Bitter End Page 3

  Unlike the main entrance, the bedroom smelled clean and fresh. Arms splayed, he collapsed on the bed.

  He was asleep in seconds.

  ***

  “You killed her,” Beckett hissed through clenched teeth.

  The man dressed in the black tracksuit stared back at him, his eyes dark, his expression tense. He didn’t say anything—he didn’t have to.

  Beckett did enough talking for the both of them.

  “You killed all those people,” he spat. “You killed my students.”

  His fingers tensed on the palm-sized stone in his hand and without thinking, Beckett took a large step forward.

  This time, the man did move. Only he didn’t turn to run as Beckett suspected he might; instead, he simply lowered his eyes to the stone, then held his hands out to his sides.

  “This was all just a game to you, wasn’t it? A sick, twisted game to get back at a teacher who scorned you… and you think that that gives you the right to kill?”

  The man’s thin lips twisted into a sneer and he started to raise the pistol in his right hand.

  “You don’t understand…”

  Beckett took another step forward, closing the distance between them.

  “Oh, I understand all right. What I understand is—”

  Craig Sloan’s finger tightened on the trigger, but just as Beckett suspected, the only sound that came from the barrel was a hollow click.

  Beckett’s smile grew.

  “—what I understand,” he continued, more slowly this time, “is that someone needs to stop you before you kill again. What I understand, is that you are the one who deserves to die.”

  Craig lowered the gun and Beckett saw his legs tense as if he were about to pounce, or worse, turn and run.

  “And that person is you?” Craig said with a leer of his own. “Isn’t that ironic. Who are you—”

  Beckett lunged.

  He was an athletic man, one who kept in shape, and yet Beckett couldn’t remember a time in the last ten years that he had moved so quickly.

  Like his victims, Craig Sloan had no chance.

  The stone struck the man above his right eye, spraying Beckett’s hand and arms with blood.

  But Craig Sloan didn’t go down; he staggered, but somehow managed to keep his footing.

  Somewhere to his left, Beckett became aware of the roaring heat of the burning house, of the crackle of wood followed by the collapse of a large section of the roof.

  But he paid this little heed; he only had one job to do now.

  Beckett had to stop this murderer before he struck again.

  As Craig struggled to collect his bearings, Beckett reared back and smashed the stone against his head again, this time striking him in the temple.

  Craig’s eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed awkwardly, his shoulder ricocheting off the house to his right before his face smashed on the flagstones.

  A dark pool that looked like an oil slick in the moonlight immediately started to form around Craig’s nose and mouth.

  Beckett tilted his head to one side, observing the fallen man for a moment before his arm suddenly went slack and he lowered the stone to his hip.

  He was about to drop it; Beckett had every intention of letting the stone slip from his fingers and rushing to get Drake or Detective Adams. Or the ambulance, even; there were small bubbles forming in the pool of the man’s own blood.

  Craig was still breathing.

  But as he stared at that blood, Beckett didn’t see the reflection of moonlight. Instead, he saw Craig Sloan’s victims. He saw Toby Teager, who Craig Sloan had electrocuted, and then Jane Doe who had been drowned in Central Park. He saw Martin Dean, whose wrists had been slit, and Gerald Leblanc, who had been shot in the head. And he also saw Dr. Eddie Larringer, his own student, who Craig had hung and made to look like a suicide.

  But the one person who put Beckett over the edge was Suzan. Suzan Cuthbert’s face, her tongue poking into her cheek as she scribbled furiously, trying to finish the pathology exam ahead of the other students, was so real that for an instant, Beckett thought that she was actually there.

  Except Craig had tied Suzan up in the house to his right that was slowly being reduced to embers.

  Instead of dropping the stone, Beckett tightened his grip.

  And then he swung it again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Beckett kept smashing the stone against Craig’s head until he was soaked with blood and his arm was so tired that he couldn’t even raise it to wipe the sweat from his brow.

  Chapter 6

  Screech kept his head low as he made his way towards the main lobby. Unlike Beckett, he didn’t have the funds nor the connections for his own villa. Even with Bob Bumacher’s rather generous stipend, Screech was only able to afford a small apartment situated above the main reception area, which he assumed were occupied by staff during the high season. He shuffled past the reception desk, not wanting to make eye contact with the concierge who seemed to take great pride in not only being the most cheerful person on the island, but quite possible on planet Earth, as well.

  Screech, on the other hand, didn’t feel so jovial at the moment.

  Thankfully, the elevator was waiting on the ground floor, and it took a grand total of six seconds to rise one story—the ride was so short, in fact, that it made Screech think of the half floors in the movie Being John Malkovich. He didn’t know about becoming John, but Screech might not have turned down the opportunity to slide inside someone else’s skin, if only a little while. Just until he forgot about Craig Sloan.

  Screech shook his head as he made his way down the short hallway to his room, scrounging in his pockets for his keycard as he walked.

  He didn’t find it.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. A quick search of all his pockets, including the one on his shirt, came up empty.

  With a sigh, Screech tried to think back to where he might’ve left the key. He had it when he left the room—he was pretty sure he had it when he left the room—but things got muddy after his first drink, and downright opaque after the third.

  “Where the hell are you?”

  Out of options, Screech resigned himself to going back to the front desk to talk to Captain Cheerful to get a replacement.

  He was partway to the elevator when his phone buzzed. He hadn’t lost that, at least. Part of him hoped that it was Drake calling to check in with him, if nothing else but to show that he gave a shit.

  But the message wasn’t from Drake; it was from Bob Bumacher.

  Any updates? Remember to be discrete.

  Screech raised an eyebrow and considered writing back with something ‘discrete’… like a dick pic. After only a second of half-serious contemplation, he slid the phone back into his pocket without responding. Whenever he had a few drinks, Screech tended to make stupid — stupider — decisions. And while he knew little of the giant bald man with the cartoon name — Bob Bumacher — he had quickly learned that the man had the sense of humor as a plum. And as Drake, for that matter.

  Time sluiced forward as it tended to do when one imbibed, and Screech eventually found himself back in the lobby. He raised his eyes to the reception desk, a fake smile plastered on his face for the benefit of Captain Cheerful.

  Only the concierge wasn’t alone and he no longer looked cheerful.

  “What? I don’t care. I told you that I want Kevin to bartend on my boat. No one else; just Kevin,” a man with a thick black beard and closely cropped hair said. Screech didn’t need to see the two bikini-clad women, a blond on one arm, a brunette on the other, to know who this man was. It was in the way he spoke, with such authority and unwavering confidence that gave it away.

  The concierge’s lips twisted into a frown, immediately attempted to rise in a smile, but fell just short. In the end, Captain Cheerful settled on a neutral expression.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. DiMarco. I really am. But the rules are—”


  Donnie DiMarco reached into his swim trunks and pulled out a rolled-up wad of bills that he promptly slapped on the desk.

  “What rules are these?”

  Captain Cheerful’s eyes flicked to the bills before rising again to Donnie’s face. He was smiling again; they both were.

  “I truly am sorry, Mr. DiMarco. But this isn’t a matter of funding. It’s about the license, about the—”

  When Donnie reached across the table and grabbed the concierge by the collar, Screech gasped. The sound confused him, as he was fairly certain that only pre-teens gasped in the presence of their favorite boy band, and at first, he didn’t think that it had come from his mouth.

  But when all eyes—the concierge, Donnie, the two models—turned on him, he was positive that he had.

  Screech reached for the elevator close button, but he missed it and instead pressed the red emergency button. A loud chime went off and he cringed.

  “Fuck me,” he grumbled under his breath.

  Donnie DiMarco let go of the concierge and then wrapped his arms around his ladies protectively.

  “Carlos, Carlos, Carlos, you shyster, you. You said we were the only ones here,” Donnie said with a grin.

  Screech couldn’t tell if the man was hitting on Carlos or was about to execute a hit on him. Either way, it was all very confusing.

  What in the Christ was in those drinks?

  “No, sir, I never said that you were—”

  Donnie waved a hand dismissively and Carlos went quiet.

  “What’s your name, son?”

  With the elevator alarm still going off, Screech could barely make out the man’s words. He fumbled for the alarm button.

  “What?” he shouted.

  Eventually, his fingers found it and the chime silenced.

  “What did you—” Screech’s words were so loud now that his ears started to ring. He lowered his voice. “Pardon? What did you say?”

  Donnie DiMarco chuckled. He had a pleasant face beneath the thick beard and striking blue eyes.

  “Got into the sauce a little early, didn’t you?”

  Screech swallowed hard, tasting the cloying remnants of every molecule ending in -ose — glucose, fructose, sucrose… lactose? Yeah, there was probably lactose in there as well — that had been used to sweeten his cocktails.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, kid, I asked for your name.”

  “Screech,” he replied quickly.

  Although his attention was focused on Donnie, he couldn’t help but sweep his eyes to the beauties under each of the man’s arms. Chloe, the woman from the bar, had been undeniably beautiful. But these girls… they were 10s.

  No, 11s — 100s. Millions. Christ, he had never seen women this hot before.

  “Screech? Like, Saved by the Bell, Screech?”

  Screech nodded and was going to add something else when the elevator chirped at him again. Startled, he stepped into the lobby and the doors closed behind him.

  “Hey, hey, hey, what’s going on here?” Donnie said with a smile, removing his hand from the oiled back of the blond beauty on his right and extending it. “Just fucking with you. I’m Donnie.”

  Screech reached for the man’s hand. He never had a firm handshake and was of the mind that a man with a hard handshake was making up for something else that was just a little too soft. But Donnie’s grip… it wasn’t hard. It was like a vice. And when Screech tried to pull his hand back, Donnie didn’t let him. At least not at first.

  “So, tell me, Screech, what are you doing tonight?”

  Screech’s first instinct was to tell Donnie about his plan to meet up with Beckett, and maybe Chloe, for dinner, but changed his mind at the last second.

  “Nothing,” he said with a shrug and Donnie finally let go of his hand. “Just watching the sunset, I guess.”

  Donnie’s blue eyes bored into him, and for a brief moment, Screech thought that the man would read through his lie. But then his mouth parted in the perfect grin.

  “Well, I’ll tell you what, Screech. Why don’t you come visit my yacht tonight; you can watch the sunset from there.” Donnie cast a glance to the girls under his arms. “And anything else you might want to feast your eyes on.”

  Screech couldn’t help but smirk.

  “Sounds like I just might join you, Donnie,” he said. “Where’s the yacht… parked?”

  “It’s the only one on the island—moored on the North Dock. It should be a good time… especially given that we will have the best bartender in all of the Virgin Gorda serving us drinks. Isn’t that right, Carlos?” Donnie cast a glance at the bills that were still on the desk in front of the concierge. “Anyways, you can’t miss it. The yacht is called ‘B-Yacht’ch’. So don’t you be one and forget to show up, Screech. Oh, and if your pals AC Slater or Zach Morris are around, let them know that all of Bayside is invited.”

  Chapter 7

  Beckett awoke with a scream caught in his throat. He sat bolt upright on his bed, but his skin was so clammy that his sheets clung to him and almost pulled him back down. It took him a moment to realize where he was, and nearly a minute to draw a full breath.

  Craig’s gone… there’s nothing you can do about it now.

  Despite being drenched in sweat, when Beckett tried to swallow, he was unable; his mouth and throat were incredibly dry. With a groan, he rolled off the bed and made his way to the bathroom. Once there, he splashed frigid water on his face, hoping that it would shock the nightmare from his mind.

  When that didn’t work, he simply held his face directly under the tap.

  After the numbing effect took hold, Beckett raised his head and caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was paler than it normally was despite the sun he’d gotten that afternoon. He brushed some of the water from his bleach blond hair and then stood up tall, forcing his lungs to inflate to their capacity. His chest was covered with tattoos, starting from just below his collarbone and running down most of his abdomen. On his left pec, he had a black and white photorealistic tattoo of a bull’s head, while his right was adorned with a Celtic symbol that meant ‘warrior’. He had sparrows on each of his shoulders, their dark beaks aimed downward at cherry blossoms on one triceps and a feathered quill passing through the center of an ouroboros on the other. All of these tattoos, and the many others that filled the space between the major works of art, held a special meaning to him. And yet one of these was more important than the others. Far more important.

  Becket lifted his right arm and stared at the three-inch vertical line that ran across his ribs directly beneath where his armpit hair ended.

  He stared at that eighth of an inch thick line for several moments before realizing that he was holding his breath. It was the simplest of all of his tattoos and the only one that he’d done himself.

  “Craig Sloan,” Beckett whispered as he ran his index finger along the length of the line.

  Craig had been a bad man, and he’d done bad things. Beckett had put an end to that. And now Craig would be with him forever.

  Beckett shuddered then dried himself completely. After applying some paste to his hair, he made his way back to the suitcase that hung open at the foot of his bed. He slid on a pair of faded blue jean shorts and a graphic T-shirt emblazoned with the band Korn across the chest.

  Then, after a deep, sighing breath, he shook away the vestigial cobwebs of his nightmare and pulled the door to his villa wide.

  And then he nearly bowled Screech over.

  “Fuck,” Beckett cried, stumbling back into his villa. “Screech? What the hell are you doing here?”

  The man’s face was pale and his lips were cream-colored.

  “Screech?” Beckett asked again, his concern mounting. He reached out and laid a hand on the man’s shoulder and a tremor passed through both of them. Beckett pulled Screech into his villa and closed the door behind them. “What the hell happened to you? What’s going on?”

  Screech
swallowed hard and then licked his lips before answering.

  “It’s Donnie…” he said in a quiet voice.

  Beckett raised an eyebrow and observed Screech for a moment before commenting. The man was still wearing exactly what he had been at the bar, and judging by the smell of alcohol on his breath, he hadn’t bothered showering or napping.

  “Donnie? You mean the guy that Chloe was talking about? The guy who’s having the party on his boat tonight?”

  Beckett was having a hard time coming to grips with what exactly was going on, what had happened to his friend.

  “I met him… Donnie DiMarco.”

  Beckett’s eyes flicked side to side. He felt as if he’d missed the punchline of a joke and everyone else was laughing.

  “And? Did he touch you or something? Did he diddle—”

  Screech shook his head.

  “No, he was with these girls… these beautiful girls,” Screech paused and leveled his eyes at Beckett. “It’s his yacht. His yacht is called B-Yacht’ch.”

  Again, Beckett was at a loss.

  “I have no clue what you’re talking about, Screech. I don’t know if our friendly neighborhood bartender put something in your—”

  “No, Beckett, it’s not that. It’s the yacht… it’s Donnie DiMarco’s yacht… he called it B-yacht’ch. It’s the yacht that I came here looking for.”

  Chapter 8

  “This seems… downright retarded,” Screech said, scratching his goatee.

  Beckett shrugged.

  “You got any better ideas?”

  “Just about any idea is better than this one,” Screech replied.

  Beckett rolled his eyes.

  “I don’t know why you’re acting so fucking weird… I mean, you came here looking for the yacht and now you found it. You should be happy. Ka-ching, am I right?”

  Screech frowned.

  “Why don’t we just call the cops?”

  Beckett took a sip of the scotch in his hand and looked around before answering. The sun had started to set and the two men found themselves back at the same outdoor bar as earlier in the day. Just a few hours ago, in fact. Only this time, Kevin had been replaced by a balding 50-something-year-old bartender who poured light drinks in glasses stained with only god knows what.