The End
MCKLUSKY and THE JAMAICAN
The tiger shark searched for the source of blood that plunged in front of it. The blood seeped from my hand and back in a diluted red stream straight to the tiger’s nostrils. This is akin to smashing a kilo of cocaine in front of a junkie’s nose. But in this shark’s case, it wanted to eat, not go on a binger of drugs and sex fueled promiscuity.
“Look at that monster circling. He’s gonna rip you up boy.” The Jamaican stared down at me from the yacht’s helicopter pad. His dreadlocks hung like snakes by his face, the wind whipping them around, striking at his neck.
I began to tremble. The funny thing about Gulf’s July water is that it can suck the heat from your body at night, especially when you’ve lost the amount of blood I had.
“What are you gonna do Mcklusky? They’re all dead. Ain’t nobody here to help. You stay out of our business from now on boy.” His spit formed a mist in the humid night air.
It’s true. They were all dead, and I’d soon be too. I should’ve killed the son-of-a-bitch when I had the chance.
The water rose like a moving submarine breaking the surface. I braced for the impact of the shark’s jaws. My body was hit hard but lighter than I imagined it should’ve been. The jaws were painless, for a moment.
The Beginning of the End
PART 1
JADA and THE HIPPIE
Jada loved the rhythmic beat of running. She could keep time for a symphony by the impact of her feet hitting the ground. She even enjoyed looking at her legs and seeing her muscles contract with every stride. The burning in her lungs and the quickness of her heartbeat made the stress of her parents’ divorce disappear into the Tennessee mountain trail. She enjoyed getting out of the Chattanooga Valley, which trapped the haze and pollen, up to the Hiwassee to clear her lungs.
Jada was built like a runner: strong legs, slender midsection, and a small top. At seventeen she was the best distance runner that Chattanooga had seen for years.
Jada had gone four miles up the trail and decided to head back when she ran into the long haired hippie, his beard twisted in braids.
“Hey-hey Miss,” The Hippie said, his voice raspy.
Jada came to a stop giving herself some distance from the man. She still jogged a slow trot in place to keep her heart rate up.
“I’m sorry to bother you,” The Hippie said, “but can you tell me how to get down to the bottom. I sort of lost my way.”
Jada stopped her trot catching her breath. She inhaled the smell of patchouli drifting off the man’s clothes and tried not to gag. “Well, you’re on the main trail now. Just keep heading down and you’ll hit the road.”
“Thanks, you run up here a lot?” the Hippie inquired.
“Sometimes,” Jada said. The Hippie’s eyes darted back and forth from her face to her chest. She shifted uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her breasts. “Well, I gotta go.”
“Thanks for your help. Have a good run.” The Hippie watched her as she started running. He slung his backpack off and rustled through it.
Jada stretched out her strides. A sting on her shoulder sent a paralyzing spasm down her spine. Her vision blurred causing her to snag a foot on an exposed root. Collapsing onto the trail, she raised herself back to her knees barely able to crawl. Her thoughts raced faster than she did. Move! Get Up! She was vaguely aware of the footsteps coming toward her. The crunching of the dirt and leaves congealed with the static screeching in her head making it impossible for her to hear the radio that crackled behind her.
“I got one,” The Hippie said. “A good one too,” he added delighted with himself.
“Bring her to me, Richard.” The Jamaican said. “I’m heading up now.”
The Hippie grunted. He preferred not to be called Richard, but he really had little say so in his life now. He hovered over Jada who now struggled to prop herself up on her elbows. The Hippie plucked the dart out of her back and placed it in his pack. He thought about taking her himself and playing his games with her in the secluded forest of the mountain top. But if he ruined her, she’d be worthless. And he’d be killed. He grabbed Jada, sliding his hand gently around her exposed waist. He lingered for a moment feeling her body underneath his, the slight expansion of her stomach pressing against his hand as she breathed. He thought again how easy it’d be to take her. The pleasure, his body shuddered. He reached down the front of his stomach to his pants, but it was not there. He was no longer allowed to carry the knife. That which had become a part of his sexual experience had been stripped from him like ripping his member from his body.
“Wh-a-aa-t arre,” But Jada’s lips felt like weighted ropes had been strung to them.
The Hippie threw Jada over his shoulder as he carried her to the cliff. The sun scattered over the mountains. The trees looked like they were smudged in soft hues of yellow velvet and the shadows thumbed in dark mucus green. The air shredded below the Hippie, popping in a rapid percussion of beats. First the blades and then the body of the helicopter rose in front of him, its side door open. The Jamaican sat in the pilot’s seat.
“Get in,” The Jamaican ordered over the radio.
“Karam, have patience. I’m not going to do anything to her,” The Hippie said with a fake reassurance in his voice.
“Then get in. We have two more.” Karam words cut with the beat of the blades.
The Hippie smiled and stepped onto the skid of the helicopter and laid Jada on the floor. Sliding the helicopter door shut, he buckled himself in.
Looking at Jada’s body lying helpless on the floor, the Hippie smiled. He leaned back and closed his eyes and thought of what he would’ve done to her in the old days, when he worked independently and alone.
Part 2
BECKER
John Becker inched toward the edge of Boony Doon Cliffs in Santa Cruz County, California. The wind blowing off the Pacific ripped through his black hair.
Becker held Carlos by the throat. The back half of Carlos’ feet came precariously close to slipping off the cliff and tumbling him into the waves crashing onto the rocks below.
“Where?” Becker yelled one more time.
“Hombre, come on?” Carlos said.
“Where?”
“Please! You’re the FBI you can’t do this.”
Becker kicked Carlos’ ankles, dangling them off the cliff. Carlos screamed as the lure of gravity weighed on his feet. Becker dug his other hand into Carlos’ shirt stopping the Mexican’s decent.
“Okay, Okay.” Carlos’ mouth clamored for words. “Just pull me in. I’ll tell dude. I swear I’ll tell.”
“Carlos, I’m not stupid. Tell me first.” Becker paused, “Hurry, my arms are getting tired.”
Carlos glanced at the churning water below. A stream of urine colored his tattered jeans dark and dripped out of his pants bottom. The water leaking from his eyes sheared off his face as the wind’s violent gust burst up from the ocean’s surface. “it’s..it’s in the Ten Thousand Islands. The drop off point is there man. I swear- I swear-please.” He trailed his words off into a whine.
“Where in the Ten Thousand Islands?”
“I don’t know.” Carlos sucked in jagged gasps of air. “I-I just heard the Ten Thousand Islands. I just know that is the drop off point. They’re looking for a site there. I was supposed to contact them and meet them in a couple days. Come on man, pull me in.”
“Okay Carlos,” Becker said.
“So we’re cool right man,” Carlos asked his voice timid and hopeful.
“Almost.” Becker’s eyes pierced into Carlos’. “That girl a few years ago… you know the one who disappeared during the bonfire. She was my sister.”
“Oh man no,no,no. Hombre come on.” Carlos shook his head taking another look down. The smell of feces rotted the air. He grabbed Becker’s forearms and wrestled a grip into his shirt pulling in desperation. “She’s probably still alive man. I know where she is. I know where she is.”
Becker jerked Carlos closer to his face. “I already know where she was. I found her.”
“Please, man. It was...” Even in his frantic state Carlos thought better of saying it was just business. “I can give you names.”
“I know the names,” Becker smiled. “I found you didn’t I? I just needed to know the drop off point.”
“Okay, Okay, the drop off- I gave it to you. You’re FBI. The badge! You got the badge around your neck.”
The badge in the middle of Becker’s chest glisten its dull polish in the half moon. A menacing grin consumed Becker’s face. “I know. The only problem is it ain’t real hoss.”
Carlos’ eyes widened. “No, man, no!”
Becker pulled Carlos in and set his feet on the ground.
“Thank yo…”
Becker shoved his arms out launching Carlos off the cliff. Parallel with Becker for the briefest of moments, Carlos’ arms and legs thrashed like a young child thrown in the deep end of a pool. Becker almost thought it comical.
Gravity grabbed Carlos, and he flipped back, his head taking the lead in the plunge. Carlos’ screams became distant, being swallowed up by the surf. Becker stood there for a second until he heard the thump.
Satisfaction erupted across Becker’s face.
Part 3
KAITLIN
Kaitlin staggered down the beach in Hilton Head. The sun had long set behind her to the west. She didn’t like the spinning in her head. But she was there with a group of friends, and they were all taking shots of Tequila. Her boyfriend, Sam, was the worst of all. They’d talked before about waiting, but he always got too aggressive when he was drunk. He tried to fondle her several times until she slapped him across the face and stormed off hoping the slight breeze offered by Atlantic would calm her fuzzy head.
She knew she was attractive. Not in a snobbish way either. It was one of those things she realized when she turned fourteen and boys gravitated toward her. But she would be heading to the University of Florida in a couple months to major in pre-med. The last thing she wanted was a child on the way, and she couldn’t spend all of her time partying. And Sam trying to get her drunk and into bed wasn’t going to help her meet her goals either.
Kaitlin was observant, but she didn’t see the man approach her from behind, or the night cocooning the black zodiac anchored a hundred yards offshore. The hit on her back knocked the breath out of her. A callused, rough hand covered her mouth, snagging her soft lips and muffling her shrieks. The man was too strong. He felt like a solid piece of iron as she pulled against his wrist and arm. Her nails dug into his forearm and snapped against his skin as rough as tanned leather, hardly leaving an indentation. The water frothed behind her kicks.
Once at the Zodiac, the man lifted himself into the boat with one arm and Kaitlin was pulled by her hair out of the water. He dragged her over the side of the boat like a giant tarpon, the back of her legs squeaking as they slid over the wet rubbery side.
The 90 horsepower engine sputtered. She inhaled the fumes of smoking oil and gas, rubbing her throat raw. An accent she couldn’t place spoke behind her. “You be quiet now. I won’t kill you today woman,” The Jamaican said.
She felt the needle stab her arm. The stars spiraled into revolving spectrums of trailing light- and then black.
“Where to now?” Richard asked.
“The girls go to the mangroves. We go to Panama City to meet the ship. There is one more girl. I tried something new in getting her.” He turned the helicopter south.
“You already have her?” The Hippie said.
“No. She is meeting me of her own free will.”
“Ha! Just wait until see she’s you. She’ll change her mind,” The Hippie mocked.
Karam tightened his grip on the steering wheel and cursed The Hippie under his breath.
Part 4
MCKLUSKY
Mcklusky is the nickname my grandfather gave me at the age of five. Grandpa loved an old movie called White Lightening starring Burt Reynolds. Burt played a moonshiner and ex-con called Gator Mcklusky who is forced by the federal government to ensnare a corrupt politician. When Grandpa bought his first VCR, he snagged a copy of the movie with it. He lay back on the couch, and I sat down on the floor and watched the movie with him. When the cars jumped and exploded, I imitated the action with my Matchbox cars heaped in a pile in front of me. Grandpa got such a kick out of it he started calling me Mcklusky. So did everybody else.
I was what you’d call an average sixteen-year-old, not a school athlete, but not the dregs of the school either. I simply existed. That was until the summer when I set foot on Marco Island, the island of my birth. As soon as my feet stood on the bow of my grandfather’s boat, it’s as if roots in my feet sprouted to drink the salt water, instantly tying me to the environment like the many mangrove islands that formed impenetrable mazes all the way to the swamps of the Everglades.
But like clockwork, at the end of August, I returned back to a small town in New Jersey to live with my mother and stepfather. I felt the life leave my body and was left to go through the motions of school and avoid the occasional beating by my stepdad.
It’s not that I didn’t love my mother; I did. I just think she made a bad choice in the man she married. And I paid the cost by being away from the ocean. The only time I felt some harmony is when I practiced at the Dojo trying to master the Filipino art of Kali, a fighting style that incorporates precision knife fighting, whips, sticks, and hand to hand combat. The actual physical exertion kept me sane, kept me from going off kilter.
I used my training, once, against the school drug dealer. I helped his girlfriend pick up her books that tumbled out of her hands while she rushed down the hallway late to her class. He walked over in a tight t-shirt displaying his self induced EMO image. His arms bulged, hanging by his side. Thick greasy strands of hair that he would whip back every so often covered his eyes, revealing a blistering garden of pimples on his forehead. I stood up to leave, and he grabbed my collar and shoved me against the concrete wall.
“I’m gonna kick your scrawny little ass for talking to her
Mcklusky.” His breath reeked of marijuana and Doritos.
His girlfriend gathered her books frantically, nervously pleading for him not to hurt me.
“Shut up bitch.” He pushed her to the side. She stumbled to the floor with one of those sickening hallway squeaks only a buffed floor can make. Choking me with my collar, he flung me beside her. My forearm, breaking my fall, repeated the squeak. By no means was I skinny. I pushed close to six feet, pretty well built, but I wasn’t as big as this six-foot-three steroid fueled bully either.
Somewhat pissed off, I looked around for the teachers who always caught me without a hall pass but apparently not during a fight. Then it happened. He swung. The druggie’s right hook headed toward my face. Instinctively my right hand came up and pushed his punch past my body. The momentum of him missing me spun him around. I snapped him in a chokehold and heard him gasping for air. I squeezed, the beat of his pulse pushing frantically against my forearm. When he went limp I let him fall to floor. A certain empowerment came over me oozing out a small amount of the venom I had collected in my bosom from my own abuse.
His girlfriend would always give me a slight smile of satisfaction every time she saw me. I didn’t worry about the drug dealer attacking me again. He was soft, ravaged by the drugs he took. And I didn’t miss school or my pseudo friends when I left them for the summer, most were Jersey Shore cast member wanna-be’s anyway. Nor did I dream of returning to New Jersey in time for the blistering gray winters to milk the moisture from my body.
Marco Island was my oasis. The place I went to rebuild and get back to who I was. A blond headed, blue eyed somewhat handsome boy (I liked to think) who loved the smell of salt air and the burn of the sun on his skin.
