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Perilous Cove

By Rich Bullock

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Chapter 1

He’d killed before. Once. Not that he was particularly opposed to it.
Tarz Broderick kicked the shoe of the man sprawled against the wall. The schmuck’s head came up and his eyes slowly focused. Duct tape secured his wrists and ankles. Three outside wraps with three more in-between. Inescapable.
“Nick Moreno, I presume,” Tarz said, watching the man’s eyes dart wildly as consciousness returned. Blood ran from his temple, staining the once white dress shirt.
Tarz turned to survey the small desk area and sighed. It could have been simple, easy in and out. The office should have been deserted. But that’s why they called it work, as dear ole daddy liked to say—often right before a whipping.
Tarz yanked the handles of the filing cabinet, a four-drawer, putty-colored unit of superior quality. Locked. He didn’t have time to mess with finding a key, so he hoisted his pry bar, wedged it into the drawer crack, and drove it home with his palm.
He could have come back later if he’d known someone would be in the office, but he’d rounded the corner into the L-shaped office and there Nick had been, working under the light from a single desk lamp. Oh, well.
Plus, Tarz didn’t have time to waste. He’d promised to drop by his sister’s apartment tonight. Dumb girl had gotten pregnant by a married man. She wasn’t saying who—knew her big brother too well to give up the slimeball’s name.
Tarz shrugged and worked the bar back and forth against groaning metal. Family was family. The money for tonight’s job would buy a nice baby gift for sis, plus keep him living high for a couple of months at least.
And next week’s job… Tarz smiled at the thought of the much larger remuneration—word-of-the-week from his Improve Your Vocabulary calendar. Arson paid pretty well, but combining it with a hit—well that elevated Tarz to a new level in his career. In a way, tonight with Nick Moreno was a practice run for next week. Tarz’ fingertips itched in anticipation and he patted his right pants pocket to double-check the packet of matches.
The filing drawer popped open, squealing on bearings long overdue for grease.
“There’s no excuse for neglecting the simple maintenance of fine equipment, Nick. Shot of WD-40 does wonders.” Tarz fought the temptation to look around for some lubricant. In a few minutes it wouldn’t matter.
He thumbed through the drawer’s packed folders, searching for the information he was paid to find. There it was: 16 Corporate Center Drive, St. Louis, MO. A fire in a business park. He removed the thick manila folder and opened it on the desk.
Though a poor fighter, Nick was an organized man, a virtue Tarz appreciated. The folder’s Table of Contents listed a CONCLUSION section and a reference to POTENTIAL SUSPECTS. The fire hadn’t been one of Tarz’ jobs, but he could admire another’s work. He flipped through the text, lingering on several photos of a burned commercial building. His fingers stroked the glossy pictures of blackened walls, skeletal desks, and collapsed beams.
Beautiful.
The phone rang, and Tarz jolted into the file cabinet drawer, gouging his back.
The ringing sounded obscenely shrill in the ghostly silence of the office.
Probably the little woman. Tarz glanced at the framed photo on the desk, a smiling foursome in bright colors. Nick sat in a straight-back chair while his pretty blonde wife stood behind him, her hand on his shoulder. A blonde teenage girl knelt with an arm on Nick’s leg, and a boy with striking resemblance to Nick stood tall beside the mother. Tarz’ teeth ground together. The perfect family. Nothing like his own.
The phone fell silent. Tarz slammed the offending file drawer shut.
The folder’s suspects page held a single address and name: 423 Old Country Road, Steerman, MO. He read the suspect’s name, a smile pulling the corners of his mouth.
“Well, well.” He had to admire the old bat. No wonder she was willing to pay for Moreno’s arson report on the burned commercial property. According to the notes, the report hadn’t been filed yet. Perfect. He’d definitely find a copy shop before turning the report over to her.
Tarz closed the folder and waved it at the bound man.
“Always good to have insurance, Nick.” The man struggled against the tape around his wrists and ankles. His right eye had nearly swollen shut now, and blood ran from the wound and dripped off his jaw. Probably a slight fracture around the eye socket if Tarz knew his injuries…and he did.
For a moment he simply looked at Nick, weighing his next move. He could use the crow bar to put Nick out of his misery right now, or he could let him live and enjoy the last of his life, even if it was only a minute or two longer.
Decision made, Tarz turned away. It wouldn’t be half the fun if he couldn’t imagine Nick watching. Waiting.
Tarz opened the first of two large soda bottles and drizzled its contents across the open drawers of folders and across the mahogany desk. With the second bottle, he created a trail down the hall carpet to the back door of the office where he tossed the bottles into a wire trash basket. Plastic melted immediately in a fire, obliterating fingerprints. Couldn’t be too careful.
“Ac-cel-er-ant.” He let the four syllables roll off his tongue, the last two speeding together, mimicking the meaning of the word. It sounded, well, professional.
Pungent fumes filled the air, and he touched his right thigh where his dad had once splashed gas. The hard scar tissue still itched.
Tarz opened the matchbook cover, exposing the row of red-tipped sticks. Straightforward, yet so effective. Beautiful in their design simplicity. They’d been called Lucifers when first invented.
When ten years old, he’d accidentally discovered their awesome potential in some dry brush behind an old barn. The vision of the towering flames, the shrieking of the three horses inside the structure, still brought a shiver—and a smile.
As he gripped one match to tear it off, a scratching noise came from a doorway to his right. He snatched up his pry bar and crept to the wall near the opening to the tiny break area. His eyes watered in the fume-laden air as he peeked around the doorframe. A cardboard box, circled by red ribbon and a large bow, sat on the linoleum floor and contained the source of his near heart attack.
Smiling, he laid down his weapon and picked up the warm bundle.
“Hey there.”
The puppy licked his hand and face in exuberant enthusiasm, free at last of its cardboard prison.
Tarz opened the outside door and checked the alley before stepping out. Juggling the folders and squirming puppy took some doing. He propped open the self-closing door with his knee while he tore one match free. He held the matches outside in the fresh air, struck and lit the one, then touched the flame to the rest of the open book. They ignited with a small whoosh and flared intensely, briefly revealing the dark brick alley walls and shadowed dumpsters. He held the book up, admiring the surging fire, and rotated it until the match stems all caught. Then in one smooth motion, he flipped the matchbook onto the fuel-soaked carpet and kicked the door closed.
The steel security door muffled a much larger, satisfying whoosh. On the other side of the building came the tinkling of shattered windows.
Shushing the puppy, Tarz pressed his ear against the cold surface and listened to the escalating crackling. His heart sped up with the sound of the inferno, and he wished just once he could be inside with the beautiful yellow and orange.
Tarz sighed and straightened. In the dim light of the strip mall alley, he could barely make out the stenciled lettering on the sign on the rough wall: Nick Moreno, Independent Insurance Investigations, St. Louis, Missouri.
On the wall below the sign, a cut chain dangled from the office’s sprinkler system emergency shutoff valve. Water wouldn’t spoil this job.
He gazed longingly at the door while scratching the wriggling dog’s chin.
The only bad thing about using duct tape was you couldn’t hear them scream.

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