Violet Eyes Read Online Free
Author: John Everson
polo shirt over his head and threw it in the corner of the bedroom. He hated dressing up. And he wasn’t really excited about the high profile, either. He’d spent a few years there trying to keep as low a profile as possible. When you were running drugs between the Florida Keys, having a camera in your face was exactly what you were looking to avoid.
But these days, Billy didn’t have to hide anymore. And after what had happened on Sheila Key, he really couldn’t hide. Every news crew in Florida wanted to talk to him…and several from points beyond. When you were the sole survivor of a slaughter, you were not only news, you were a star.
He pressed the button on his answering machine, and the message light flashed from nine to eight as it began to spit out one recording, “Hello, Mr. McCallister. This is Jesse Solms, from WHRV in Tampa. We were wondering if we could stop by tomorrow to talk with you about your experience on Sheila Island…”
It’s Sheila Key, he thought with irritation. Clearly she wasn’t from South Florida. Of course, he himself hadn’t even known the actual name of that damned pimple of sand when he’d taken the girls and Mark there the week before. He hadn’t needed to know the name, just the location. It had just been a drop-off point for him, back in his marijuana transportation days. He’d pick up enough of the weed to stuff his below-deck cabin full, and then run it out under the light of the stars to the hidden dock on the island at Latitude 25.155286° / Longitude 80.576477°. It had never needed a name, as far as he’d been concerned. He found it by instrument at night beneath the stars, and never saw another human being there.
That’s why he’d thought it had been the perfect spot to take Jess and Mark and Casey to. There were a thousand tiny islands in the chain of keys, and nobody ever bothered with this one, except midnight drug runners. Ultimately, he’d been caught and done time in jail for drug trafficking. And while he was out of circulation, he figured the runners must have chosen a new drop-off point for their cargo. Certainly they should have if they had any brains at all.
He’d told that story twenty-five times now in the past twenty-four hours. To newspaper reporters and bleach-blonde haughty bims thrusting microphones in his face like electronic phalluses. It was bad enough to think of the microphone as a dick but the image was made worse by the plastic good looks of the white-toothed girls who pushed the things in his face. That was just wrong.
The attack of the microphone cocks had started right after the cops and the docs had had their way with him Sunday night. You didn’t come off the dock one day with a lurid story of three of your friends being eaten alive by bugs and just walk back home the same night.
His first night and day back on the mainland were spent far from his house.
Which is why now, he really just wanted to put things in order. He hadn’t spent much time here over the past few months, and his trip to Sheila Key was supposed to have been the start of a new life. His life back at university. His life moving ahead. The pursuit of dreams, not drugs, girls not guns.
Instead, now he was back home, his friends were dead, and everyone wanted to talk to him about flies and spiders.
Billy saw a pale eight-legged thing scoot up the side of his kitchen cabinet in the fading light of the end of afternoon. He didn’t think for a second before smashing it with the palm of his hand. Spiders. He had always hated the fuckin’ things. But now…
Behind him, the woman stopped talking and the machine issued a terse beep. Almost immediately, another woman started speaking. It was eerie how similar the dialogue was.
“Hello, Mr. McAllister. This is Jennie Kiel from WROI in Catchatobie, Florida. We were wondering if you’d consider giving us an interview…”
Billy shook his head and walked out of the room. “I’ve got gardens to weed,” he
But these days, Billy didn’t have to hide anymore. And after what had happened on Sheila Key, he really couldn’t hide. Every news crew in Florida wanted to talk to him…and several from points beyond. When you were the sole survivor of a slaughter, you were not only news, you were a star.
He pressed the button on his answering machine, and the message light flashed from nine to eight as it began to spit out one recording, “Hello, Mr. McCallister. This is Jesse Solms, from WHRV in Tampa. We were wondering if we could stop by tomorrow to talk with you about your experience on Sheila Island…”
It’s Sheila Key, he thought with irritation. Clearly she wasn’t from South Florida. Of course, he himself hadn’t even known the actual name of that damned pimple of sand when he’d taken the girls and Mark there the week before. He hadn’t needed to know the name, just the location. It had just been a drop-off point for him, back in his marijuana transportation days. He’d pick up enough of the weed to stuff his below-deck cabin full, and then run it out under the light of the stars to the hidden dock on the island at Latitude 25.155286° / Longitude 80.576477°. It had never needed a name, as far as he’d been concerned. He found it by instrument at night beneath the stars, and never saw another human being there.
That’s why he’d thought it had been the perfect spot to take Jess and Mark and Casey to. There were a thousand tiny islands in the chain of keys, and nobody ever bothered with this one, except midnight drug runners. Ultimately, he’d been caught and done time in jail for drug trafficking. And while he was out of circulation, he figured the runners must have chosen a new drop-off point for their cargo. Certainly they should have if they had any brains at all.
He’d told that story twenty-five times now in the past twenty-four hours. To newspaper reporters and bleach-blonde haughty bims thrusting microphones in his face like electronic phalluses. It was bad enough to think of the microphone as a dick but the image was made worse by the plastic good looks of the white-toothed girls who pushed the things in his face. That was just wrong.
The attack of the microphone cocks had started right after the cops and the docs had had their way with him Sunday night. You didn’t come off the dock one day with a lurid story of three of your friends being eaten alive by bugs and just walk back home the same night.
His first night and day back on the mainland were spent far from his house.
Which is why now, he really just wanted to put things in order. He hadn’t spent much time here over the past few months, and his trip to Sheila Key was supposed to have been the start of a new life. His life back at university. His life moving ahead. The pursuit of dreams, not drugs, girls not guns.
Instead, now he was back home, his friends were dead, and everyone wanted to talk to him about flies and spiders.
Billy saw a pale eight-legged thing scoot up the side of his kitchen cabinet in the fading light of the end of afternoon. He didn’t think for a second before smashing it with the palm of his hand. Spiders. He had always hated the fuckin’ things. But now…
Behind him, the woman stopped talking and the machine issued a terse beep. Almost immediately, another woman started speaking. It was eerie how similar the dialogue was.
“Hello, Mr. McAllister. This is Jennie Kiel from WROI in Catchatobie, Florida. We were wondering if you’d consider giving us an interview…”
Billy shook his head and walked out of the room. “I’ve got gardens to weed,” he
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