The Haunting of Shandy Bay Conclusion

My name is Sunny Alexander. And I’m Henry James and we’re writers for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Conclusion

Having escaped what was intended to be a watery grave, we both had one thing on our minds. Getting out of this cave we’re standing in and back to the car.

And we thought our last Houdini escape trick was difficult.

“Sunny, stay here. I’m going to have a look.”

“Oh hell no James. You’re not leaving me in the dark alone.”

“Where’s a nightlight when you need one? Fine. Stay close, but be ready to move fast. It’s so damn dark if somebody’s out there we’re not going to see them or them us until we’re almost nose to nose.”

“Unless they have night vision goggles.”

“Really Alexander? You had to throw that shit in?”

“I’m just saying it’s possible Henry.”

“Stop saying.”

Using the cave wall as a guide we crept forward until we neared the edge where the boardwalk angled into a ninety degree to our left. Neither of us wanted to step out in the open for fear of giving someone, whether or not they had night vision goggles, a clear shot.

So we decided to take a high tech approach.

Like a couple of vaudevillians in a comedy skit, one of us peeked around the corner high, the other low.

For only a couple of seconds.

Then we jerked back and leaned against the wall.

“You see anything?”

“Nothing on the board walk.”

“There’s a car sitting at the overlook beneath a lamp post. Couldn’t see if someone was in it or not.”

“Damn. That’s means if somebody’s up there they’ve got a clear view of most of the beach and the boardwalk Henry. We step out he’s going to spot us.”

“Have your clothes dried yet?”

“What? Of course they haven’t dried. We just got out of the water a few minutes…Oh hell no James, are you crazy?”

“They can’t shoot what they can’t see. All we have to do is use the boards like monkey bars on a schoolyard playground.”

“Uh...”

“You did go to a school that had monkey bars right?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Private school right?”

“Yes, but before you open your mouth and force me to stick my foot down your throat, I took six years of gymnastics. I think I know my way around monkey bars as you call them.”

Only moments ago both of us were handcuffed to a pair of wooden pylons waiting for high tide to kill us. Now we’re going back in the water of our own choosing.

Well, it wasn’t actually of our own choosing, but it was, in our humble opinion, the only choice we had.

It took us longer than if we had been up top and walking, but at least nobody was taking pot shots at us.

So far.

After reaching the beach and crouch running in the deep shadows of the rock outcropping we made it to the cut. Because of the steepness of the trail we knew we’d probably be out of sight until about midway. From there to the top it was going to be dicey.

“Goddammit.”

“James, shut the hell up. You want them to hear us?”

“You try walking up this goddamned trail with nothing on your feet but a pair of damn wet socks. I think I just broke a toe.”

Midway up the trail we stopped and hunkered down. At this point we thought it best to communicate with whispers.

“Henry, take the grass. I’m going to lure whoever’s up there down here. They’ll be concentrating on me. Use those damn cuffs to your best advantage.”

“Sunny why the hell are you taking your top off?”

“Like I said, they’ll be concentrating on me. Get out of sight.”

“Hello? Is anybody there? Hello? I need help. Hello?”

We saw a man exit the driver’s side of a red pickup truck. Tucked in the crook of one arm was an evil looking assault weapon. In the other hand a flash light. As he slipped away from the dim circle of light provided by the lamp post he turned on his lantern and began the trek down the trail.

“Please help me.”

We exchanged a few terse whispers.

“Get ready James.”

“Step down the trail a bit. I need to be behind him. Keep it up he’s almost on you.”

“Help me please.”

“Well, well. Look at you baby. You found a way to get off that post? Where’s your sugar daddy bitch?”

“He, he didn’t make it.”

“Oh that’s too fucking bad. So I guess it’s just you and me now, huh baby?”

“Yeah.”

“You look fine girl. Ain’t never had me a black bitch before.”

“You like what you see?”

“Sure as shit.”

“You want to see more?”

“Hell yeah baby.”

“There’s nobody going to see me right? It’s just you and me?”

“That’s right, just you and me. How bout you give me this a little kiss?”

As he unzipped his jeans, the man took two more steps down the trail.

All we needed.

As the chains of the handcuffs bit into his neck he tried to bring his rifle up and around him, but a kick in his groin made him drop the weapon and his lantern. Another side kick into his solar plexus forced all the air in the man’s lungs out. When the butt end of his own rifle smashed into the side of his head he collapsed.

We aimed the lantern at the man’s face.

“Bosley.”

“Yeah. Where in the hell did you learn to fight like that Sunny?”

“Martial arts training. A gal has to learn to protect herself.”

To emphasize a point, another kick found its way to the man’s head.

“Ain’t never had a black bitch before my ass, you cracker motherfucker.”

“You feel better now?”

“Much. So what do we do with this piece of shit?”

“Let’s get him up to the truck, tie his ass up then get to your car. We need to get in touch with your boyfriend Manny and let him know what’s going on.”

“Henry, how many times do I have to tell you? He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Whatever. You want to put your shirt back on please?”

Neither Sunny nor I hung around very long after that. It was a three hour trip, and we made it to Austin without stopping. Our passenger, his hands, feet and of course mouth duct taped, we confined in the trunk of a certain writer’s rolling trash can.

At least to one of us, it seemed ironically fitting.

Garbage in, garbage out.

After turning Bosley over to Manny and the feds and getting our cuffs removed, we both went to our respective homes, got some rest and met up with Rick the next morning.

Imagine our surprise when he didn’t bother to rip us a new one. He just read our draft, grunted in delight and told us we both got the feature.

Oh Lord, it was a tie.

The thing about a writer, especially writing the kind of stories we do, is that once you submit it’s time to move on and find another story.

It wasn’t until three weeks later we both met up for our lunch date.

Seems as if we somehow became celebrities to the regulars who hung out at Johnson’s sports grill and bar. On the televisions all over the place our names complete with photos — one more flattering than the other— had been attributed to a breaking story from Dark Sides magazine which led to the biggest drug bust in Texas history.

Even better than that. Neither of us had to buy lunch.

The biggest problem one of us has now is figuring out how to get the cost of a new pair of boots hidden somewhere in an expense report.

Let’s keep in touch: [email protected]