Dead Girl Beach Read Free

might have been offended.
    â€œI love you, Seabury,” she’d told him in bed in the bungalow later, after a heated session of making love. “I want to tell you, again. Thanks.” She’d worn her diamond engagement ring, sparkling on her long, slender finger in the candlelight around the bed. “I can’t help it; I showed it to all the girls in my office. They asked about the wedding date, and I told them after your next trip to sea. I told them we’d set a definite date after you got back.” She’d smiled. “I hope you don’t mind.”
    He’d rolled onto his side. No, he’d told her, he didn’t mind.
    She’d kissed him hard on the mouth and held the kiss a long time, like she would never let go. “I love you, love you, love you, Seabury,” she’d said excitedly as she got up and slipped into a red, silk robe.
    â€œI love you too, babe,” he’d said and watched her go into the bathroom and start the shower.
    A few minutes later, winking slyly, she’d cracked the door open. “Come here. I’m still not done with you.”
    A cloud moved over the water. The changing light caught his attention and forced him back to the present.
    â€œWell,” he muttered, “at least we had our moments.” He drank a little more beer, felt the pain that knifed through his heart ease up a little, and breathed out a sigh.
    Hearing a noise, he turned and saw them coming. Out of the crimson glow of the setting sun, the figures tramped down the beach toward him. Guns, nightsticks, and cuffs jiggled in their bulky belts. The squat brown cop’s small, black boots struggled in the sand. His partner, built like a bamboo sapling, led the way. He was tall for a Thai and fleet of foot. He waved back at his partner to keep up, but his partner looked gassed, chest heaving, not physically fit, and gasping hard for air, as they got closer.
    Seabury swung his head back around. His beer was warm and flat, and it tasted stale. He leaned over, set the half-full bottle down in the sand next to him, and waited. His eyes fixed curiously on the figures coming out of the sun at him. The party advanced a few yards closer as he straightened up in the chair. The two Thai cops wore dark brown uniforms and black caps with black visors. A shiny, chrome insignia attached to the top of their caps with a thin, red band looped around the bottom. They looked serious and official.
    Fifty yards down the beach, the tall cop waved a small group of tourists over. They wore straw hats, sunglasses, and brightly colored beachwear. Most of them were in their early twenties. One of the girls pointed up the beach in Seabury’s direction. Then, the group separated and let the cops through. Moments later, they entered the narrow space between the stalls where Seabury sat.
    â€œAre you Sam Seabury?” the tall cop asked in English.
    Seabury nodded his head but said nothing.
    Before he realized it, the tall cop had pulled his gun and leveled it on him. The squat one imitated his partner. Seabury knew that policemen in the Royal Thai Police Force had no standard weapon issued to them. They had to buy what was available and what they could afford. Seabury noticed these two had QSZ-92’s, 7.48 inch, 19 millimeter Lugers, made in China.
    The second cop, noticing how big Seabury was, radioed for backup. A few minutes later, two other cops scurried up the beach, drawing their pistols as they burst into the narrow opening between the stalls. A small crowd of young tourists—mostly Brits, Germans, and Aussies—gathered around to watch Seabury’s arrest. Unruffled, the big Hawaiian got up slowly—taking his time, as if he had all day. As he leaned his wide, thick body over to fasten the strings of his baggy beach shorts, levers ratcheted back, and the hard, metallic click of bullets injected into magazines filled the air.
    â€œWhoa!” Seabury raised his