Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982
Terror Resort
by Brett Halliday
(ghost written by Hal Blythe & Charles Sweet)
It was an exciting place to visit, but Mike Shayne didn’t want to die there!
I
Somewhere in the Australian pines a mocking bird issued its cry of territorial imperative. The scarecrow-thin figure in the brush below wished he’d heard the advice earlier and stayed away. But it was too late for that now.
The half-moon’s rays shot obliquely through the trees, making it easier for him to see where he was going in this alien territory. Unfortunately, it helped the enemy too, not that they needed help. They were professionals. He was an amateur — a meddling amateur who had stuck his nose out too far this time.
Ahead of him the bay water gently lapped the shore. Water would throw off those big black dogs. What did you call them? The name he couldn’t remember. But one thing stuck in his mind — those dogs were bred to kill. Frogs practiced their night songs as the palm and pine thinned out. In front of him he spotted some mangroves, and he knew he was on the beach.
He stumbled down the beach, his bare feet managing to find every protruding sandspur. Then he pitched forward, crumbling into the moist sand. A ghost crab stared at him as it scuttled by on all fours. Why couldn’t he be so dextrous? he thought wryly.
He paused, considering the alternatives. His only chance would be to swim across the bay. In his youth that would have been no trouble; he could have swum around the world. Now he had trouble making it across the pool at the “Y” — the short way. A log, a piece of driftwood would help keep him afloat — if he could find one. He estimated the distance across the bay between three-fourth to one-half mile. No waves. Damn! He’d be a sitting duck if they saw him.
He moved down the beach, through the vines and occasional palmetto. Any other day he’d have been tripping over enough driftwood to start a tourist trap. Ahead the moon broke through some fallen pines, making what looked like the shadow of the cross on the beach. Salvation. He tried to break the trunks loose. Nothing budged. He continued on.
Behind him infrequent shouts blended in with the creature serenade. He didn’t bother looking back. They had to be gaining. Why had he been so clumsy back there? He’d been standing on that orange crate peering through a side window when the boards snapped. He had hurried away, hoping they wouldn’t notice. But their flashlights must have found his footprints. Then the dogs were let loose.
A gas can gleamed like silver in the moonlight. Maybe some fisherman had knocked it overboard in the bay and it had drifted in. Picking it up, he headed for the water. Entering in quickly, he submerged the can. No bubbles. No sense of it getting heavy. He had a buoy.
In low tide, he might have been able to walk to the mainland. But the luck of the Irish wasn’t with him now. Apparently, he’d used his quota just finding this place. He pushed off and began to float. Not as graceful as those surfing kids, but he was moving. Hugging the can like his last bottle of liquor, he began to kick. He imagined a voice telling him to keep his knees straight.
Then he heard real voices, calling out in a mixture of English and Spanish. They had found where he had entered the bay. Flashlights gleamed on the glassy surface of the water, but he was out of their range. Dogs began to whine, disgusted the prey had eluded them. He kicked softly, but steadily. He breathed a sigh of relief. He was going to make it. The old man was going to defeat those kids.
Overhead a small plane without lights coughed its way through the skies. Smugglers, he imagined. Hell, half the people in the state were smuggling dope or refugees in, and the other half were taking plants and tans out. He was starting to feel a little smug when he heard the first rapid report. Off to his left bullets caromed off the water like errant stones. Then the water to his right erupted. He heard little thunks as though the waves were swallowing.
Directly behind him the water exploded. They were smart, firing in a pattern, not just random bursts. Standard military procedure. The gun they were using sounded familiar, too. What was that Israeli weapon that had become so popular on the black market? Uzi, that was it.
The next round was closer. At least they weren’t using tracers. Any second they were going to zero in on him, and early the next night some fisherman was going to find something larger than shrimp in his nets.
An idea struck him before a bullet. Letting go of the can, treading water, he removed his jacket. With less than a quarter of a mile to go, surely he could make it alone. Gradually he worked his coat off. On the shore a vehicle plowed into the sand. Then a bright light began to sweep the bay. A change in tactics, but it might buy him the time he needed.
When the jacket came off, he tied it around the can, then paddled away. As he headed toward the shore, the can began to drift to the right, bobbing up and down in the water like a giant fishing float.
When less than a hundred yards separated him from the can, it was caught in a light. Seconds later a shot rang out and then another. He heard a ping as the can jerked. He half expected the can to go up in flames, but it only did that in James Bond movies.
Suddenly the light was extinguished and he heard nothing but nature. The water struck him as warm, and the waves seemed to play across his face like a baby’s friendly hand. It didn’t take him long till he could stand up. Then he found himself trying to run through the waist-deep water.
He guessed it was about three o’clock when he pulled himself up on the beach. The air felt hot and moist. He took off his trousers, wrung them out, and put them back on. How long would his ruse work? Just before he had crossed the bridge to the island, he had seen a sawdust restaurant and a payphone on the wall just beside the NEHI sign.
He walked north, too tired to jog. Maybe he should go south, get as far away as possible. No, he had to make the call, to divulge what he saw on the island. After all, there had been some prominent people involved, and he had followed them all the way there. He tried to remember the name of the town, but nothing came to him. He cursed softly. How could he recall the stupid NEHI sign and not the town’s name? Jerkwater, Florida. That would do.
He was feeling a craving for a cigarette when he heard the vehicle. A jeep. A jerkwaterite? No, most of them were retirees or fishermen, both of whom would be in bed early and not up until dawn.
Then he saw the headlights and a light that was playing across the silent bay. He moved inland, through a clump of scrub pine. Working his way slowly, he passed the jeep, careful not to step on anything that didn’t look dead. Then he was back on the road, his bare feet thwacking on the cool tar and his chest pounding. (Was that some kind of revenge for his wanting a cigarette? Beneath the light of a single bulb, he spotted the combination oyster bar, gas station. Nobody around. He could see his reflection in the plate-glass window — long neck, bony shoulders, sunken eyes. He looked like a sick crane.
Change. He fumbled in his pocket. Nothing. His wallet was gone too, not that anyone would change a bill now. On the side of the building he found a soft-drink machine. He punched the buttons — the machine had everything but Nehi.
A quarter dropped out, then a dime. It was better than winning in Vegas.
The quarter was just clanging through the phone when the jeep’s engine startled him.
The big redhead washed the last of Tuesday’s grit from his rough skin. He was tired, as tired as he’d been in a long time. The hot water massaged him making him able to feel in places he thought the day had killed off. How long, he wondered, could he stay in the shower? Forever? No, in another minute the hotel’s hot water tank was going to run out, and the water would be cold. He’d settle for a Martell straight, then off to bed for some much-needed sleep.