A Turn of Events

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

   The Author

The police station...Tulum, Mexico

               
            The Tulum police station was easy enough to locate.  The town's business district was a sparse four blocks long, and the white stucco building was one of its largest, wedged between the Mayor's office and a tiny branch of HSBC bank.  Beckett was no stranger to how things of this sort were handled in the small boroughs of Mexico.  His wife was picked up at one of the area's priciest resorts, thus giving reason for  greedy, corrupt law enforcement to believe that she, or hers, had the necessary cash to pay  the "fine".  There would be the usual posturing and blustering by the desk sergeant on duty, a stack of bogus paperwork to sign, and the handing over of a huge chunk of change to procure her freedom.   He assumed Maureen was booked on a disorderly charge, and figured a grand or two would guarantee a quick release, but only if she had been smart enough to keep her mouth shut.   Knowing his new wife as he did, a Plan B was surely a distinct possibility.


          He debated over the question of whether or not he should risk carrying a weapon along with the large role of hundreds in his pocket.  In most situations, he would have gone with a small snub revolver  in an ankle holster.  But in the sweltering 90 degree heat, wearing long pants as a tourist would make him immediately suspicious, so he settled on a Smith and Wesson Model 60 stuck low in the back waistband of his  short cargo pants.  With a white linen shirt, and straw Panama hat pulled low over his eyes, Beckett looked like any other vacation clone, the bland obscurity offering him a measure of  anonymous safety. 


           Procuring some mode of transportation from the outlying resort to the downtown district had been a time consuming hassle.  The employee who manned the rental car desk in the hotel lobby had not returned from lunch, leaving that plan a lost cause.  It was with much haggling, and  generous compensation, that he was able to borrow a small motor bike from the clerk at the reservation desk who took both pity, and full advantage, of Beckett's bad situation.  This negotiation required more time than expected, and it was nearly 4PM before Beckett made his way in to town, parking the beat up cycle a block from the station.  

         Years of training had taught him to take time scoping out locations before attempting any action, and so he made his way carefully past the white building, eyeing exits, windows and easy access for quick escapes.  The single story height meant that the holding cells for prisoners were probably near the back of the building.  He turned off the street, and inched his way toward the rear of the facility, searching for a set a windows that would allow for a visual confirmation of Maureen's whereabouts.  As expected, there were two sets of double windows that looked into the prisoner area.  Leaning in, he saw her sitting on a hard bench in a tiny cell furthest from the exit door.  She was naturally petite in stature, but curled up in the corner, barefoot and wearing only her swim suit and cover-up, she looked like a lost child, and his heart gave a squeeze. 

         It was his fault that she was in this situation.  He knew he had no business letting her out of his sight.  Her propensity for attracting trouble was an established fact, and he should have forced her to wait with him in the suite, or dragged his sorry ass out of bed, and gone with her in the morning.  Once free of this complication, he'd work on making the rest of this nightmare trip the romantic interlude she desired.  But before he could contemplate the benefits of such a plan, there was a slamming of a door within.  Beckett flattened himself against the wall, using the surrounding scrub as cover, and listened to the conversation.
             

         "Well, chica...still no one has come to claim you.  Maybe your husband had a change of heart, Mrs. Baker.  Decide you too much trouble, heh?"   He pressed his face into the bars, and leered.  "If he don't come for you, maybe you come home with me?  Whatcha think, eh?"

           Listening outside, Beckett's hands unconsciously flexed.   Something about the voice nagged at him, as if he had heard it before.  He racked his brain trying to place the low timber and inflection, but needed a visual to trigger the memory.  Carefully, he peered around the window sill, and looked in.  For a second, his mind froze as he stared at the police officer harassing his wife, the man's left arm bandaged, and in a sling. There was shock, and then concern.   It was the mule from the night before. The major fucking asshole who had tried to screw him on the arranged deal.  Obviously not dead...and now...the only thing standing between he and his wife's safe retrieval.

________________________________

      It wasn't as if he didn't have his own problems to think about.  The rectory roof was leaking in three different places, and the church's AC had started making weird groaning noises.  He wasn't looking forward to his meeting with the parish's volatile advisory board, and was still having daily nightmares about his run-in with the crazy Tessa Peppers.   The lack of communication from his sister should have been the least of his concerns.  After all, she was a married woman.  That made her Ted's concern...not his anymore.  And there had been one curt text message from his brother-in-law stating that he and Maureen were off on their honeymoon, and that he shouldn't worry.  But none of that helped to shake the nagging feeling that something was terribly wrong.

         It was unlike Maureen not to contact him.  From the time they were young, the two of them held a bond that was closer than that of their other six siblings.  It was totally against her character not to even send him a single text message, and he wondered if her husband had taken control of her phone.  Why he'd do that was unclear.  But he knew Beckett well enough to know that he was a bossy sonofabitch, and apt to do something of that controlling nature.   Fr. Kevin had even broke down, and phoned his older brother Patrick to see if he had heard anything, then was forced to listen to a half hour lecture on the necessity of minding his own business.

      Maybe his brother was right.  He did have a tendency to poke his nose in things that weren't his concern.  That's how he had gotten involved with that crazy Peppers woman in the first place.  If he would have just let Beckett handle his own murder investigation, he would have never ended up shot, nor would he had made an enemy of a woman who was certifiably crazy.  He thought about his meeting with her a few days ago, and shuddered.

       It wasn't like he could have refused her request for the Sacrament of Reconciliation.  Saying no would have been wrong on just too many levels.  But he should have realized that once in the private confines of the confessional, the crazy old coot would go out of her way to scare the shit out of him.

          "You mark my words, O'Kenney.   I know the truth about you.  You hide behind that damn collar of yours, but the truth is...you are not what you seem.  I know you had something to do with my missing
money.  You and that thief McCreedy.  Now I find out that you killed my dog.  Do you think for a minute I believe all that bullshit about a freak gas explosion?  No!  Not for a single damn minute!  My poor, poor Basil.  He was the light of my life... and now he's gone.  All because of you! You are an evil man, O'Kenney.  And I need to rid this town of you once and for all!"

          He had ended up calling for help, embarrassed by his lack of courage in front of not only the staff from the mental hospital, but also Roxie, who had stayed around out of curiosity, and was witness to his looking like a chicken shit fool.  Thinking about the whole mess made him queasy, and for a few minutes, Maureen, and her lack of communication were pushed to the back of his mind.

     
Copyright 2013 Victoria T. Rocus
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