Deep-Fried Homicide (The Laurel Falls Mysteries Book 1) (31 page)

Dana winked and left in a swirl of Patchouli and polyester.

Amanda sat back in her chair and rocked slowly, the smile taking over her face. She had spent most of the night talking to a man who lived thousands of miles away. And that man -- a man who had never seen her father’s face -- had known her father better than she. It made her hungry for more.

A
manda dropped her things into the chair by the door and raced to the kitchen to grab a sandwich and a soda. She balanced the plate on top of the glass as she struggled to unlock the den door, and then set the whole load onto the desk beside the microphone.

She smiled as she turned on the radio, and then took a bite of the sandwich. It had been a long time since she’d had anything to look forward to. She hoped Petey was on already.

She flipped the switches and turned the knobs, listening to static and testing frequencies. Somewhere in that room was a stack of books about ham radios. She would have to read a few of them and learn what all the equipment did. Suddenly, she wanted that more than anything.

“Petey, are you there?” She leaned forward and listened intently, hoping for some sound. “Hello?”

The dial was exactly where she had left it the night before, and yet there was no sign of Petey.

She decided to try other frequencies. She wasn’t sure, but she thought that people changed their frequency according to reception quality. She wasn’t really sure about any of it.

She turned the dial and listened again, two men’s voices breaking through the static. It was a private conversation, between a man and his son who had been stationed overseas. She turned the dial again.

“…stupid carb is bad again and I don’t know…”

There was a loud pop. It came from the receiver and sounded like a tube exploding. Amanda sat back and frowned, praying the radio still worked.

“....Rose, here to cheer, calling all you GI Joes to...”

Squawk! The tinkling woman’s voice was cut off abruptly by another turn of that great dial. Amanda sighed and leaned forward, the rest of the room forgotten as she rested her elbows on the workbench and concentrated on the dial, searching for Petey.

“May day! May day!” Amanda sat back quickly, her jaw dropping open. “This is Alpha Tango Foxfire. Can anybody hear me?”

“Oh my!” Amanda gasped, both hands suddenly on her arms, rubbing away those goose bumps.

“...taking on water....southern tip of the island....may day....may day...is anybody out there reading me?”

Amanda stabbed at the button on the microphone instinctively. She thought that’s how her father had done it; hold down the button and speak, then let it up again.

“I can hear you. I’ll get help. Where exactly are you?”

“May day! Alpha Tango Foxfire...one niner two.....down....taking on water fast....”

“Can you hear me?” She was shouting now and very suddenly she didn’t care. “Please! I can get you help but I need to know where you are.” She let up on the button and frowned.

“That’s a roger. I don’t have.....before the radio dies.....southern tip of the island....you read?”

“What island?” No answer. Amanda shook so hard the chair beneath her rattled. “Tell me what island!”

“Send help, please! ...can’t let them take me!”

There WAS only one island. Prevatt Island. Amanda knew it well, had taken the boat out there a hundred times with her father. They had picnicked there, camped there. She couldn’t imagine anything dangerous being near that island. Then again, she couldn’t imagine things like car jackings or drug dealers either. The world was a scary place.

She left the radio on, spun in that chair and leaped for the doorway. She could reach that island in fifteen minutes, surely enough time to rescue this man before the waves took him.

Her hand was on her coat as the back door flew open. The keys were in the boat house, if only the motor would work. She had paid Mr. Ames to tend to the boat out of respect to her father. Now, she prayed that Mr. Ames was half as honest as he was smooth.

Outside, the wind wreaked havoc. It stirred the tree tops and tore at the shutters. Rain pelted her face and hands, forcing her raincoat to crawl up the back of her neck. It was a wretched night, even for the lower coast of Maine. It was no night to be out on the ocean in the dark.

Amanda bent her head low and charged toward the boat house. Her feet, still encased in soft pink satin, slipped and skittered across the dock. It was cold outside and wet, but surely she stood a better chance with bare feet than pink satin. Hopping a few steps, she cast off the offending slippers and hammered at the dock with bare feet.

Just inside the door, dangling precariously from a rusted hook, were the boat keys. She snatched them from their place and slammed the door, casting off the aft line as she hurried toward the boat’s pilot house. Ideally, she would have someone with her who could cast off the bow line and haul in the fenders. But she didn’t. So as not to lose the keys overboard, she slipped them into the ignition, then leapt to the deck and cast off the line.

Sailing with yer fenders hanging over the side is the mark of a sloppy seaman. Don’t ever let me catch ye doing that, angel face. I’ll have yer captain’s license for that, I will!

“Fenders be damned!” she shouted into the wind moments before it tore the raincoat’s hood from her head.

She turned the key and prayed, listening as the engine grunted and sputtered, trying to be heard above the roar of the wind and the steady kettle drum of the rain. She eased off and then turned it again, jerking it viciously to one side and praying. With a sudden spurt of energy, the motor roared into life and she slammed the boat into gear.

The boat lurched forward, the bow of it slicing into the wind as the inboard motor spat out noxious fumes and dark water. In moments, the boat was cutting through the water, the waves slamming against the hull as though they might rip it to shreds.

“Come on, come on!” she screamed, her teeth clenched so tightly she feared damage.

She kicked the thing into high gear, turning the wheel toward where she knew the island would be. So many journeys made exactly the same way. She could find the thing in the dark, blind, with one hand tied behind her back.

A darker shadow against a dark sky loomed before her, two miles out and closing fast. From the corner of one eye, she could see the buoy which marked the old wreck down below. She was right on target, determined not to stray. But then shadow changed to light, a huge wall of light ready to devour the boat and everything on it.

The thing was right at her bow by the time she saw it. It was tall and swirling with color, glowing with its own sort of light. It swallowed up the bow of the boat, drenching it first in color and then light, slowing the boat’s progress as it did so.

Amanda had no time to react at first; that’s how suddenly the thing had come upon her...or she upon it. One moment there had been nothing but blackness, the next, she was watching her father’s beloved boat as the teeming mass of colors devoured it. Beyond the veil of light, she could see nothing of the ocean or the boat.

Time slowed. She watched her hand as it reached for the knob, begging it to hurry...hurry. That light, that THING, was almost upon her now. Inside her chest, her heart beat viciously, the blood thrumming in her ears and blotting out everything else.

Then it was as though she had hit some sort of wall. She felt her body make contact with it, though there was no pain in doing so. But it grabbed onto her as surely as if it had hands, and it shoved her backward.

Feet still firmly planted on the deck, her body slid backward, as stiff as though something was behind her, bracing her. The thing pushed at her, forced her backward as she screamed into the wind. Surely, she would be swept straight off the stern of the boat and into the water.

But when her legs made contact with the hull, her backward motion ceased. For a few terrifying seconds, boat, woman and light remained suspended, unmoving. And then, as though being born again, she was pressed through the light, shoved to the other side along with the boat.

Time resumed its normal function and Amanda fell forward, landing by the grace of God on both hands rather than her small nose. She was sobbing then, drenched in rain, sweat and tears, shaking hard enough to make her teeth chatter.

Every muscle in her body ached as if she had just run a marathon. For what seemed to her like an eternity, she lay on the deck of the boat, sobbing and shaking, praying that she would wake up from that dreadful nightmare.

Finally, she shoved off from the deck, casting a fearful glance over her shoulder at the path she had just taken. The light, the thing, the whatever-it-was...was gone. The boat’s engine had stopped.

“Over here!”

Amanda screamed and spun to face the source of that urgent call. It was still night, still storming. But somehow, all was not as black as it had been moments before.

Ahead of her, some four hundred yards off the island and bobbing in the water like a fishing lure, stood the hulk of a wrecked plane. A lone man stood on its nose, waving both arms and yelling frantically.

She didn’t think, couldn’t think. Like a flash, she turned over that boat motor and set the thing in motion. It leaped forward like a prize mare and sped toward the drifting wreck.

FREE PREVIEW: ZOMBIE – A LOVE STORY

CHAPTER ONE

P
aul Tremblay–son of Marge and Joe Tremblay, employee of the New York City Public Works Department, only child, lover of all things caffeinated, idealist and romantic, future fiancé of Linda Gilchrist– that Paul Tremblay, woke up on a cold steel table in the morgue.

Slowly, as though his eyes were new and untested, he blinked away sleep – or whatever had possessed him those past long hours – and slowly drew his eyes over the scene around him. The room was large and empty, dimly lit and quiet. It smelled faintly of chemicals that Paul was sure had never been required in his life. Light bounced off of varying reflective surfaces and metal fittings.

Paul blinked again and rubbed his eyes. There was a dim light above him and beside the table where he lay was another table with another guy. No one else was around. In fact, the quiet – save for the hum of some machine far off in the distance – was almost…deafening.

First things first, Paul decided. He did a mental inventory of himself. He was covered by nothing more than a thin sheet and his skin sort of itched, though it wasn't really an itch. It was more of a faint irritation. That said, he seemed perfectly all right otherwise. The guy next to him…not so much. He was laid out, toe-tagged, and cut right down the middle.

Paul panicked. If the guy next to him was dead and sliced up like a Thanksgiving turkey, then surely that was his intended fate as well. He slid his legs over the edge of the bed – which really wasn't a bed at all, he realized, but a long metal table – and tested them for signs of failure. Nope! His legs seemed just fine too.

"Think, Paul, think!" he muttered to himself, sliding off the edge of that table onto the cool linoleum floor.

His legs held up under the strain, though when he took his first step, something dragged against the floor and pulled at his foot a bit. He glanced down at the offending cardboard bit, attached to his right big toe by way of a short piece of wire. His brow furrowed and he sat down on the table once more, hoisting his foot up to prop it on his left knee.

"A toe tag?" he muttered, frowning. "That means they think I'm…"

Panic raced through him again and he began twisting at the wire madly, not stopping until his toe had been released from the wire. He glanced at it, squinting in the feeble light to read his name, a long number, and nothing more. He tossed the tag away and stood up again.

He looked around the room once more, being careful to avoid looking directly at that poor soul on the table next to him. He spotted a bank of drawers, tables with medical instruments on them, a desk.

"Christ!" was all he could manage.

The table on which he had just sat contained a lower shelf and on that shelf was a bag, tagged with his name and number. He grabbed it off the shelf and dumped its contents out on the table. All his clothes were there, his wallet, cell phone and keys.

At that particular moment, Paul didn't care why he was in a morgue, how he came to be there, or any other damn thing. All Paul cared about was getting the hell out.