Titanoboa by Victor Methos Read Free Book Online Page B

was she shouting about?”
    “That we were hiding something. As though I would care about some American tourist enough to hide information.”
    The way he said “American,” Mark could almost see his revulsion. Only a sliver of the island’s population shared his attitude. Without American tourists, they would all be working in factories or fishing, and most people recognized that and were grateful. But some people simply blamed the United States for all the world’s ills, whether it was true or not. People just needed someone to blame, and America happened to be the dominant world power right now. Mark wondered if Rome had been blamed for all the world’s problems as well, or France or the British Empire. He had a feeling being on top brought many detractors.
    “What happened to him , exactly?” Mark asked, ignoring the smugness.
    “How should I know? He checked in one day , and the next he was gone.”
    “Was he staying here with anybody?”
    “Yes, a woman.”
    Mark opened a note- taking app on his phone. “Do you remember her name?”
    “I can look it up, but I won’t.”
    He knew why. He took out his wallet and laid a ten-dollar Fijian bill on the table. The bills used to have pictures of prime ministers and queens of England, but fish, seagulls, and depictions of government buildings replaced them. “The name?” he asked.
    The man looked at the ten. If he took it and gave him the name, Mark might leave and not ask any more questions. So he should ask for more. But if he asked for more, and Mark said, “Forget it,” and left, he wouldn’t get anything.
    Finally, the man took the bill, stuffing it quickly into his pocket before turning to his computer. Only a moment passed before he said, “Rebecca Langley.”
    “She still here at the hotel?”
    “Yes.”
    “What room?”
    The man stared at him blankly. Mark laid another ten on the table.
    “Room 217.”
    “Thank you for your help.” Mark jogged up the rickety stairs to the second floor. The building itself was old, but the interior was well cleaned and painted. The rugs were all spotless, and the furniture looked new. The hotel appeared like a comfortable place for a tourist to stay, but something was a little off about it. He didn’t know whether it was the staff or what, but something just didn’t quite sit well with him.
    He knocked on Room 217’s door. No answer. He tried again then stepped to the side and waited a couple of minutes. Then he dropped to his hands and knees and peered through the gap between the door and the floor. No movement inside. She wasn’t here.
    B ack downstairs, the man was helping someone else. Mark wandered around the lobby, staring at some of the paintings up on the walls. The clerk became free a moment later, and Mark approached him. “How much to call me when she gets in?” he said. No use in circumlocution.
    “Twenty,” the man said. Mark laid a twenty down on the counter and wrote his phone number on it with a pen.
    “I’m a private detective trying to find out why Billy Gilmore disappeared, in case you’re curious.”
    The man shrugged as he put the money in his pocket. “Doesn’t really matter to me.”

10
     
     
     
     
    Marlene Hallwell lay on the lounge chair, soaking in as much sun as possible. Her boy was playing out in the surf, picking up handfuls of wet sand and flinging them into the ocean as far as he could. She glanced down at him to make sure he was all right. It was still early, and most people liked to come out in the afternoon here. The sun stayed over Kalou Island seemingly forever. Last year when they were here, she remembered watching one sunset at a good fifteen minutes past ten p.m.
    Timothy ambled up the beach, wiping wet sand off his palms on his shorts. He flopped down next to his mother and sighed. Marlene knew what was coming next. The cry of every ten-year-old in the world: “I’m bored.” Sometimes she felt like her primary duty as a mother was to make sure her son