Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

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.