Caribbean Hustle (A Nick Teffinger Thriller / Read in Any Order) by R.J. Jagger, Jack Rain Page B

weakness.
    It did no good.
    His thoughts got tangled up in strange conspiracy theories and voodoo ghosts.
    Then everything turned black.
    He slept.
    On and on and on he slept.
    He slept until the jet lag and the commotion and the fighting and the intensity of the last few days all got refilled. Then he slept longer.
    It was then that a strange coolness washed over him.
    He opened his eyes to find Constance dabbing a wet washcloth on his face. He focused on her eyes and liked them; partly because they were green—his favorite color—but mostly because he could see into them. He could see the inside of her. That didn’t work with all eyes. It did with hers.
    He muscled into a sitting position.
    The demons inside his head still worked their hammers, albeit not as fiercely, but not to be ignored either. Constance saw the expression on his face, fumbled in her purse and came out with three pills, which Teffinger swallowed without water or asking what they were. Based on the woman’s eyes, they were something good.
    “I’m glad you didn’t leave,” Constance said. “I was afraid you did.”
    Teffinger stretched.
    “Why’d you come back?”
    She handed him a small leather case.
     
    Teffinger opened it up, and found the six leather pouches exactly as Modeste had described, with one exception. One was empty.
    “Where’s Marilyn?”
    “I’m going to hang onto her,” Constance said.
    Teffinger frowned.
    “Put her back. She’ll get you killed.”
    Constance exhaled.
    “She’s a final bargaining chip, in case you get killed or taken,” she said.
    Teffinger got up and looked outside.
    The harsh tension of everyday struggles lay over the land.
    “Do you know who Madonna is?” he said.
    “You mean the singer?”
    “Yeah, her.”
    “Sure, who doesn’t?”
    “You remind me of her a little bit,” he said. “The way she looked in her Like a Virgin video.”
    “Never saw that particular one.”
    “It was before your time. We better go.”

    28
    Day Four
    June 7
    Saturday Evening
     
    The Like a Virgin pretty, Constance, had some valid points, namely she knew the lay of the land, plus Modeste was her friend, meaning she could help Teffinger dial up an exchange with Johnnie Rail. Teffinger wasn’t interested and frowned to prove it. To prove it even more, he took her to the airport, made her promise not to come back until he personally called her and said it was safe, put her on a plane and didn’t leave until she pulled into the sky. Then he rented a ratty straight-handlebar motorcycle at a dubious place near the airport that charged him more than the sign said, drove to Constance’s apartment and entered, compliments of her key and permission.
    The place hadn’t been ransacked.
    He pulled the curtains shut, closing out a twilight sky, and found a well-stocked fridge. He was making a yogurt and cucumber sandwich when his phone rang and Sydney’s voice came through.
    “Have you heard what happened?”
    He braced.
    “No.”
    “We had a murder,” she said. “A woman. It was pretty brutal.”
    “Station?”
    “No. We’re still trying to identify the body. Here’s what makes it interesting. Her body showed up down at BNSF, a stone’s throw from Tarzan’s place.”
    “Tarzan—”
    “A couple of the switching guys found her about twenty minutes ago. I’m at the scene right now. She’s naked. Her throat was slit. Here’s the most interesting part—her eyes were gouged out. All hell’s breaking loose down here.”
    Teffinger pictured it.
    “Did you find a note?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “A note, you know, the kind of thing that was left with those girls in Miami and New York,” he said.
    “No, nothing like that. You think it’s the same guy?”
    “It’s possible. Search around. Check her body cavities. If it’s not there, go out in an ever-increasing radius. Don’t stop until you’ve exhausted every inch. I don’t care if you have to go a hundred yards. Check every boxcar, including the