Bullet Beach by Ronald Tierney

lake,’ his mother told Maya. ‘OK?’
    Casey, who had been extremely nervous about floating around on the water, eventually found a spot, and clunked his bones down.
    Cross worried about his mother. They had applied spf fifty sun block. She nonetheless looked as if she had either just heard a dirty joke or was getting more sun than she should. A few more minutes. No street numbers on the lake, but Cross was pretty sure the three-story home, nearly all windows on this side, was the Taupins. It was the biggest on this part of the lake and it had an extra-long pier in order to accommodate a yacht of ocean-going proportions and a seaplane. Nothing was going on outside but the gentle bobbing of the sea craft. Cross smiled. The multi-millionaire known for his cheap ways had a few luxury items.
    The sky was blue. The sunlight bounced off the caps of the gentle waves. The clouds were storybook white and fluffy. It was an American Kodak moment – happy and golden. Cross took his camera from the bag and, while it looked like he was taking a typical family photograph – Dad, the kid, the grandparents and family dog – he was also recording the numbers on the plane and the name of the boat: Ruby Tuesday .
    Cross didn’t know whether any of this mattered, whether in this wholesome scene there was some level of evil or not, but the trip was worthwhile. What did surprise him was the seaplane gently rising and falling on the tiniest of tides. There weren’t many of them on the lake, but it made sense. It was more than two or three hours to Indianapolis by car, nearly all of it on slow-going secondary roads. If Cross wasn’t mistaken, there was a small airport in Fishers, near the low-profile tycoon’s city home. Home to home in what? Half an hour?
    â€˜Who wants fried chicken?’ Cross asked happily as he cut left, or port as some more experienced seafarers might say.
    The sign on the red leather door said: EMPLOYEES ONLY.
    On the other side was a long, dark hallway with double-door wide openings along the way. Each was draped with muslin. Soft light and muffled voices spilled through the pleasantly shrouded doorways. Shanahan walked slowly, waiting to be intercepted or to find a doorway open and inviting.
    At the end of the hall was an elevator. One button. Shanahan pushed it. He hesitated for a moment before stepping in. He’d come this far. Inside there were two buttons. One was lit – the floor he was on. He pushed the other. The door closed and Shanahan found himself in a softly lit space that moved smoothly. When the doors opened, he stepped into what appeared to be immaculate space. White walls, pale gray carpeting, a white sofa with matching chairs. There was a sense of style. But the style was sterile. It was a clear contrast to the bar below, where the walls, and tables, and floor had a sensuous, perhaps living patina.
    A woman in white clothing appeared and pointed toward Shanahan’s shoes. He took them off while she pulled some blue-green paper slippers from a box. He slipped them on and she nodded for him to follow. The air was cool, but there was no sound of air conditioning. The air was clean as well. Filtered.
    They turned, went through an arched doorway and into a larger room, though of the same coloration and purity. The man, slender as a reed and ageless, sat on a large upholstered silver gray chair. He wore a white robe, trimmed in gold. A second look and Shanahan could pick up a few more details. The skin was a little too tight at the neck. The flesh was a little too tight on the bone. Before him on a small table was what Shanahan thought to be a glass of iced tea.
    The man looked up. His eyes were bright. This wasn’t the man who sat beside him on the bench in the park.
    â€˜Why are you here?’ the man asked with a mix of impatience and confusion.
    â€˜I was told to come here.’
    â€˜I meant why are you here? In Thailand. I would have thought you