Dead Girl Beach (13 page)

Seabury steered the boat inside a trough of angry waves. Near the mouth of the lagoon, he cut the engine and nosed the boat inside a reedy marsh at the edge of the jungle—a quarter-mile down from the reef. He splashed in and waded to shore, and Lawan followed him.

Through the trees, he saw the fire. He saw Parry drinking beer. He looked for Greta. She wasn't there, but something caught Seabury's attention as he scanned the beach and moved through the trees. The outline of a dark bundle lay on the ground a few yards down from the fire.

The sight of it jolted him, stabbed at his lungs, and took his breath away.
Oh, my God…Suma
, he thought. He stood in front of Lawan, shielding her from the view. Lawan, who hadn't noticed the object, hurried along the trail behind him. A web of tangled vines in a dense grove of trees and sprouting foliage concealed them. Moving quickly, they skirted the campsite and headed back into the woods above the beach.

In the darkness and silence of the forest, Seabury blamed himself for not getting there sooner. If he hadn't combed Sunrise Beach, if he hadn't stopped off and paid Bennie Zee a visit, and if he hadn't talked so long to Tara Bennett…well, he had, and he was pretty sure that Suma was dead. Greta had killed her, and he'd done nothing to stop her.

There would be no rescue or happy ending, now. When Lawan went to pieces over the death of her sister, he would be there to console and comfort her, like she had been there for him when Dao had died. He realized it wouldn't be enough. Soon, he would return to sea, and Lawan—like a young wife grieving the loss of her husband—would be alone. That's when it would finally sink in and hit her the hardest.

This was a dark, evil place. Maybe jinxed, maybe haunted in some way. Superstition played a major role in the lives of local villagers. Now, he was starting to think that maybe some of it was true…about the place. As animists, the villagers believe that life exists in all things created, in both present and past lives, and provide momentary glimpses into the dark, illusionary world of the paranormal. To them, there was no separation between the physical and spiritual worlds, where the wandering spirits of lost souls not only existed in humans, but also in plants, animals, rocks, rivers, and mountains.

They saw life in everything, and everything included man, and man supported that life. The belief, ingrained in the darker regions of Thai culture, and always a part of their culture was the idea of shadowy figures and ghost-like spirits soaring across the ground, hiding in deep, impenetrable regions of tropical forest or imbedded in sea creatures living in the dark, mysterious waters of jungle lagoons.

The village elders had told him many things, and Seabury listened to their sage advice. After Dao's death, they told him that the police should have just closed off the whole area—restricted travel, patrolled the waterway, and prevented anyone from coming near Dead Girl Beach. Dao's death and the deaths of the other girls had struck fear into their hearts, and they were scared of a killer roaming the area, still on the loose.

Soon, the local pipeline carried stories about the place being haunted and ghosts soaring through the trees. Dark spirits lurked below the water. Scary apparitions appeared in the night. The local
Kamdan
, the village leader, warned his people not to go there, that it wasn't safe and to stay away. He told his people that swimming in the depths of the lagoon was a form of evil spirit embodied in a single, vicious predator—the needlefish—and their eyes filled with fear and wonder. T
hat fish no good—more dangerous than shark
. Far into the night, the villagers listened to him. Because he was their leader, they believed in what he said, knowing he wanted to protect them.

Most backpackers and sightseers took the warning to heart and avoided going up there. Besides, there was plenty of action for the younger crowd down on Sunrise Beach. Far from Europe, far away from home—some for the very first time—they were living the life in a tropical island paradise on the other side of the world. They had white, sandy beaches and plenty of drugs, beer, and hard liquor to consume. Plus, there was non-stop partying on the beach. So, why risk your life on a dangerous beach up the coast, when there was so much more going on down below?

Seabury mulled these thoughts over in his head and stood in the silence and darkness, looking at the camp down below. Parry Langer didn't finish his second beer but took it along with him as he stumbled up the hill toward the forest.

Seabury stood in the shadows…waiting.

Seabury's hand went up. He motioned Lawan to silence. “Stay here, please.”

Lawan, wide-eyed and body quivering, watched him go. He slipped a few feet down the deer trail to a stand of trees just beyond a mound of dirt in the shape of a grave. His best guess was that Parry wouldn't be heading this way unless it had something to do with the grave. He stood motionless now in the thicket and waited.

Seabury had no idea if Parry was armed. A gun was a problem and one he would have to deal with, immediately. He didn't want a gun coming out of a waistband and firing at the last second at point blank range, where it would do the most damage—so, stealth was his only option.

Near the grave, Seabury crouched low behind a stand of tall, dark trees. The branches were stiff and dusted silver in the moonlight. At his back, the deer trail knifed at a right angle back through the forest. Lawan stood in the darkness, tense, rigid, and on edge. Her face strained with worry as she hunched over in the shadows, watching Seabury. Night sounds echoed far back in the darkness.

Parry entered the clearing next to the trees where Seabury stood waiting. He finished his beer, tossed the can down in the thicket, and tramped further back inside, looking for the grave. The voices of night birds clattered on branches directly above. Animals thrashed through the darkness behind him. Then, there it was—the grave—just as Greta had told him.

“Yeah, gaddummit. Thar' she is,” Parry muttered as Seabury came up behind him.

It was a tough fight—not the kind to end quickly. Not the kind Seabury wanted, because Parry Langer was strong and powerful. The blow to the side of Parry's jaw as he sprang round and lunged at Seabury would have debilitated any other man, but not Parry. Parry shrugged off the blow, as if he'd shrugged off a flying insect. Head locked into his shoulders, arms out wide and crab-like, he bull-rushed Seabury, trying to take him to the ground.

The big Hawaiian was quick and agile, though. He sidestepped Parry at the last moment and drove a forearm into the side of his head, feeling the power jolt through his arm. A grunt, followed by a loud squeal of pain, tore out of Parry's lungs.

Next, Seabury spun on his toes, in a half circle the other way, and came up behind Parry. He curled his big arm inward, hooked it around Parry's throat, and squeezed hard. A pinch of air squished out of Parry's throat. He writhed and twisted. His feet left the ground. His face turned red, and he steamed and boiled, letting out a terrifying squeal like a pressure gauge about to burst. Seabury exerted more pressure, and they struggled in the noisy darkness. It was a move Seabury saw infantrymen use in hand-to-hand combat. He twisted right, then left, then back, again. Parry's neck snapped like a wishbone.

Crack!
The sound tore back into the darkness. Lawan turned her head and looked the other way. She was starting to feel sick to her stomach.

Seabury moved out to the edge of the forest. The adrenaline rush that surged through his system as he grappled with Parry Langer had left his muscles stiff and sore. He was fighting hard to catch his breath.

Turning around, he called back to Lawan, “You okay?” He waved her closer.

She moved toward the voice, still in shock and reeling from the sight of the dead man lying on the trail behind her. A sliver of moonlight gleaned off the top of Seabury's bushy head. His face, she noticed, was darker, now—less calm, less restrained. His eyes half closed, and his rugged jaw firmly set, he looked like a metal cable about to snap.

“The act's solo from now on,” he said.

Lawan stared up at him. She saw the intense, combative light deepen in his eyes. It gleamed then froze, hard like the light coming off a cold, wintery landscape. She saw a man she didn't know. In the silence and darkness, she shrank back away from him. His face was the face of another man. A dark, aggressive, hostile man—not the quiet, gentle Hawaiian she once knew—the one who seemed to read her thoughts almost before she had them. She gasped and sighed, feeling hurt and disappointed.

 “I'm sorry,” Seabury told her.

She said nothing. She watched him standing there in the darkness, staring down at her—this big, brawny, muscular man whose expression had quickly changed. No longer tense and warlike, his eyes had gone soft with a mixture of sadness and remorse, which left her feeling confused. Seabury took a deep breath and let the air out slowly. Then, he turned back and stepped out of the forest, and she followed him.

“There's something I need to show you,” he said, and his voice began to crack. He had his arm around her shoulder, and they walked back down the hill. Suddenly, her body stiffened, and her eyes snapped wide open in alarm and panic.

“Suma?” she cried out. “Oh, my
God!
No…no…no, Seabury.” Her scream cut through the silence and rocked the night.

Near the fire, Seabury opened the tarp. Suma lay on her back with her eyes closed. Strands of wet, black hair drooped down across her forehead, and her face had turned a pale color. She might have rested there in a peaceful sleep except for the sight of her dead body. Crumpled and mutilated, riddled by scores of deep puncture wounds, it looked like a target shot with arrows. Seabury knelt down on one knee next to her.

His heart sank, and he fought a pain that took his breath away. Suma's nose was broken. A deep, purple welt covered her left eye. Puncture wounds were all over her body, blood splattered everywhere. It formed a wide pool across her chest and clung to the rumpled folds of her red glitter mini. The needlefish's steel-tipped beak was still stuck in her right eyelid.

With a handkerchief, Seabury reached down, removed the fish from her eye, and tossed it into the smoldering fire. The wet rush of saliva that enters the mouth at the onset of vomiting filled Seabury's mouth. He swallowed and stood back up.

Lawan had turned away. She was still crying when he came over to her. He had a hand on her shoulder. When she noticed it there, she brushed it off. She twisted away from him and started to howl and scream. She stumbled and jack-knifed over.

Seabury stood back away from her, letting her cry out all the anger and emotion. The sight of Suma's morbid death pressed the weight of a giant boulder down on him, and a lonely, forsaken look entered his eyes.

A moment later, the look changed. Now, in the murky moonlight, his face grew hard and cold. Dark, angry lines creased the corners of his eyes. A restless fury tore through his body, and anger and revenge hammered at his heart.

Lawan had turned around now, all cried out, and rushed into his arms. He held her gently and comforted her, but she couldn't stop shaking. A moment later, they separated.

Seabury said, “I need to go, now. She's out there waiting.” He looked down at the dead body. “It's for Suma and Dao,” he said.” A lump lodged in his throat. He tried to swallow it down, but it wouldn't budge. “Stay here. I'll come back for you later.” Then, he was gone.

Skirting the edge of the campsite took Seabury five minutes. Greta Langer sat inside her outboard, back inside the trees, watching him.

* * * *

Seabury rushed along the trail, going back to his boat. Up ahead, a narrow patch of sand and rocks appeared, littered with clusters of coral and dead seaweed. He was out in the open now, in full view and vulnerable if she spotted him. If she spotted him, Plan A would go into Plan B. Plan B was a plan of desperation. In reality, a plan of desperation was no plan at all—just a plan gone wrong.

Hurrying, he reached the water's edge. His boat was nosed into the trees. Untying the line, he jumped in. Oars clamped to sprockets to the left of the back seat, and a heavy, black tarp lay beneath them.

Seabury rowed out beyond the reef, and then up the narrow channel leading back into the lagoon. He kept close to the outer edge of the shoreline, where large stands of trees with low, overhanging branches concealed him from view. He would wait until it was time to drift back out into the middle of the lagoon, where he knew Greta Langer would come for him.

Now, like a Navy Seal on a stealth mission in the middle of the night, he hunkered down inside the trees. Under a tarp at the back of the boat, he waited.

On the other side of the lagoon, Greta sat up in the outboard. She had seen Seabury, scrambling through the trees.
Hah! Just as I thought. You showed up here
. She checked her watch and said, “About time to get ‘er done.”

The brilliance of a full moon shone across the water. Greta's outboard rose and fell in the waves lapping up on shore. Here, the beach curved into a steep wall of black, volcanic rock. It shot up high off the beach, and a thick shroud of jungle foliage covered it.

Across the water and inside the trees, Seabury watched the boat swing out from shore. It turned back, swung in a wide circle, and then powered out into the lagoon.

Greta was midpoint between the beach and the dark, jagged edge of the reef when she suddenly cut the engine. She stretched her lank body down on the seat and felt the gun press against the lower part of her back. She saw the boat drifting toward her. In the silence, she waited.

* * * *

Meanwhile, the dark and arrow-shaped nose of the other boat drifted across the water, getting closer. Greta pulled the Beretta out and switched off the safety. Staring straight ahead, she drifted alongside the other boat, her eyes alert and watchful. A nerve twitched at the side of her left eye, and her finger curled around the trigger. The sterns of both boats ran parallel in the water when, all at once, they banged together.

Greta stumbled forward then planted her left foot ahead of the other, regaining her balance. Waves splashed against the boat and pushed it alongside a lumpy, black tarp at the back of the other boat. Seabury lay hidden there, poised and ready. Greta leaned over. In the moonlight, she reached down, found the edge of the tarp, and pulled it back. She looked down.

“Come out, Seabury. You're not fooling anyone.”

Seabury threw back the tarp and came out with the blunt end of the oar pointed up at her.

“You think that's gonna help?” She scoffed at him. “Seabury, you're dumber than you look.”

Seabury stared at the gun in her hand. “Wait a minute, Greta.”

“Too late, now…sucker.” She squeezed the trigger.