AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Only one of Galloway’s arms was visible, thrown out at an unnatural angle, like one of those plastic dolls whose limbs can be twisted into odd positions. The arm ended at a truncated wrist, which gave way to flesh the color of uncooked hamburger. Maggots feasted on it. The severed hand was nowhere to be seen.
“Early one morning, Galloway left his mates at their rented condo at the Sunset Beach Villas to drive to Taylor Bay Beach for a run. He didn’t return and his friends reported him missing that night. His body was found two days later in the Frenchman’s Creek Nature Reserve.”
“Is that by Taylor Bay.”
“Nowhere near.”
“An autopsy showed that Galloway died of a gunshot wound to the thorax. There were no drugs or alcohol in his system.”
“What was the story on the friends?”
“All cleared. They stayed on the island as long as required, then flew back to Omaha.”
“Any suspects?”
“None serious. And everyone who was questioned alibied out.”
“What about the rental car?”
“It was found a week later parked at the airport.”
“Did the car have built-in navigation?”
“It did. The history had been erased.”
“You say this murder took place seven years ago,” I said, unsure where this was going. “Why come to me now?”
“Since Galloway’s murder, two more tourists have vanished.”
Another photo hit the blotter.
“Ryder Palke disappeared four years back. He was twenty-two, an apprentice pipe fitter from Chicago. Palke was vacationing in TCI with his girlfriend, Sylvia Shorter. Their third day on the island, Palke went out on a SCUBA charter while Shorter stayed behind at the Royal West Indies Resort. Palke disembarked the boat at four that afternoon, was never seen again. Shorter gave it twenty-four hours, then filed an MP report.”
The image showed a tall young man in a blazer and sharply creased pants casually shoulder-leaning on an ornamental lamppost. He had heavy straight brows, a David Beckham prickled updo, and a fashionably stubbled, very square chin. The shot looked professional, maybe taken for a composite, the type submitted when applying for work as an actor or model.
Before I could comment, Musgrove produced another image.
“Quentin Bonner was a twenty-year-old British freelance photographer traveling solo. Two years ago, he set off to film sea birds at Parrot Cay. Five days later, the manager of the Sibonné Beach Hotelreported that Bonner had skipped without paying his bill. When police opened the door to his room, Bonner’s belongings were still there, including a collection of pricey camera equipment. His rental car was never returned.”
Bonner had one thing in common with Galloway and Palke. He, too, was Hollywood leading-man handsome—hooded brown eyes only hinting at a smile, intriguingly crooked nose, dark hair doing that bad boy dip thing over one brow.
The shot, taken candid from a lower elevation, showed Bonner outdoors, hiking stick in one hand, glancing downhill over his left shoulder.
Again, I started to protest.
“Until last Friday, Palke and Bonner remained MPs.”
Two more pics joined the lineup.
I looked down.
At last I understood.
The new shots resembled the crime scene photo of Bobby Galloway. Same evidence markers. Same yellow tape. What differed was the condition of the remains.
Both Palke and Bonner were skeletonized, their bones stained tea-brown by contact with the earth and with liquids of decomposition. Both were partially buried by soil and vegetation, some dead, some alive and growing intermingled with the bones. It appeared that both had been freshly exposed by tentative stripping and digging.
One skeleton was photographed from closer in. It appeared to be largely articulated, with the skull still topping the vertebrae, the rest of the bones curled in a semi-fetal position. I spotted immediately that one of the hands was missing.
