Southern Comfort - Fern Michaels [63]
“I think Bird is definitely male. He’s always after you to ‘get the girls,’” Pete said, as they made their way over to the gate.
“I think so, too,” Tick added, before offering his arm to Bird. “When he says that, there’s an urgency to it. Almost as though he’s speaking about real people. You gettin’ that?”
Pete laughed. “Yeah, there is an urgency to his words, but they all sound urgent, if you ask me. Maybe he’s on a mission, and you just haven’t figured out what it is.”
“I don’t know. I was planning to research parrots on the Internet but never got around to it. I just might do that someday soon. And I still want to brush up on my Spanish. He says a lot of words in his native language.”
“You’re sure of this?” Pete asked.
“No, I’m not sure of anything where that ball of feathers is concerned. Bird has mentioned Cuba, and that makes me think. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if Spanish wasn’t the language he used to communicate with whoever owned him before he took up residence at my place. He started using it the other day when I asked him in Spanish if he understood what I was saying.”
Amused, Pete offered, “A bilingual parrot.”
“Yeah, I know it sounds nuts. Now, let’s see if we can find a way inside this place and hope like hell no one sees us. Remember, stay behind me and do as I say.”
“Or you’ll kick my ass. I remember.”
“Smart man,” Tick said, grinning.
More than ready to finish what he’d started, Tick placed Bird on his shoulder and gave a slight push to the gate. When it offered no resistance, he was taken aback. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Someone must be inside for the gate to be open. At least he thought so, but reminded himself he’d never ventured this far, so the fact the gate was unlocked didn’t really mean anything. After he glanced over his shoulder to make sure Pete was behind him, they quietly made their way past the gate.
Inside, in the center of the compound, was an Olympic-size swimming pool that looked as if it hadn’t been used since it was built. Water covered the bottom. Algae skimmed the surface, the sides of the pool, and the steps leading down into it. Tick saw several frogs beneath its mucky surface and wondered how they managed to stay alive. Rainwater, no doubt.
Tick spotted an open door ahead. Touching the Glock he’d crammed in his shorts pocket at the last minute for reassurance, he walked slowly toward it. Using his foot, he pushed the door open, then out of habit jumped into a shooter’s stance, with Bird still perched on his shoulder. Carefully, he went completely inside, looked from left to right, then behind the door. The room—he guessed it was meant to be used as a bedroom given its size—was empty except for several thin mattresses on the dirty tile floor. Tick motioned for Pete to step inside.
“What the hell is this? Summer camp for slumming?” Pete nudged one of the mattresses with the tip of his bare foot. Dozens of cockroaches scurried out from beneath it, running every which way. “Oh, man, this is gross!”
Tick nodded but remained still.
“Let’s see what else this mansion has to offer,” Tick suggested.
Pete stayed close behind as they entered another room; though this room was much smaller than the other, there were more filthy thin mattresses scattered all over the floor. Two rooms across from them were identical. Dirty mattresses and bugs crawling everywhere.
“Get the girls! Get the girls!” Bird screeched.
“I thought something like this might be going on here, but I never took the time to check it out. Wasn’t any of my business. Now I think I understand what Bird’s been talking about.”
Motioning to the mattresses, Pete asked, “What does this mean?”
Tick stiffened and put his index finger to his lips. Pete nodded. Cautiously, Tick tiptoed out of the fourth bedroom into the hallway. His heart hammered when he spied two figures silhouetted outside the window in the room across from the one he and Pete had just vacated.
Signaling to Pete to stay put, Tick removed his gun from the waistband of