicked out, writhed, and twisted under his powerful hands.

Moments later—forcing her down with the weight of his big body—he looped the rope up through the knot at the base of her ponytail. He pulled it tight and cinched the rope to her hands, crossed behind her back. Then, he shoved her forward until her head was out over the edge of the bow, and he winched her there crosswise using a set of O-rings near the nose of the bow for support.

“Let me go. Goddammit, Seabury. Let me up,” Greta cried.

Seabury switched on the lantern and dropped to the floor of the boat. A sharp cry of desperation sprang from Greta's lungs as she wrestled in the ropes. On the lagoon now, a large, tidal surge rolled back and swept forward as a swarm of needlefish turned toward the light. Greta Langer saw them coming and screamed.

The ominous sound of hissing and splashing filled the air. A wave of steel-tipped arrows shot across the water, picking up speed. The noise from the fish reached Greta's ears. It reached the same level of intensity as the cry of panic and desperation that tore out of her lungs as she howled back wildly into the night.

She pulled straight back. She struggled in the ropes. Her wrists and arms were chafed and bleeding. Moments before, the boat drifted to a calmer place where it now rocked up and down gently in the water.

All around her now, the light was hot and bright. It stung her eyes and blinded her. On the outer edge, the light held a moment longer, and then it began to flicker. It separated and let in a darker object. Greta saw it now—a sleek, brilliant male. It hurled over the top of the boat with other, smaller fish trailing behind it.

Greta jerked back and forth inside her tether. She leaned forward in agony and fear. She tried to get her head down, but it was too late. The fish's long, steel beak struck her in the middle of her right eye and entered her brain. She let out a faint cry. Her eyes went dull and blank, and the light shut down around her.

The fish continued to wobble and thrash, making loud noises inside Greta's eye when Seabury reached up from his hiding place and switched off the light. Below him, swarms of needlefish broiled along the surface and then silently slipped back under the water. A wave swelled beneath the front of the boat and relaxed, and the water was calm once again.

Moving toward the front of the boat, Seabury reached over and untied Greta. The fish was still thrashing up and down inside her eye. Moments later, Seabury lowered her over the side into the lagoon. In a patch of moonlight, the monster's dead body floated face down in the water. A pool of blood spread out around her and drifted in the current.

A gentle breeze blew across the lagoon. The moon was directly above him, now. Seabury started the outboard and turned back toward shore. In the silence, he thought about going back to sea.

The next day, Suma's neighbor, Mrs. Pornchai, smelled a foul odor coming from the cabin next door and called the police. Twenty minutes later, Lieutenant Aaron Montri pushed through the unlocked door to Suma's cabin. The cop doubled over from the stench and backed out the door.

“Gaaad!” He cringed, then muttered something unrecognizable in Thai and waved the others back. “
Nawat
,” he called, and a cop sprang to his side.

Two others stood back in the shadows of the wooden deck. Montri pointed to a cruiser parked alongside the cabin. His commands were clear, succinct, and spoken in Thai.

“Get face-masks—one for each of us. The stench in there smells worse than the bottom of a dumpster.”

The cop went over and brought back the masks. They put them on and shouldered in through the front door. Blood was splattered everywhere inside the living room, across the floor, on the walls, and inside the kitchen. One cop, a rookie, turned away while a beefy sergeant stood near Montri with two other cops planted behind them, inside the door. For a moment, they stood back, bowled over by what they saw. Their bodies were stiff and tense as their eyes skittered across the scene.

Montri motioned two cops into the kitchen. He pointed to the trail of blood that led down the hall to the bedrooms in back. The rookie and another cop opened the door to the first bedroom on the right and entered. Montri and the beefy sergeant walked down to the back bedroom.

Montri opened the door and went in first, followed by the beefy sergeant, but the foul odor of decomposing flesh swept back at them and rocked them back on their heels. Someone had turned the room upside down, flung drawers open, and scattered clothes across the floor. Montri moved further inside the door, the sergeant at his side. What Montri saw jolted his stomach, wrenched his heart, and nauseated him. His eyes glazed over in a dizzy blur, refocused, and then shot back up to the front of the room.

The room was unlike any crime scene he had ever seen. He stared at the sergeant, and the sergeant shook his head in disbelief. A headless corpse lay in a pool of blood in the middle of the bed. Montri moved closer. The foul smell rushed up through the mask that covered his face. In the hot, stagnant air, he coughed and choked. He doubled over and straightened back up. Then, he saw it. The dismembered head lay on the floor on the other side of the bed.

Montri turned around and waved the sergeant back out of the room. In the hall, he joined his other men, motioned them through the cabin, and back outside. He opened his cell phone and, filling his lungs with fresh air, called the Chief of Police.

“It's bad. I've never seen anything like it,” Montri said.

“Okay. We'll get the lab techs and the paramedics over.”

“I know the dead man,” Montri said, catching his breath and regaining his composure. His boss waited. “It's Arun Songsiri.”

“The gambler we sent to prison a few years ago?”

“Yes. It's him.” Montri said. He hung up seconds later.

* * * *

A few days later, dental records confirmed the identity of the dead man as Arun Songsiri. A day after that, Lawan sat inside Montri's office.

“It's a shame.” Montri sat behind his desk. His small, thin face sagged in a mass of dark lines and wrinkles. Lawan heard his low, flat voice drift across the space between them. It came close to the edge of compassion, but in the end, it fell short of expressing any sort of empathy. He looked at her over the top of his glasses. “We all knew Arun,” he said. “He owed money all over town.”

The room was cool and quiet. Lawan felt the breeze from the air conditioner on the sidewall next to her. It fanned out in a brisk spray and chilled her as she sat in stunned silence. Her eyes were vague and distant for a moment, and then refocused on Montri.

“We sent our search team up there,” Montri went on. “Greta's body was found. It washed up onshore inside the lagoon with a needlefish stuck in her eye. Her husband's body was in the forest. His neck was broken.” Montri looked at her, his expression grave and serious. “I'm wondering what happened up there, and where is Seabury? Has anyone seen him?”

Lawan glanced up at Montri. “They kidnapped Suma,” she said. “They punished her. “ Tears welled in her eyes. “Did you see Suma's face and the slashes down her arm? Did you see the broken nose? Greta beat the hell out of her, Lieutenant. Then, she killed her.”

Montri held a hand up to calm her down.

“No, please…let me finish.” Lawan paused and continued. “Greta must have had a light on…somehow, I don't know…and attracted the needlefish. Then, she ended up dead in the water, like the way she killed those other women…and Suma.”

“Well, we don't know that she killed Suma and the other women. There's no evidence, no proof of her doing any of it.”

Lawan sniffled, trying to fight back the tears. She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. She was finding it hard to believe what Montri was saying. No evidence—no proof of Greta being involved. Someone had gotten to him, paid him to keep quiet.

Aaron had his notebook out and was writing in it. “Where was Seabury?”

“I don't know. We went up there, you know, to that horrible place. When we got there, we found Suma and then Greta face down in the water. Her body was floating near the shore.”

“That's when you called the police.”

“Yes. After we got Greta's body out of the water, I called them. They arrived quickly, because Tara Bennett had called them earlier. They were on their way up there when I called. I don't know about Seabury. After the police arrived, he gave them a statement and left.”

“Not with you?” Montri's eyes narrowed on her

“No. Not with me. Seabury gave them a statement. After that, he said to let the police handle it and left. I went back with the search team because of Suma.” She dried her eyes and put the handkerchief back inside her purse. “What about Arun?” Lawan said, switching topics and trying to draw suspicion away from them. “Do you have any idea who murdered him?”

Montri shook his head. “Don't know. The case is under investigation.”

Lawan stood up. “I have a lot of things to do right now, Lieutenant.” They crossed the room. Lawan turned back inside the door. “You'll keep me posted?”

“Of course.”

As they entered the hall, Lawan glanced across at Montri. “He was a good brother,” she said. “Even though Arun had—you know—that reckless side.”

“I know. I know.” Montri walked her down the hall, through the lobby, and out to the front door. Police officers came in and out the door. The sharp, ubiquitous sound of phones ringing and feet scurrying inside the building filled the air. Montri stood at the side of the door. “We'll do what we can to find Arun's killer.”

Lawan nodded, and they said goodbye. Montri returned to his office and sat down at his desk. In the light streaming in from the window behind him, he sat still. His eyelids fluttered, and his thin mouth turned up into a deceitful smile.

* * * *

Montri did not intend to conduct a thorough investigation. In time, Arun Songsiri's death would get lost in cold case files, and he'd become just another crime statistic. The lieutenant wasn't about to conduct a thorough investigation and run the risk of tarnishing the already tarnished image of the island as a holiday destination. Suma's death plus the deaths of five young women had already taken their toll. Now, it was time to start over. Greta was dead. He'd long since suspected her of being the killer, but he'd chosen a less risky career move by not taking her to court and perhaps losing the case. From that time on, he'd avoided having anything to do with her.

Montri leaned back in his chair, thinking.
To continue the investigation would be foolhardy and costly, too,
he rationalized. He wasn't about to disturb the Hong Kong mafia's presence here on the island—not when they brought in a yearly revenue stream totaling millions of dollars. Undoubtedly, Arun Songsiri's sad history of gambling debts had something to do with his death, and knowing that he owed money to Bennie Zee that would never be repaid wasn't a reason to start an investigation and stir up trouble. It was better to let things cool off for a while until they gradually faded away.

Yes, that's best
, he said to himself as he swiveled around in his chair and looked out the window.

Lawan and another woman got into the old, beat-up Toyota and drove out of the parking lot, vanishing into the morning's sweltering heat. Montri stayed at the window a while, staring out dismally at the street until the sound of a phone ringing brought him out of his stupor.

“It's Mister Zee,” Montri's secretary said over the intercom in the outer office. “He's holding on line two. He says it's urgent. He needs to talk to you.”

Montri picked up, and Zee spoke in a whisper over the line.

“I want the investigation shut down. Can we agree on that, Aaron?”

“Of course.”

“The sooner things return to normal, the better for all of us.”

“Okay.”

“Oh, by the way. What's your schedule like for this weekend?”

Montri paused briefly before saying, “Uh…it's pretty well open.”

“Good.” A slight pause came over the line, and then Bennie Zee came back on. “Don't be shocked when you see me. Yeah, yeah. I fell in the shower and ended up breaking my nose. I've got a splint on it right now, but you know me…how I love my golf. Then, it's all set. You'll join me out on the links?”

“Sure, but I hope it's nothing serious, Bennie.”

 “Nah, nah. Just a little break.

“Okay. See you Saturday afternoon at one o'clock.”

Bennie Zee hung up before Montri had a chance to thank him for the invitation.