Dead Girl Beach by Mike Sullivan Page A

is…that bar? Well…do you?”
    â€œYes,” Suma said, deciding to play along with her.
    â€œThat bar—it’s a stinking cesspool. That’s what it is.”
    â€œI know. I’m sorry.”
    A corner of Greta’s mouth turned up in a faint smile. “Then, you stole the money?”
    â€œUh…yes.”
    â€œYou stole the money, or you didn’t. Which is it?” Greta looked at her. “Don’t play me.”
    â€œI stole it.”
    â€œOkay,” Greta said. “I get the money, you can go. Where is it?”
    â€œWith my brother, Arun.”
    Greta shook her head. “That jailbird loser!” She laughed out loud. “Your brother’s a bum. Why would you go trusting a bum like that…with money you stole from us?”
    Suma said nothing.
    â€œOkay. Where’s Arun?”
    In a wild instant, Suma felt brave once again. “Not so fast. It was lottery money—$200,000—that Arun won legally. Don’t call him a bum, either. He’s my brother.”
    Greta ignored the remark. In the firelight, her face twisted into a look of confusion. “Lottery money. What are you talking about? I’m talking about money you stole from my office up in Bangkok. After all I’ve done for you, this is how you show your gratitude? Ransack my safe and then shag that little ass of yours down here, never thinking I’d find you. Forget about the lottery money. Where’s the money you stole from my office?”
    Suma’s heart raced. A lump lodged in her throat. She was getting in deeper and deeper with the play-acting, like a liar trying to cover up lies.
    Greta’s raw, red skin bristled in the firelight. “Where’s the money? It better be good, too.” She stared at Suma’s arm. “While you’re at it, watch that smart mouth, unless you want more of what you got before. Only this time, I’ll rip your heart out and make you eat it right here on this beach if I have to.”
    â€œOkay. Okay. The money’s back at my cabin,” Suma said.
    Greta stood thinking, her eyes skittering from side-to-side.
    â€œOkay, when Parry gets back, we’ll go over and get the money.”
    â€œThen, you let me go. Is that the plan?”
    â€œSounds good to me,” Greta lied. The girl wasn’t going anywhere. She’d kill her and get the money off Arun.
    Greta walked her over to the fire. Tiny, spade-shaped flames licked around the edges of a pile of burning embers. Greta lowered a pile of bamboo shoots onto the flames, fanned them, and watched the fire leap higher. At the same time, she saw something move. She caught it out of the corner of her eye. She looked up. The man with the porkpie hat had come up to the fire, pointing the Beretta Tomcat at them.
    â€œNow!” he shouted. “Both of you, down on the ground.”

Chapter Seventeen
    Away from the fire, Bram Beckers swished the gun back and forth at them. Greta and Suma moved onto the mat and sat down. Becker—a gone-to-seed, ex-Belgian military commando from Brussels—pulled the porkpie hat off his head and wiped his forehead on the back of his arm. He was thirsty.
    He motioned Greta over to the cooler and back, told her to open the bottle, and gulped the water down in a long chug-a-lug, keeping one eye pinned on the women. He was tired and thirsty from walking on the beach and waiting in the woods, spying on them from inside the trees and waiting for the right moment to strike.
    He had found them quarreling. The Thai girl was getting the worst of it, pushed and shoved backward on the beach. Then, the blonde woman raked a claw down the girl’s arm, leaving a splatter of blood. He had heard her mournful cry from inside the trees and waited. He watched and waited patiently for a while as animals moved through the thick underbrush. He saw the wide, bulky figure of Parry Langer arguing with his wife and heard him cursing. Then,