Bitter End Page 8

  He had no idea who the white hulk that made his way across the lawn was, but Beckett knew that it would take a lot more than a bottle to bring him down. One of the militia, however, if caught unawares…

  On a three count, Beckett leaped to his feet, the bottle held high above his head… only to lower it again.

  “Screech? What the fuck?”

  But even as he asked the question, Beckett thought he knew the answer. The man looked disheveled, with thick dark circles beneath his eyes. For someone as skinny and young as he was, Screech’s skin looked loose and wrinkly. And he was wet; everything about him was wet, from his hair to his soggy runners.

  “You sleep with Ariel, or what? What happened to you?” Beckett asked.

  Screech’s upper lip curled.

  “What happened to me?” he exclaimed. “What happened to you? One second we’re together on the boat, then you’re gone, man. I basically slept underwater.”

  Beckett glanced around nervously and pulled Screech down below the bar.

  “Never mind that — we need to get off this island. I don’t know how, but we need to get out of here fast. Some shit… yeesh, some shit went down last night.”

  Screech’s eyebrows rose up his pasty forehead, but not in a way that suggested concern or more confusion. It was more knowing… knowing and scared. Screech was definitely frightened.

  “What?” Beckett asked. “What is it?”

  Screech shook his head and leaned in close.

  “You know the half of it, Beckett. I was looking for you on the stupid boat and I made my way downstairs. But I got lost and instead of finding you… I found something even worse.”

  Interesting choice of words, Beckett thought. When Screech got a far-off look in his eyes, he reached over and shook his arm.

  “What, Screech? What did you see?”

  Instead of answering, Screech took the bottle of bourbon from Beckett’s hand and popped the top. He took a swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and offered it to Beckett. Beckett took a sip and then put the top back on, wincing at the burning sensation in his throat.

  At least it’s better than coconut, tequila, and Rabeprazole.

  Imbued by liquid courage, Screech started to speak again, weaving a tale about finding women trapped in a cell in the bottom of the yacht. When he was done, Screech took the bottle back and took another drink, a triple gulper this time.

  Beckett squinted at Screech as he mulled this over.

  “Screech… the two girls… the dead ones you saw lying in the yacht. Was one a brunette and the other a blond?”

  Screech gave him a queer look.

  “I… I think so. It was hard to tell. They were all just so… dirty.”

  Beckett nodded.

  “And their asses? Did they have these asses,” he made a circular gesture with his hands, “that you could, like, bounce quarters off of? Big ol’ round things?”

  Screech recoiled.

  “What? What the fuck are you talking about? You think this is a joke, Beckett? They’re dead. And we will be too if you don’t stop messing around.”

  “I’m not, Screech. Just answer the question: did they have big hard asses?”

  Screech looked like he was going to be visibly ill.

  “I don’t fucking know!” Screech exclaimed. Beckett cringed and ducked even lower.

  “Keep your voice down,” he hissed.

  “I don’t know about their asses. They were dressed in rags… filthy things. All I saw was their goddamn dead eyes and the foam around their mouths.”

  And that sealed it; Beckett had all the evidence he needed.

  The girls had died on Donnie’s yacht and the man had placed them in Beckett’s bed when he’d been passed out.

  “Okay, okay,” Beckett said, trying to calm his friend who looked on the verge of hyperventilating. He reached out and lifted the bottle of bourbon, encouraging Screech to consume more of the firewater. The man obliged.

  “And you? What the hell happened to you? And why was the goddamn army after you?”

  Beckett didn’t know how to answer; Screech wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing, and telling him that the girls he’d seen dead in the yacht had ended up in his bed, stripped naked… well, that might just put him over the edge.

  Beckett opted for a high-level summary.

  “Long story. Basically, Donnie wanted me to help him with his drug smuggling bullshit. I declined, and he set me up.”

  He could tell by the look in Screech’s face that he knew there was more to this story, but thankfully he didn’t push it.

  “You have your cell phone?” Screech asked, changing the subject.

  Beckett looked out at himself and held his hands out, showing Screech that he was only sporting his tattooed chest and a pair of boxers.

  “Does it look like I have a damn cell phone?”

  Screech frowned and pulled his own sopping phone from his pocket.

  “I managed to take a picture of the yacht before I spent the night in the water,” he began, reaching for the bourbon again. “Managed to get a text off to the guy who hired me to find it.”

  Beckett waited for the man to finish his drink.

  “And?”

  Screech lowered his gaze.

  “And I don’t know how, but he’s here.”

  Beckett raised an eyebrow.

  “Here? As in on the island?”

  An image of the white hulk flashed in Beckett’s mind.

  “Yeah, he’s here and I don’t think he likes Donnie DiMarco very much.”

  Chapter 24

  “Bob told us to lay low,” Screech said, peering over the top of the bar. Bob and the militia had since disappeared out of sight, and he hadn’t seen Donnie since the man had bolted toward the yacht. “I think… I think that we should listen to him.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beckett frown.

  Screech secretly hoped that Bob would just pay off the authorities the way that Donnie had and that everything would be wrapped up with a nice little bow. He and Beckett would then fly back to New York and leave this mess behind them, with only a sunburn and a crazy story that no one would believe for their troubles.

  But something told Screech that Beckett wouldn’t just let this go — that unlike Screech, he couldn’t let it go. With a hard swallow, he turned to face his friend.

  There was an emptiness to Beckett’s pale blue eyes that hadn’t been there even yesterday when they had been drinking and joking at the bar.

  In fact, Screech had only seen this look once before when Beckett had been standing over Craig Sloan’s fallen body, a bloody stone in his hand.

  I should never have told him about the dead girls… I should have just left it at the girls being trapped in a cell.

  But Screech couldn’t deny the possibility that part of the reason he’d told Beckett was because he had a suspicion of what the man might do. And maybe — just maybe — deep down, he wanted Beckett to take care of Donnie the way he had Craig.

  Screech shook his head.

  You’re just exhausted… what happened with Craig was an accident. Beckett wouldn’t… he wouldn’t… he’s not like that. He’s a doctor, for Christ’s sake.

  “Let’s just wait this out,” he said. “Wait for things to blow over.”

  Beckett turned to him then, the same empty look in his eyes.

  “Wait for things to blow over?”

  Screech waited for Beckett to expand on this, to ask him how he could let the deaths of two girls just ‘blow over’. But he didn’t. And somehow, this silence was even more powerful than a long, drawn-out discussion of morality and ethics.

  Screech cleared his throat and looked away from his friend.

  “Donnie would probably just pay them off, anyway,” Screech said under his breath, turning his eyes back to the spot where he’d last seen the man with the beard. He knew he was justifying something that hadn’t even happened yet, something that most likely would never happen
, but he couldn’t help it.

  “How hard do you think it can be?” Beckett said after a long pause.

  Screech’s brow furrowed as he followed his friend’s gaze. Beckett was staring at B-yacht’ch moored to the end of the long dock.

  “I mean, I stole one in GTA V once. Didn’t seem all that difficult.”

  Screech didn’t know much about boats, and less about yachts, but the sheer size of the vessel suggested that it might take at least a half-dozen people to drive the damn thing, let alone park it. But before he could say as much, Beckett was already rising to his feet.

  “I have no idea, but I guess we’re going to find out,” he muttered under his breath.

  Chapter 25

  You’re going to pay, Donnie, Beckett thought as he ran. You’re going to pay for what you did to those girls.

  He knew that his plan was risky, suicidal, even, but his fingers had started to tingle and his mind had already been made up.

  There was just one thing he had to work out: how to keep Screech out of this. Beckett liked the man well enough, even though he was undeniably annoying, but this was something that he had to do alone.

  Unlike the night prior, there were no burly men blocking the private ramp to the yacht, just a simple rope that both Beckett and Screech managed to hop over in a single bound.

  In broad daylight, and in the absence of cocaine and alcohol, aside from the small amount of bourbon he’d consumed at the bar, the yacht felt wholly unfamiliar to Beckett.

  Not only that, but it appeared as if someone had cleaned up overnight, removing the bar that Kevin had worked at entirely, as well as any evidence of the coconut massacre that had taken place. Beckett still wasn’t sure what the bartender’s role was in all of this, but he hoped for all of the man’s warnings, that he didn’t know the details of what Donnie had been up to.

  He’s here, Beckett thought suddenly. Donnie’s here.

  He didn’t know how he knew this, but the closer he got to the staircase leading to the deck below, the surer he became.

  “We should find a phone — a phone to call Drake,” Screech whispered beside him.

  Beckett couldn’t tell if Screech was speaking to him or just thinking out loud, but he took the opportunity to put some space between him and his friend.

  “There’s probably one in the… ugh… cockpit,” he offered.

  “Then let’s go,” Screech replied, but Beckett pulled away. He wasn’t going to go with Screech; he had something else to take care of. “What’s wrong? We should stick together.”

  Beckett shook his head.

  “There’s something I have to do,” he said.

  Screech stared at him for a good ten seconds before finally lowering his gaze.

  “Be careful,” the man said at last.

  Beckett nodded.

  “Meet me back here on the deck in ten,” he said, moving toward the staircase. “Then we’ll figure out a way to get off this damn island.”

  Chapter 26

  Screech pushed thoughts of what Beckett was planning to do from his mind as he made his way to the front of the yacht. He was simply too exhausted to wrap his mind around anything.

  And thinking about it would do no good at this point.

  He passed several empty rooms and as he did, Screech realized that the vessel was not only squeaky clean, but appeared completely deserted. Which was odd, given what had happened on board just last night.

  He shook his head and tried to remain focused.

  I need to find a phone and call Drake.

  There was still the question of what he would tell his partner when he finally got a hold of him, but he would deal with that hurdle when he got to it.

  The door to the cockpit was ajar and Screech pushed it all the way open, prepared to run should he encounter any of Donnie’s men — or were they Bob’s now? — inside.

  His heart skipped a beat when he realized that there was someone inside.

  Only Screech didn’t run; he froze.

  “No, please god, no.”

  Lying on the floor in front of a panel of knobs and wheels and buttons, was the bartender.

  Screech didn’t need to check the man’s pulse to know that he was dead.

  Kevin was on his back, his arms outstretched at his sides. The man’s flesh had the pallor of spilled milk, a stark contrast to the deep tan that he had sported when Screech had seen him last. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling.

  Screech swallowed hard, trying to keep the vomit that threatened to rise in his throat at bay.

  The only thing that kept him moving, pushing him forward, was a nonsensical mantra that repeated in his mind.

  I need to call Drake, I need to call Drake, I need to call Drake…

  Screech tilted his head at an odd angle as he entered the cockpit and glanced around, a deliberate attempt not to see Kevin’s corpse again.

  From just outside the door he’d observed hundreds of tiny switches and dials, but inside… inside, there were millions of them.

  There’s no way I can drive this thing, he thought. But that wasn’t his focus anymore.

  His focus was calling Drake; it was the only thing that would keep him sane.

  Thankfully, a red phone jutted from the side of the desk and Screech went right to it. Without thinking, he picked it up and held it to his ear.

  To his surprise, even though he hadn’t dialed a number, it was already ringing.

  “Coast Guard, what’s your emergency?”

  Screech blinked once, twice, and then collapsed, his ear still pressed against the phone.

  He’d finally lost his battle with exhaustion and sleep deprivation.

  “Coast Guard, what’s your emergency?” the man on the other end asked again.

  Screech’s chest started to twitch uncontrollably.

  “If you are unable to speak, please send your GPS coordinates.”

  The phone fell from his hand and dangled from the cord an inch or two above the floor.

  And then everything came crashing down.

  What started as a thin whine quickly degenerated into body-wracking sobs. Screech buried his face in his hands as the voice on the phone continued to inquire about the nature of the emergency.

  What’s my emergency? What’s my emergency? My whole life… my whole life has become a fucking emergency.

  It was a full minute later that Screech realized that he’d heard another sound in addition to the coast guard’s voice: a buzzing from his pocket.

  Screech pulled his hands away from his face and reached into his still damp shorts.

  Through tear-streaked vision, he somehow managed to confirm that his phone had come back to life.

  And that there was a message waiting.

  A message from Drake.

  It took him nearly a dozen tries to successfully open the message and when he finally managed, Screech simply stared it, unable to contemplate a reply, let alone type one.

  How did you explain something like this over a text? How did you tell someone that you found yourself on a yacht owned by a drug smuggler, found a dozen girls hidden away in a secret cell, two of whom were dead, and that you’d probably just sent your friend to kill the man responsible?

  How in the fuck did you explain that?

  Screech blinked and read the message a second time.

  How’s the vacation, Screech? Did you find Bob’s yacht?

  Chapter 27

  Beckett passed the room that he had done the coke in with Donnie DiMarco the night prior and glanced inside. Like the rest of the boat, it too appeared to have been scrubbed clean of any evidence of last night’s debaucheries.

  But he had no interest in any of that now. His goal remained singular.

  He looked in several other rooms in the lower level of the yacht, searching for what Screech had described as a door that belonged in a back alley in New York and not on a luxury yacht. But all he saw were neatly made beds and polished dressers.

  Just when Becket
t was considering going back topside, he turned a corner and nearly tripped over an empty pallet. Made of worn wood, he’d seen dozens of them stacked behind grocery stores back in New York.

  Needless to say, it didn’t fit B-yacht’ch’s general decor.

  There was also the smell: the faint lavender scent that seemed to permeate all of the empty rooms was gone. In its place was a hint of vinegar.

  Heroin, Beckett thought. During his tenure as the Senior Medical Examiner for the NYPD, he’d come across many an overdose victim. And the times when the drug of choice had been heroin, the cadavers had always had a unique vinegar smell to them, as if their last meal had been a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

  Raising his eyes, Beckett saw the door next, nearly exactly the way Screech had described it: made of thick metal, it was worn and tarnished, but still looked sturdy. The padlock was tightly fastened, but Beckett could see splinters of wood on the ground, evidence that Screech had tried, and failed, to pry it open.

  His heart racing now, Beckett looked around for something more useful than a piece of timber to break the lock. It appeared that whoever was in charge of cleaning up the yacht must have taken a break just outside the door, or maybe they’d gone to fetch more supplies. Either way, Beckett found a crowbar leaning up against the wall and beside that, a yellow X-Acto knife. He slipped the knife into the waistband of his boxers, then picked up the crowbar, taking a moment to get used to the weight, its heft. Clutching it in both hands, he moved to the door next.

  Beckett tapped the metal door twice with the curled end and waited.

  After the metallic echo subsided, he heard a voice.

  “Hello?”

  Beckett didn’t answer. If there had been any part of him that had doubted Screech’s story, any part that believed the girls in his bed had died by accident, that Donnie himself was just a victim, the strangled reply vanquished his final doubts.

  Donnie had to pay. Of that, Beckett had no doubt.