Helltown - Jeremy Bates Page 0,56

one had heard from him, or Darla, since.

But Spencer has a photograph of her face—her dead face.

Had he killed her?

Had he killed all these people—?

Lynette buried her face in her hands and found herself wishing her husband had been having an affair after all.

CHAPTER 17

“Somebody once wrote, ‘Hell is the impossibility of reason.’ That’s what this place feels like. Hell.”

Platoon (1986)

In the current nightmare, Beetle was back on the beach in Grenada. However, there were no bullets whizzing past his head, no Marine Corps Sea Cobras decimating the quaint beachfront hotels and cafés with machine gun fire, no fighter-bombers flying gun runs overhead. Instead the beach was ominously deserted. He stood there alone, the sun burning in the sky, the surf foaming at his feet, the palm trees waving in the breeze. He began to walk, pretending not to see the blood staining the bright sand, or the drag marks where the tide had ferried bodies to their watery graves. Eventually the beach tapered to an end. Sarah stood where the sand met the jungle, waiting for him. At the sight of her his heart raced. He wanted to embrace her and tell her he was sorry and promise her he would change. But she wouldn’t let him get a word in. She yelled at him for being covered in blood, for killing the Russian diplomat, for drinking so much, for becoming a stranger to her.

He became enraged. Didn’t she understand what he’d been through? Couldn’t she understand that and empathize with him? No, no she couldn’t. All she could do was yell and accuse, yell and accuse—

Suddenly the USS Caron, a destroyer armed to the teeth, towered beside him, an impossibility in the shallow water, but there nonetheless. His lieutenant, a brown-noser who looked like a dentist and often pulled rank, yelled to him to put down the pistol, to turn himself in. Beetle pressed the barrel beneath his chin and squeezed the trigger—

Beetle jerked awake bathed in sweat, disorientated, gutted, afraid. It took him a moment to realize he was sitting on a rickety wooden chair on the balcony of the room at the Hilltop Lodge. The full moon hung in the black sky, a moldy white disc poking out from behind a smudge of dark clouds. It had started to rain, which had cleared away some of the fog, or at least thinned it, so he could see much of the forest stretching away below him. He swallowed, discovered he was parched, and picked up the bottle of vodka on the ground next to him. He took a three-swallow belt.

“Yuck!” a woman’s voice said. “That would make me puke.”

Beetle fell sideways off the chair, though he somehow managed to keep the bottle from spilling or breaking. He looked to where the voice had originated and found the woman leaning on the wooden banister that separated the two balconies.

She was tall and had lidded, amused brown eyes beneath arched eyebrows. Her features were too long, her face too gaunt, to be considered beautiful, but she had an unusual attractiveness. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to startle you so much.” She had a strong German accent.

“It’s okay,” Beetle said, pushing himself to his feet and returning the chair upright. He remained standing, looking at the woman, waiting for her to go away.

“What terrible weather,” she said. “It reminds me of the weather in Bavaria. That’s where I’m from, in Germany. My name’s Greta.” She stuck her hand out over the banister.

Beetle hesitated, then shook. “Beetle.” His head was spinning from the booze. He had to concentrate on standing straight and enunciating clearly.

“Like the…” She made a crawling motion with her fingers.

“Yeah, like that.”

“Better than earthworm, I suppose,” she said, smiling. “No, I’m kidding. So what’s going on? You’re having a big party by yourself?” Her eyes went to the bottle in his hand, then back to his face.

“I think I’m going to go inside.”

“Is that an invitation?”

He blinked at her.

She laughed. “I’m kidding, Herr Beetle. But don’t go inside. Help me smoke this.” She produced an elegantly rolled joint from her pocket.

Beetle’s eyes came awake. He didn’t merely want to get high; he suddenly realized he needed to.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” She lit up, took a couple short drags, and passed the joint to him.

Beetle inhaled, pulling hard and closing his eyes. His mind rode the smoke as it tickled down his throat and floated in his lungs. He exhaled in a long stream.

“Hey,”