Read TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) Online
Authors: Lawrence De Maria
TURTLE DOVE (Alton Rhode Mysteries Book 7) (14 page)
CHAPTER 2
2
– ANOTHER BOAT RIDE
I really didn’t mind the discomfort. The important thing was waking up. The real Ashleigh Harper and Anna Dickson apparently did not have that opportunity.
I knew exactly where I was. Back on Leonard Vole’s boat. A lump on my right thigh stung and I realized that I still had my iPhone in my pocket. I must have fallen on it. I wondered if it still worked. It would be nice to call 911. Unfortunately, that was not an option. My hands were tied behind my back. I could tell from the pain in my wrists that I was bound with something thin but strong. Probably monofilament fishing line.
From the sound of the engine and the deck’s pitching up and down, which caused me to bang my already sore head,
She Got the House
was moving at a fast clip. I managed to sit up. I was in the stern, scrunched in the corner next to the rotating fisherman’s chair from which I had landed the shark in happier times. There was the same sturdy rod with a massive big-game reel in the holder at the front of the seat. The shiny metal lure anchored by one of its treble hooks to one of the rod’s guides looked even bigger than the one I had used for the tuna. Its wire leader was again linked to regular monofilament fishing line, undoubtedly the same 40-pound-test line that immobilized me. Breaking it would be impossible. All I would accomplish would be to slit my wrists.
I could see the faint lights of Bald Head Island receding in the distance. I was still a bit woozy, and the fact that I had been clobbered over the head and was now trussed up did not bode well for my future prospects. I was pretty sure I was not going fishing. I suspected that I would soon be sleeping with the bluefish, or whatever was running these days.
I moaned, louder than necessary, to give the impression that I was in worse shape than I was. My only chance, slim as it was, depended on my making Vole overconfident.
“Awake, are we?”
He’d come down from the bridge and was standing in front of me, slapping his wooden truncheon in his palm. I didn’t like the sound it made against his meaty hand.
“Is that what you hit me with?”
“Yeah. Just a love tap, but I figured you’d be out for the duration. You have a hard head, pal.”
“Harder than an old woman and a college kid. I assume you used it on the real Ashleigh Harper and Anna.”
“Who?”
“Anna Dickson. The young girl who was at the reception with me.”
“Oh, your niece.”
Vole laughed.
“Actually, I used a pillow on the old coot. She put up a pretty good fight. Better than you did.”
It wasn’t the time to point out that he’d suckered me. But I wanted to keep the conversation going.
“And the girl?”
“Strangled her.”
I stared at him.
“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t do anything else to her, if that’s what you are thinking.”
“Nice to know you have standards, Vole.” I nodded toward the ocean, which set off my headache again. “But why did you have to beat me up, too?”
He looked confused.
“I didn’t beat you up, chum.”
“I’m sure my face would disagree with you.”
He laughed.
“Oh, that. You got pretty banged up when you fell out of the golf cart. I took a turn to fast. Sorry about that.”
“You brought me here in a golf cart?”
“Had to. My boat was at the marina. It was no big deal. Just propped you up and drove to the marina.”
“And nobody noticed?”
“Not too many people around at night. Did pass a couple of carts. Even waved to them.” Vole cackled. “They probably think you were rude because you didn’t wave back. Or just drunk and passed out. Lucky no one was around when you took your dive out of the cart, though.”
“You drive the other two in your golf cart?”
He laughed.
“You mean like
Weekend at Bernie’s?
” Vole laughed. “They filmed that movie right here on Bald Head. Bet you didn’t know that. Anyway, I took Harper and the kid right off the beach behind the house. Had some time to set it up then. Like I said, my boat was at the marina tonight. Would’ve been tough, anyway. It’s low tide. Dragging your sorry ass across the sand would have been a bitch. You weigh a lot more than those gals. And paddling a skiff past the sandbars would have been no fun.”
“I like talking to you, Len. But I have to ask. Who is driving the boat now?”
“Got it on autopilot.” Vole looked at his watch. “We’re almost there, chum.”
“Almost where?”
He just smiled.
“Burial at sea?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is that what you did with Harper and Anna?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Bodies occasionally turn up,” I said, “even if they are weighted down.”
In fact, I knew the opposite was more likely, especially when the disposal is in the ocean. Entire airliners with 300 passengers and cargo ships and their crews disappear without a trace.
“Won’t be a problem. With them, or you.”
“Why not?”
“Well, let’s just say that the old broad Harper wanted to be remembered. I don’t think she counted on being dismembered. Same with the girl. I made a mistake with the watch, though. Almost threw it over with it still on her arm. Thought Bessie might like it. That’s what I get for having a soft heart. But it’s going into the ocean soon. Along with Bessie. What do you say to an actress? Break a leg? I’m gonna help her with that.”
My blood ran cold, but I remained calm. The rotten son-of-a-bitch started cackling at his humor. I saw some insanity in his eyes. I was dealing with a real lunatic. Now I was almost sorry that I had kept the conversation going.
“Why Bessie? She said she didn’t know what was going on. Did she?”
“Nah. She would never have gone along with this. But she’s extra weight, now. Too many people gone missing. She’d be with us on the boat right now, but it would have been awkward driving two unconscious people in the golf cart. I’ll have to make another trip. Then me and Sandy are gonna take the money and run. Some nice little non-extradition island in the Pacific, where I can fish and fuck to my heart’s content.”
“I don’t suppose I could talk you out of this?”
“Not a chance, chum. But don’t worry.” Vole again slapped the truncheon into his palm, harder. “You won’t feel a thing.”
“Just do me a favor, will you, Vole?”
He smiled.
“Sure. I guess you can have a last request.” He cackled. “No last meal, though. What is it?”
“Stop calling me chum.”
“I can do that.” Vole got a strange look in his eyes and grinned. “Kind of funny, though. Since that’s what you are about to become. Chum.”
Vole looked behind the boat. Small fish were jumping.
“The lights are attracting a lot of bait fish. Sharks will be right behind them. Come to think of it, you get to be your own last meal.” He looked at his watch again. “Jesus. You made me miss my spot. Be right back. I’ve got to come about. Now, don’t go anywhere.”
He climbed the ladder and a moment later I felt the boat turn. I knew I only had moments to live. Once he hit me over the head again, I was a dead man. And I was not too sure that his idea of anesthetic would work on someone being cut up into fish bait. I had only one chance. I had to make him mad enough to want to carve me up alive. I moaned at the thought.
This time, I wasn’t acting.
CHAPTER 23 - CHUM
“I can see by your tattoo that you were a SEAL, Vole.”
“Goddamn right. One of the best.”
He still had his back to me. I could hear the pride in his voice. And something else.
“I was in the Army,” I said. “Special Forces.”
“What? You trying to bond with me?” He snorted. “You guys were fucking pussies.”
“Why did they kick you out of the SEALS?”
Now he turned around.
“Who says they kicked me out? I retired.”
“To run a fishing boat? Nah. You got bounced. What was it? Mental discharge. You fuck too many goats. Suck too many camel dicks. Those are about the only reasons the SEALS would bounce a guy like you. Unless.”
He walked toward me. His hands were empty. No truncheon. And, thankfully, no carving knife. But the fact that his hands looked like ham hocks mitigated whatever relief I felt.
“Unless what?”
“Unless you just bullshitted me, Vole. I bet you were a washout. No disgrace in that. SEALS take only the toughest. How far did you get before you rang the bell?” I laughed. Not easy to do when you’re about to be turned into pork chops. “I bet you didn’t even go to SEAL training. Man, I hate it when guys make up stories. Pretend they are veterans. I bet you have a whole drawer full of medals you bought at one of those military supply shops they have down here. Probably put them on to help you get a boner, right?”
Vole straddled my legs, reached down and grabbed me by my shirt. He lifted my face to within inches of his. There was spittle on his lips. His breath would have sunk the
Lusitania
.
“Listen, you cocksucker. I ain’t gonna knock you out before I slice you up. I’m gonna dice you in little fuckin’ pieces. By the time you die, you’re gonna be able to see all your body parts in neat little piles. I was the best fucking SEAL in my outfit. They drummed me out on some bullshit charge, cause I wasted a couple of towel heads they said were on our side. Informants, they said. Maybe they should have told me. All them fuckin’ ragheads looked the same to me.”
Vole started lowering me back to the deck. I went limp, as if I was spent and helpless. It was my chance. He was overconfident. Killing old women and kids will do that to you. He should have tied up my legs. My right knee came up and caught him squarely in the groin. I don’t think anyone keeps a record of that sort of thing, but it certainly was a personal best for me. I probably only imagined the squish of his balls. But I didn’t imagine his howl of pain, which probably could be heard in Bermuda.
He staggered back and I used both feet to kick him in the face. He rolled back across the deck and slid into the carving equipment he planned to use on me. He rolled around, still screaming and cursing a blue streak. I didn’t like the cursing, not because I am prudish, but because he was getting his breath and wits back.
I managed to stand up, which is a lot harder than it sounds when your hands are tied behind your back and the boat is pitching and yawing, or whatever boats do. Vole was on his hands and knees now and started to get up. The odds were still in his favor, so I went over and kicked him in the Adams Apple. He gurgled horribly and rolled on his back, one hand on his throat, the other on his groin. I debated kicking him again somewhere else now that he had run out of hands, but thought my only real chance was to get untied. I made for the cabin. I slammed the door shut and, turning around, managed to get it locked. But I was sure Vole could easily bash his way through. I needed something to cut the rope on my wrists.
I looked around frantically. In one corner, about belt high on a shelf that girdled the cabin, I saw it. The small fisherman’s knife was still standing straight up from the wooden cutting board in which it was embedded. I flung myself backwards on the shelf just as Vole smashed at the door. I did not have time for finesse. I slammed my wrists against the sharp edge of the blade and started sawing up and down. The knife cut into the line, but my forearms were also slashed badly. With my concentration on Vole’s progress with the door, I barely noticed the pain. But I knew it would be intense later. I was just hoping there would be a later. Vole stopped his battering. Maybe the door was stronger than it looked. Or maybe, having spent so much time crafting it, he did not want to break it down. What he did was put his fist through one of the glass panes and started to unlock the door with his hand. His forearm was streaked with blood. Must have hurt like hell. That didn’t seem to bother him, either.
He came through the door just as my bonds came free. He had not seen what I had done, so I backed into a corner and kept my hands behind my back, as if they were still tied. He was still hunched over and his eyes bore into mine.
“Nice try, asshole. But what did it get you? Now, I’m going to gut you like a mackerel.”
Vole walked toward me deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world. He reached toward the cutting board to get the knife that had freed me. He looked confused when he saw it was not there.
“Looking for this, Lenny?” I said.
I brought the arm that was holding the knife from behind my back and whipped it into his side, hoping the blade was long enough to reach his heart.
It wasn’t. And its thin blade broke off inside him. But it bought me some time. Vole twisted away, screaming in agony. I clubbed him on the side of his head and bolted for the door. I did not like my chances in the confined space of the cabin with an outraged maniac who the SEALS thought was too dangerous. Perhaps I could reach one of the big knives that Vole had planned on using on me.
I didn’t get far. Halfway through the door he tackled me and we both went sprawling across the deck. I kicked him and he clubbed me across the neck. Then he grabbed me by the throat and lifted me to the stern, bending me backward toward the water. The idling propeller roared in my ear.
Vole was beyond reason. I could see the end of the broken knife sticking out from under his armpit. He started to strangle me. I pounded both hands against the side of his head. I reached for his eyes. He ducked his head into his chest to protect them. This was not his first rodeo. He knew what he was doing. I started seeing black spots. I was losing.
My hand hit something. It was the huge metal lure attached to the fishing rod sitting in its holder in the rear chair. I felt for the lure. I pulled it down until it came loose from the guide and then slammed its set of three treble hooks into the side of Vole’s head, where they impaled his right ear and cheek. Then I grabbed the line and pulled. Vole screamed and let go of my throat. I vaulted upright, grabbed the loose line and wrapped it around his throat. Then I reached down and grabbed him by the ankles and pitched him over the stern. I heard the drag on the reel click out as his weight pulled line off the spool. Vole was still too close to the boat to suit me, so I climbed up the ladder to the wheel and pushed the throttle forward. The boat surged ahead. I looked back. Vole was screaming and hydroplaning in our wake 20 yards behind. After five minutes the screaming stopped. I put the throttle in neutral and went down to the stern. The boat slowed, but still moved ahead slowly, drifting with the current.
I expected to find Vole dead. Instead, I watched in disbelief as he headed back to the boat, by alternating a doggy-paddle with pulling himself hand-over-hand on the line, which he had wrapped around his arm. Never underestimate a Navy SEAL, especially a deranged one. He had ripped the lure from his cheek and ear, or rather from where the ear had been. It was now just a bloody gash. The lure was now embedded in his back. He would soon reach the wire leader, which would make it easier for him.
A fin cut the water behind him, maybe 30 yards out. Then another. Vole saw the sharks, too. They were after more than bait fish. They were following his blood trail.
Vole redoubled his efforts. I sat in the chair watching him, thinking about Anna Dickson. The sharks were now perhaps 15 yards behind him. When he got within five feet of the rear platform he was probably sure he was going to make it. I reached for the gaff. His hands grasped the platform. I stuck the business end of the gaff in his chest, just hard enough to get his attention. He realized he couldn’t climb on the platform unless I let him.
The sharks drew closer. His eyes were white with terror. I reached in my pocket for my iPhone. It was undamaged. God bless you, Steve Jobs, wherever you are. I pressed the app for voice recording.
“Why did you kill Ashleigh Harper and Anna Dickson?”
He spit out blood and water. He looked at me, and then twisted his head to see the fins. I prodded him with the gaff.
“She told me to.”
“Who?”
“Sandy.”
“Sandy Nidus?”
“Yeah.”
“Where are the bodies?”
“I dumped them in the ocean.”
“After you cut them up?”
“Yes!”
I shut off the recording. Vole started to ease his way higher on the platform. Despite his wounds, he had a crafty look in his eyes. He knew that the recording would be worthless, even if it survived. As long as he was around to recant it. Or if I, and it, were at the bottom of the Atlantic.
“Thanks,” I said, and pulled the gaff back.
The relief on Vole’s face was palpable. He started clambering up onto the platform. He probably figured he’d have another go around with me. A vision of Anna Dickson swam into my consciousness. I tried to remember what she looked like before Vole strangled her and cut her up. I pushed the gaff back into Vole’s shoulder and shoved. He screamed and slid back off the platform.
“Dinnertime,” I said, as I reached over and eased the drag on the big fishing reel, just as Vole had taught me.
“No!” he screamed even louder as the line clicked out and he drifted back toward the sharks.
I could see the black tips on their dorsal fins. They were the same kind of sharks that Vole said he hated, just like the one he brutally bludgeoned in front of me. I suppose it was a kind of poetic justice.
The sharks each hit a leg almost simultaneously with sickening grunting sounds. I resisted the impulse to sing “Let It Go” from
Frozen
as Vole was being gobbled. It didn’t go well with his screams, and I wasn’t sure of the words anyway.
Vole went under but soon surfaced. I could see one shark twisting and rolling behind him. The other had disappeared, probably with a mouthful. Another unearthly scream and the remaining shark also disappeared. What was left of Vole bobbed in the boats wake. He was a lot lighter now and no longer took any line out.
I knew the sharks would soon be back for more of Vole, so I started to reel in what was left of him. It may have been the strangest thing I’d ever done. I thought of Quint in
Jaws
. As he got closer to the boat, I could see he was now very dead. More fins broke water. I had seen enough. I used the gaff to get him onto the platform, and then into the boat over the gunwale. Legless from the hips, he wasn’t that heavy.
The sharks came right up to the boat and bumped it hard. One came half out of the water onto the platform, which was smeared with blood. I whacked it with the gaff and drew more blood. The shark rolled off the platform and disappeared, a red streak streaming from the gaff wound. The other sharks followed it under, smelling its blood. They would surely tear it apart in a feeding frenzy in which Vole had been the appetizer. There is no honor among sharks.
I looked at the top half of Vole. His dead eyes stared at me. I didn’t feel sorry for him, but I still threw up over the side for a full 15 minutes.