This Book Is a Work of Fiction. the Characters, Places, and Incidents Are Either the Product of the Author’S Imagination Or Are Used Fictitiously
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. ISBN: 978-0-9719872-7-2 Copyright © 2015 by Trans Mountain LLC. All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be uploaded, scanned, shared electronically, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transcribed, in any form or by any means, (other than for review purposes) without the prior written permission of the author and publisher. Trans Mountain LLC Publisher P.O. Box 816 Burnsville, NC 28714 visit: rodjohnston.com 1 BUOY 13 To Eric, The King of Gardiners Bay 2 CHAPTER 1 Tora Kasan I heard car doors slam in front of our house. Ignoring it, I settled back with the morning paper when the doorbell rang. I hobbled on crutches across the living room floor and peeked through the window. Parked outside was a full-sized black Mercedes, definitely the first of its kind to grace the curb in front of our humble Cape Cod in Queens. Unfastening the chain safety lock, I opened the door. On the stoop stood a stately woman dressed in black leather. She was looking back toward the Mercedes where an imposing dark- haired man, wearing a long wool coat, stood with his arms folded high on his chest. I had no idea who this woman was, or what she wanted. In one arm she clutched a colorful tote bag. “Cain Rippinger?” she asked me. I felt a burst of frigid winter air. “That’d be me,” I said, immediately thinking she was a fine looking woman, but a little worn. She adjusted the tote in her arms, and stuck out her leather-gloved hand. “I have something for you…I’m Tora Kasan.” Tora Kasan? Never met her but I knew the name. She was Ragnar Kasan’s widow. Ragnar owned Jumapili lodge in Tanzania. It was on the Serengeti where I’d been vacationing. He was murdered, shot dead while we were hunting Cape buffalo. It wasn’t a hunting accident, no one from our party had pulled the trigger, but the shot caused an old bull to charge. It drove me into the dirt shattering my leg. Who killed Ragnar and why remained a mystery. I shifted my weight to one crutch and stuck out my hand. She grabbed it firmly. “By all means, please come in Ms. Kasan,” I said. “Would your friend care to come in?” “Oh,” she said, with a slight nod toward outside. “Ray’s a hardy type. He’s fine…I can’t be long. I have business waiting in Manhattan.” I glanced at Ray. He was watching every move. I leaned on one crutch and from my forehead shot him a two-finger salute. No response. Happily, I shut the door. “How’s the leg?” she asked, lingering in my mother’s tiny lobby. “A crushed femur isn’t a delicate matter.” “No, it isn’t,” I replied. “However I count my blessings.” “Indeed,” she said. “Most people mauled by a Cape buffalo don’t make it.” She looked into the living room. “Live alone?” “No,” I said. “I grew up in this house. It’s my mother’s. She’s out shopping.” Tora seemed restless. “Here,” I said, rearranging myself on my crutches as I meandered around her toward the kitchen. “Please have a seat.” 3 “Oh, time prevents me from lingering too long,” she responded, as she struggled to pull something from her tote. It was an attractive tote, red and blue with white sailboats sewn onto each side. She freed a polished mahogany box and handed it to me. “My husband, Ragnar, wanted you to have this." Instantly I relived Ragnar’s killing—the moment he was shot—the charging animal, all I saw was black. Then the pain. I leaned on my good leg and clumsily accepted the beautiful box. “Mind if I open it?” I asked. “No…please do.” I snapped the brass locks and opened the lid. Bedded within the green velvet and polished trim sat a custom-engraved Smith and Wesson .50-caliber Magnum handgun, one of the most powerful handguns on earth. I lifted the piece from its cradle. Due to its recoil, I knew super-magnums weren’t for typical sportsmen. It was a serious weapon designed for serious encounters—of the deadly kind. “My husband had this gun engraved for you before you ever set foot on the African continent,” she said, as she removed her gloves. “I also have one for Mr. Broberg. How can I reach him?” I hefted the piece, marveling at fifteen inches of glistening scrollwork and intricate design. “It’s gorgeous…Broberg?” I replied, while staring at the piece. “He’s a tough cat to get a hold of but I can give you his number.” “Oh, I’d prefer not to call,” she insisted. “I could get it to him, if you wish.” She shook her head quickly. “Ragnar wouldn’t approve. No…I have to see Mr. Broberg in person.” I thought for a moment. “Let me call him and arrange something for today.” “I can’t. However I will leave you my number…but before I leave, I must tell you that my husband—” her voice broke, making her swallow. “Ragnar thought much of you. I understand you once saved him from a crocodile.” With her voice, she said one thing, but I read something else in her eyes. “Oh…” I replied, trying to show humility. “I just shot and hoped for the best. I would have wrestled the reptile with my bare hands if it meant saving a life.” Tora looked at me. “You’re a rarity, Mr. Rippinger.” Her eyes sparkled. I smiled and went back to the gun. “He had it engraved in Italy,” she continued. “It was late in coming otherwise, my husband would have presented it to you before…” she paused and tried to contain herself. “Before…now.” 4 Concerning Ragnar’s death, I offered my condolences. Tora thanked me and tried to remain strong. “He was shot in cold blood,” she asserted. “They’ve recovered the bullet.” “That’s what I heard,” I replied quietly. “A thirty caliber?” “Yes…that sounds right…something shot from an obsolete British military rifle.” She leaned on a kitchen chair for support. “Currently the authorities are trying to link the bullet to potential suspects, namely poachers. Consequently, the killer may never be found.” None of this was news to me. Hank Barlow, Jumapili’s Lodge Manager, had kept me abreast through the investigation. Still, I made sport of churning every detail, from every possible angle. It helped me assemble a more complete profile of what transpired. Perhaps once my leg healed I might return to Africa and join in the investigation, if it wasn’t solved by then. Tora straightened up. “I must leave,” she said, motioning toward the front door. “Excuse me,” I said, laying down the gun and rising from the table. “Can I ask you a question?” “Why, sure,” she said, as she pulled her leather gloves back on. “Do you have a gun permit?” “Permit, schmermit.” In a huff, she looked away. “I carry what I carry.” “Well…New York law will nail you if you don’t possess a gun permit and have handguns like these hanging around.” “Mr. Rippinger,” she began, sounding like an old schoolmarm. Obviously she was agitated by my question. “Let me tell you something. Screw them!” She collected herself and quietly spoke. “I know people. Let them try to nail me.” “Please don’t think me ungracious or unappreciative. I’m just trying to protect you.” “My dear man, do not mistake my kindness for weakness.” Then she clutched my hand. She had one heck of a grip. She lightened up. “I’m not angry with you. I’m long over losing Ragnar. Someone’s responsible for this.” She turned abruptly and made for the front door. Scrambling for my crutches, I hopped behind in pursuit. “Let me get that,” I said, seeing her turn the brass doorknob. She backed off and waited. Once there, I opened the front door. She looked at the Mercedes and then turned to me. “By the way…when you’re healed and able to get about, come visit me in the Hamptons. We have a nice place on the water. Ragnar would have liked that.” With a serious gaze, she looked beyond me to the worn carpeting. “Its peaceful there…walk the beach, do some swimming, maybe a little fishing. Relax. Escape the rat race.” “The Hamptons?” I said. “Hasn't there been some arson going on out there?” “Oh yes. I’d say that someone has it in for the commercial fishermen…twice it’s happened. Valentine’s Day and again on Saint Paddy’s.” 5 I looked down at her fine leather-riding boots. “Holiday terror...what a deal,” I replied. She stood quietly and peered at the winter sky. I watched steam puff out of the idling Mercedes tailpipe and muttered, “The Hamptons, huh?” Feeling a bit uneasy about it, my therapy was going well and by Memorial Day, two months away, the doctor said I should be off the crutches. She shoved her hand into her coat pocket. “Here’s my number,” she said, handing me a light green business card. “Never been east of Mineola, but sure,” I said, taking the card.