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Shark Beast 2: Paranormal Sharkitivity Page 14


  "Expect me to come back begging for a stupid job? So what, so I can watch you date... some slut? I don't think so," she whispered, and her reflection laughed at her audacity. "After all, let's face facts, people..."

  She gave her reflection a wicked drunken wink.

  "...life's too short."

  And then, as if agreeing, with abrupt weirdness--the sand beneath her feet--moved.

  Shifted.

  And, with another sharply sudden movement, she sank about a foot into the beach. The sand shifted again, and she was up to her knees--in what? Quicksand? Do they even have that out here--? Miami cried out, a staggered gasp, for suddenly, in the little dune-shapes around her sunken legs--

  --blood.

  A lot of blood.

  "My blood," she gasped, confused, offended, appalled--then, absolutely terrified. "Me? Not me? But, not fair! It's-- I'm--

  (--Miami Prague!)

  And then: pain. A lot of pain. Miami tried to scream. Tried very hard. Her face, her reflection in the ebbing tide, begged, pleaded, help me, help me scream--

  But nothing, not even a gasp, not a whisper. She was up to her torso now. Then she heard it, a horrible sound, an atrocious, unbelievable sound--

  --click-CLICK-click-click-CLICK-click--

  Realization was quick, merciless:

  Teeth.

  Lots of teeth.

  The scream came, finally, useless now, for the sand shifted again, and she dropped--too little, too late. Not much left to reflect in the waves. And then, after a violent shudder and rabid jerk--and a raw splatter of red against those wicked cheeks--

  Even less.

  Nothing but a bikini top, over by the leaves, resting with a breezy flutter, on the very edge of the beach.

  Too little.

  Much too late.

  1

  The Skull

  A human skull.

  Cracked, half-hidden in dead gray grass. Bishop Quinn, a surprisingly disheveled forensic pathologist, studied the skull and assorted bones very intently, shaking his head.

  Then, he abruptly stood up, snapping off his rubber gloves all the while exchanging withering looks with a somewhat overweight detective, leaning against a tree.

  A few seconds later and a few yards away over by a police car, the overweight detective barreled in, snapping though a strand of yellow crime scene tape, breaking into a conversation between Quinn and The Man In Command (and a rather spiffy cowboy hat), Captain R. Gordon Bloom.

  "No way! No way I have to take that!" the fat man, Detective Hamm, protested.

  "Does he even look where he's walking?" Quinn asked the captain casually, as if Hamm wasn't right there. "All this bright yellow crime tape -- that's a clue even Sherlock Shamu here should be able to --"

  "I'm not taking lectures from him!" Hamm insisted, starting to get red-faced. "Not from him!"

  "He corrupted the crime scene," Quinn said, in that same casual tone, though now with a little disdain seeping in. "Again. Walked all over everything. And not baby steps, neither. He's a one-man circus parade, this guy."

  "Screw you! What are you doing here anyway? You're suspended!" To Captain Bloom: "He's suspended!"

  Captain Bloom interjected with a yawn, "He's consulting."

  "Consulting! Hotdogging, more like it! Trying to show off, pretending to know everything -- but he doesn't know! He can't for sure know what happened back there, can't prove anything!"

  "Well, I can prove you got one big-ass pair of feet."

  Detective Hamm's face was practically solid crimson at this point as he turned to Quinn, and raged: "I don't have to take this from you, you drunk, gambling, degenerate, cradle-robbing adulterous loser freak!"

  Bishop Quinn looked over at his coworker, again with that laid-back casual vibe, and said, very offhandedly, "You're very fat."

  And that's where he got the black eye.

  ~ ~ ~

  A little later -- post-brawl. Hamm was off somewhere filing out a decidedly one-sided report of the morning's festivities. Captain Bloom and Quinn leaned against the patrol car, a couple of laid-back guys; as Bloom smoked an absurdly large pipe, and Quinn dabbed disinterestedly at his black eye.

  "Well," Captain Bloom noted with a puff. "That's going to look good on TV."

  "You know, it's a miracle you guys solve any crimes at all with that guy."

  "Well." A captainly shrug. "Gov'nor's nephew."

  "Guess I'm really suspended now, huh."

  "Well, hey. You wanted the time off anyway." Captain Bloom managed a whisper of a grin, then gesturing with his pipe, "So. What's with the tie?"

  Eventually, Quinn looked down, remembering that --indeed -- he was wearing a tie. "Oh. That. Got a date. Sort of."

  Captain Bloom gave him a dubious squint. "Hmmm. Don't mean to bird dog ya, there, Quinn my man, but I'm thinking more than a tie is in order if you got hopes to get lucky. Shower and a shave might not be out of line."

  Quinn laughed emptily. "Ain't nobody getting lucky tonight."

  "Oh." Bloom nodded knowingly. "Catholic girl?"

  "Ex-wife."

  "Oh. Hmmm." That brought on a pause. "I thought that dog had done died three years ago."

  "It's dead all right. She's just ... returning something of mine."

  Captain Bloom gave another slightly disbelieving look, then glanced away. "Well, be careful, son," he said.

  "Of what, particularly?"

  "Women in general, ex-wives in particular." Captain Bloom nodded, puffed, then added, almost an afterthought, "If you don't believe me, just ask him."

  With a tip of his cowboy hat, he gestured at the skull in the dead gray grass.

  2

  The Ex-Wife

  Taking a sip of wine, she leaned forward.

  "So. Is everything okay, in order?"

  "Yeah, it looks fine. Lot of money, I can't believe he signed it. What'd you do, get him drunk?"

  "No, not at all."

  "And he wasn't suspicious?"

  "Nope."

  "Still -- can't believe he signed it."

  "What can I say, he loves me." She preened, just a little bit.

  "Well, that'll teach him, won't it?" With a shrug, Quinn folded the insurance papers, then handed them back to her. She gathered them primly and put them in her purse. Ramsey Rain sat there for a moment, a smile fighting to break through.

  "I can't believe it," she whispered. "We're really going to do it. It's really going to happen. We're going to be rich."

  "Well, we're not there yet, but, yeah, I think so."

  "I can't believe it -- it's like, the perfect crime: a forensic pathologist committing a murder. I can't believe no one else thought of that before."

  "Well, maybe they did, just nobody ever caught them."

  Ramsey pondered this. She seemed a little put out at the idea that someone else might have come up with this first. "Still. This is so exciting. Don't you think? I realize you, you deal with dead people every day, but me, this is a relatively new experience, so ... I just can't help it, I'm excited."

  "Well, I aim to please."

  "I'm sure you do," she smiled again.

  Quinn just shrugged.

  "Anyway." Still smiling, Ramsey took a sip. " So it's all set up, then? Everything in order?"

  "Yeah, like I said. Three times already."

  "It's just..."

  "Just what?" Quinn, with his sleepy expression and always scruffy hair (pretty cute for a forensic pathologist), leaned back and gestured, vaguely: what?

  Ramsey sighed. "I know I'm not supposed to know when ... it... is going to happen. I'm supposed to be surprised and all, I totally get that, but I'm just wondering if you could just confirm that it isn't scheduled for, say ... this particular weekend."

  Suspicion abruptly nudged Quinn. "Why?"

  "No reason. No reason."

  Suspicion double-nudged. "Ramsey, we've been over this."

  "I know, I know."

  "You're not supposed to know when, or where
, or how ... no details. That way when they question you they can't trip you up. That's the whole point."

  "No, no, no, you're right, you're right. Don't tell me then, forget I mentioned it. Besides, obviously, it's not going to be this weekend, because this weekend's almost here. That'd be too soon." Laughing lightly now. "Right?"

  Eyes narrowing with a silvery glint, Quinn said, "Ramsey, what did we just talk about? I can't tell you. Not even a hint. You're not supposed to suspect a single thing."

  "Absolutely."

  "Just do what you'd normally do. I'll take care of the rest. When it happens, it happens."

  "I'll be completely surprised. I don't even want to know, now. I'd be mad if you told me. Even if you wanted to tell me, I wouldn't even listen." She covered her ears. "See? Can't hear a thing."

  "Okay, then."

  "Okay, then."

  Suspicion went into overdrive. Quinn asked, slowly, "Why did you want to know?"

  "Pardon?"

  "What's so special about this weekend, specifically?"

  "Oh, nothing. Absolutely nothing. You know me, always curious, always nosey. We can talk about something else now."

  Quinn, slowly, "Okay."

  "Okay then."

  A pause. Quinn took a long look at Ramsey; who volleyed back a giggle and a way-too-innocent glance.

  "Because ..." continued Quinn, cautiously, "I know you're not, like, seeing somebody, right?" He laughed, and when she didn't laugh back, added, "Tell me you're not seeing somebody." Another laugh, but no humor in this one at all. "Because we both know you couldn't possibly be seeing somebody."

  They sat there, trading low, quietly suspicious stares.

  ~ ~ ~

  The conversation continued outside the restaurant next to Ramsey's large van.

  "You're seeing somebody?" hissed Quinn, disbelievingly.

  Ramsey made a point to yawn. "It's just a weekend, Bishop. No big thing."

  "No big thing? Are you serious? How could it be bigger?"

  "Knew I shouldn't have brought it up."

  "Ramsey, we've had this discussion. When the cops find a dead husband, the first thing they look for is: surprise! a cheating wife. And the first clue that a cheating wife is cheating is if she's going out on dates behind her soon to be murdered husband's back!"

  Ramsey went cool on him. "Don't lecture me. I'm not here to be lectured."

  "Lecture?" Laughing disbelievingly, Quinn shook his head. "I can't believe we're even having this conversation. What were you thinking? What was going through your head?"

  Ramsey, ice-cold now. "This sounds like a lecture to me."

  "It's not a lecture, Ramsey. It's a question, a simple question. I have to ask it because I don't understand."

  "Understand what?"

  Quinn gave her a deep glare. "Why you can't keep your knees together long enough for the insurance checks to clear."

  Ramsey's expression didn't change one iota, except to let a small icy smile form. "Bishop, I'd advise you not to get rude. We agreed we weren't going to get personal. This is sounding very personal. This is strictly business, and you're turning it personal."

  Quinn's voice dropped, and whatever humor was left in him evaporated.

  "This is business, Ramsey," he said. "And don't even pretend to bring in our sad little sordid past. This is business and nothing but, and the first rule of business is -- don't take unnecessary risks. And the second rule is -- definitely don't take pointless unnecessary risks. Now I don't know if this is ego, or delusion, or our past history, or somebody just dropped you on your head, but I'm telling you this much: this weekend rendezvous of yours is not going to happen. And I better hear those exact words come out of your mouth right now, or you and your new boyfriend -- whoever he is this time -- can go kill your own damn husband."

  They stood there, looking at each other for a long moment.

  Ramsey let the smile grow just a tad. "My, my. What a command performance. You should sell tickets."

  "Well, here's the encore -- you got ten seconds to get this straighter than straight: You want the perfect crime? Then you follow my plan the way I plan it. Either that or you can take your chances in divorce court. See how much money you get from dear hubby after his lawyers get through with you."

  "Oh, Bishop, this is so --"

  "Nine, eight, seven --"

  "My. You can count backwards. I'm so impressed."

  "--six, five, four --"

  "You can do that all day, I don't --"

  "Three. Two. One --"

  "Fine, fine, fine, fine. Enough. You've made your tacky point." She looked him up and down with a dismal appraising stare. "You are quite the annoying personality when you want to be."

  "-- Zero --"

  "All right, already. I said 'fine.' Didn't you hear me say 'fine?' Because that's what it sounds like," she sighed, giving a flippant toss of her palms. "Consider my weekend ruined."

  "Fine, thank you," he huffed sarcastically. Muttering: "Unbe--freaking--lievable."

  Ramsey yawned again. "My. Such melodrama."

  With a bored look, she pulled out a cell phone, began to dial. Quinn reached over, casually, snapped it, closed it.

  She looked at him with hands on her hips and a sour pucker on her lips. "Excuse you?"

  "Ramsey, do you understand? -- no. traceable. contact. You can't be calling this guy."

  Ramsey affected a martyr look. "Well, I just can't do anything right, can I?"

  "Not so far."

  Giving her eyelashes a flutter, she said, "Look, I'm not arguing with you. It may look like it, but I'm not. But here's the situation: if I don't tell him I'm not coming, like he's expecting, then he's going to come looking for me. That's the kind of person he is. He's very --"

  "-- horny?"

  Ignoring that, Ramsey continued. "-- protective. Again, I'm not arguing with you, I'm just telling you how it is. And if he comes looking for me, well, that's not exactly good for our 'business,' now is it? So I have to call him."

  She opened the cell phone; Quinn closed it again.

  "You can't call him," Quinn said quietly. "It'll leave a trace."

  "Then what, Mr. Perfect Plan," she yawned, "do you suggest we do?"

  Quinn stood there, silently.

  Ramsey folded her arms over her chest impatiently. "Well, I'm waiting. Waiting for the pearls of wisdom and --"

  Quinn interrupted abruptly. "Shut up, Ramsey."

  "Excuse you?"

  "I said: shut up. And don't give me that face -- you knew what you were doing, and you knew you weren't supposed to be doing it. And don't make that face either. These aren't the old days, where Ramsey gets what Ramsey wants."

  Ramsey smiled dully. "Fine. But don't get used to talking to me that way."

  Quinn shot her a glare; Ramsey shot back: whatever. She stepped away.

  "So what's the next part of your genius plan, then? Mr. Genius?" She gave one of her bored Ramsey looks. A long moment passed.

  Finally, Quinn said, "Let's go."

  "Fine." Yawn. "Where?"

  "We can't call him, so obviously you're going to have to tell him in person. We'll make up some story."

  "What story?"

  "I haven't thought it up yet. We'll come up with something on the way." He headed for the van's passenger side door.

  "Wait -- on the way? On the way where?"

  "Where do you think?" he coughed.

  It took a second, then another, for it to finally -- and very reluctantly -- sink into Ramsey's pretty little brain. She blinked at him, then the van. "You think you're going up there with me? In my own van? I know you don't think that."

  "Well, I'm sure not letting you go see him by yourself."

  "Why not?"

  "Because, sweet ex-love of my life -- I don't trust you. Remember, I have first hand experience how your hormones operate. You go alone, you'll never leave." He jerked open the van door. "I'm not letting you out of my sight until we get this whole mess straightened out." />
  She stared at him quite icily. He gave her a take-it-or-leave-it shrug. Finally, after what seemed like forever for both of them, Ramsey headed towards the van, got in the driver's side with a petulant slam (almost catching Bishop's fingers). With a bow, Bishop walked around the front to the passenger side door. Got in; a slightly more polite slam. They sat there, in cooler than cool silence.

  "Where we going, anyway?" Quinn said, cracking the icy peace.

  She turned to him, glared pleasantly, then flipped him a middle finger.

  "Hmmm, my sweet Ramsey," he said, leaning back in his seat. "Always spreading sunshine."

  Thoroughly ignoring him, Ramsey lightly brushed the dash, flicked off a touch of dust -- that middle finger again -- then cranked the engine to life with a rude roar, and the ex-wife and the forensic pathologist took off down the dirty side road.

  3

  A Kink In The Plan

  A dirty, dusty road.

  A parked van.

  Ramsey and Quinn, standing there, not speaking. Until--

  "Well, that was a pleasant two-hour silent trip through the countryside," said Quinn, as he took in the dark woods on the other side of a muddy ditch. "Outdoorsy type, is he, eh?"

  "I can't believe you're making me go through with this. It's so embarrassing."

  "So's doing twenty-to-life."

  "Whatever that means. Let's just get this over with," Ramsey glowered, as she headed for two pieces of warped wood that formed a makeshift bridge over the ditch to the woods. "You wait here. I'm going alone."

  "Well, duh." Quinn leaned, bored, against the van. "He's not supposed to know about me, remember?"

  "Wait here anyway."

  "Just don't take all day. Give him the story I gave you, and let's go."

  Ramsey stopped, arms crossed obstinately, balancing somewhat awkwardly on the "bridge."

  "Really enjoying this, are you, Bishop? Ruining my weekend?"

  Quinn pondered this. "Well... kind of, yeah."

  Effortlessly flipping him a middle finger, she stalked off into the woods.

  Quinn enjoyed a shrug, and a stretch, as he cracked his knuckles. Yawned. He looked over his shoulder -- Ramsey had already fallen out of sight. He stretched again.