A Night at the Beach

Villasull’Oceano Oscuro Piena di Omicidi e Caos (Dark Ocean Villa of Murder and Mayhem)

On the very last day of his life, Randall Rodrigo was walking on a beach just a mile from where he used to live.  Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the seaweed-covered body until he was almost on top of it.  The body was male, dressed in the tatters of what had originally been an expensive suit, now torn by tide and time.  He had probably only been dead for a day, two at most, his features almost impossible to discern.  As he drew closer, he noticed that the body wore a handcuff on the left wrist.  The other end of the handcuff led to a metal briefcase partially buried in the sand. This would be a night at the beach like no other.

Thomas hesitated, then reached down and gingerly removed the briefcase from the sand. He brushed away the grit to reveal a name that had been engraved on the front of the briefcase.

It read: Randall Rodrigo.

Randall stared at the briefcase for so long it felt like his eyes had become permanently affixed to the image before him. He finally blinked and was sure he was going to throw up. He wished even one of his brothers was here. But Rowan and Remington had gone fishing at Refugio State Beach and could not be reached for two more days because they were off the grid. He leaned in closer to get a better look. His knees ached from the position of his body and his fingers trembled as though a cold breeze was blowing through them. But the sand didn’t move so he knew it was just his imagination. He gently lifted the handcuff that tethered the body to the briefcase. Who was this dead man?

He wasn’t imagining the sharp gust of wind that whipped his shirt collar across his neck. Now he smelled salt and the stench of decay. His first instinct was to drop the handcuff and get out of there as quickly as possible. But he let his curiosity get the best of him and he knew that he wanted to find out more. His fingers caressed the tarnished briefcase and he knew it had been there for a while. He clicked the latch and methodically lifted the lid to get a peek inside.

He scanned the contents front to back twice. There was a folio holding a dozen or so old documents and tied with a beige handkerchief. The material was smooth to the touch and he recognized it as silk. There was also a small metal key that looked like it might fit a jewelry box or other container. Beneath the folio and the key, a dog-eared corner of a photograph started up at him. He looked around to see if anyone had come down to this part of the beach. Once he knew that he was still alone, he carefully lifted the photo and held it up to the moonlight to see what was there.

It was a photo of him from years earlier. There was another man in the photo and a much younger woman. His hair stood up on the back of his neck and not from the cold wind this time. He swallowed hard and felt his heart beating rapidly. He couldn’t hear anything now, and he scanned the waves to see if the world had suddenly stopped.

He had no memory of this photo being taken and did not recognize the man and woman standing next to him. He looked more intently and saw that they were all standing in the foyer of a very old house. From the staircase behind them and the draperies hanging from the window, this photo had to have been taken in a museum. Then he spotted a photo hanging at the landing and recognized it to be of his mother who had died less than a month ago.

The memories came flooding back, as he was whisked off to the hospital room where she had been for weeks before she passed. The doctors had induced a coma and he dreaded visiting her each time unless someone could tell him if she was going to live. No one ever did, and this haunted him as though it had been his fault. He again gazed at the photo and now believed he had been in that old house many times before.

It was Villasull’Oceano oscuro piena di omicidi e caos, originally built as an Italianate villa in 1902 and tucked into the bluffs overlooking the Pacific Ocean just east of Santa Barbara. They called it “Dark Ocean Villa” because of the way it was situated in the bluffs that cast more shadows than light. Yes, he had been there several times in years past, but now he could not for the life of him remember why.

As he searched his memory for a clue, he suddenly heard a voice, low and gravelly from out of nowhere. “Randall, is that you? I never thought you’d show your face around here again.”

Turning around quickly, he looked to see who was speaking to him. But no one was there and now only the sound of the wind and the ocean waves broke the silence.

He had to get out of there, and quickly. He had so many questions. He clenched his fists until his fingernails punctured his skin, his mind reeling. Whoever was behind this was toying with him, drawing him into something deep and dangerous.

He unhooked the handcuff, pocketed the key, carefully stuffed the photograph and documents inside of the folio with the beige handkerchief down the front of his shirt, and stood up. As he walked away from the body and still grasping the empty briefcase, he knew for sure that the answer to whatever had happened here and his connection to this dead man, whoever he was—lay in the Dark Ocean Villa. And he fully intended to find it.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He woke up the next morning in his own bed, not sure of how he got there. He was fully dressed, sans shoes, and reeked of an odor that was a cross between rotten fish and cough syrup. It wasn’t until he got out of bed and was brushing his teeth that he recalled the incidents from the night before.

Randall now had a single focus: He would drive to the Dark Ocean Villa and see what he could find out.

The phone rang and he checked to see who it was before answering.

“Rowan? Is that you?” The screen showed an office number used by both of his brothers.

“It’s Remington. Is everything alright?”

“I thought you and Rowan went fishing. Why are you at the office?”

“We’re both in the office. We kept trying to reach you last night and your cell kept going to voicemail. What’s going on? Where are you?”

Randall drew in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He tried to remember how he had got home last night, but his memory was blank.

“Randall, are you still there? What’s going on?”

“Yes, I’m here. I don’t know. I was at the beach last night and found something – someone – and I don’t know what to do next.”

“We’re coming over. Give us forty-five minutes. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Remmy, wait. I want you to meet me at the estate instead. I’ll be by the front gate. Okay?”

“The estate? What do you mean? I don’t understand. If you just…”

“Listen to me. Something has happened and I need to remember what it was. Meet me in front of the Dark Ocean Villa and I’ll explain what happened last night at the beach.”

As Randall drove toward the Dark Ocean Villa, memories he had long since buried started to surface. The sprawling mansion had once been the center of a scandal—a place rumored to have been the meeting ground for powerful men making dark deals. There was even someone from the local Rotary Club who had been accused of some wrongdoing. Randall had never been one to get involved in local gossip, but he remembers being drawn to the estate once, years ago, on a fog-covered night. A night he had always chalked up to a youthful mistake. But now he could not recall the details of this mistake. They had faded from his memory over the years, or perhaps he had intentionally allowed them to fade into oblivion.

But now, with the briefcase, the key, the photograph, and the folio in hand, and the dead man still on the beach, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his past was reaching out to him.

The closer he got to the estate, the heavier the atmosphere became. The Villasull’Oceano oscuro piena di omicidi e caos loomed ahead, abandoned for decades, its once-grand façade crumbling. Vines had claimed the outer walls, windows were shattered, and the wrought-iron gates hung off their hinges. Yet, despite its decay, the estate seemed to hold its breath, waiting for him.

As Randall stepped out of the car and approached the front door his mind raced, trying to piece together how he could have been involved in whatever had transpired all those years ago. The photograph, the man on the beach—it all seemed impossible, like fragments of a dream he couldn’t quite grasp.

He heard the sound of what had to be a lion roaring, and remembered that the Santa Barbara Zoo was directly across the road from the Clark Bird Refuse. This consisted of a freshwater/brackish lake, a saltwater marsh, and an artificially modified estuary, all draining through East Beach into the Pacific Ocean.  He heard more rumblings from creatures he couldn’t identify, and then silence.

There was still a chill in the air and the overcast night sky seemed to be an omen of what he might find out here. He pulled his jacket closer and thrust his hands deep into the pockets.

He recognized Rowan’s car when it turned in off the main road. They flashed their headlights at him and then turned them off as they slowly approached the main gate.

Remington was driving. He and Rowan exited in unison and softly closed the doors.

“Thanks for coming, guys. I’m confused and need your help.”

The brothers glanced at the briefcase he was holding and then at each other before stepping in closer to Randall. He picked up on this but didn’t say anything.

“It doesn’t look like anyone’s here. Did you take a look around?”

“Remmy, I haven’t been here for well over a decade. The gate is locked and it’s dark. I don’t think anyone has lived here for a very long time.”

The glance between Rowan and Remington is more pronounced this time.

“Do you know something I don’t know? What’s going on? And why won’t you tell me what you know?”

Remington moved closer and put his arm around Randall.

“It’s alright, Randy. Everything is going to be alright; I promise.”

Randall backs away in one swift move.

“Why are you talking to me like this? You haven’t called me Randy since we were kids. Something has happened and you won’t tell me. Just say it, no matter what it is. I want to know. I need to know. Now. Please.”

“Let’s go inside. We can talk privately in there. The night has ears, you know.”

No, he didn’t know. He watched Rowan take a key out of his pocket and they all move closer to the gate.

He turned the key in the lock. The gate creaked open and they made their way up to the main door. It was already ajar and as Rowan pushed it open the darkened interior was revealed. Dust swirled in the stale air as they stepped inside, the floorboards groaning underfoot. The house was empty, but Randall felt like he was being watched, as if something—or someone—had been waiting for his return.

As the three brothers move through the halls, flashes of memories come to Randall: He and the man from the photo, standing in this very house, discussing something urgent. A deal? A betrayal? The details remain frustratingly out of reach, but one thing is clear—the man from the beach had been important to him once. Perhaps a friend, or even a partner. And the woman in the photo, who could she have been?

Randall followed his brothers until they got to area deeper within the estate. They proceeded down the hallway, but he hesitated and waved them on. His instincts took him to a room at the back of the house, a place that felt significant. The door was locked, but he realized with a jolt that the key he found in the briefcase fits perfectly.

The door swung open, revealing a room untouched by time. Unlike the rest of the house, this one is pristine with everything in its place, as if waiting for his return. It’s set up as an office and suddenly he feels as though someone has been here recently. Very recently.

In the center of the room is a large, oak desk. On it, a single envelope rests, his name written across the front in an unfamiliar hand. Inside the envelope, there’s a letter, written in precise sentences:

Randall,

If you’re reading this, it means our plan has gone terribly wrong. We both knew the risks when we got involved, but I didn’t expect it to come to this. I had no choice but to disappear, but if you’re reading this, it means they’ve found me and that you’re next.

The briefcase holds everything you need to set things right, but you’ll need to be careful. They’re still watching. I’m sorry for what I did, but there was no other way.  J.

The name on the letter is smudged, the ink running as though it had been wet. But the meaning is clear: this “J” had been someone close to him, someone involved in something dangerous. Randall glances down at the briefcase he is still clutching. The documents inside—still in the folio and tied with a beige handkerchief—hold the key to uncovering the truth, he is sure.

As he sorts through the documents, the story begins to unfold. Years ago, Randall and “J” had been involved in something they shouldn’t have been. It started innocently enough—it was a business venture involving real estate along California’s Central Coast that promised to set them up for life. But it quickly spiraled into something darker.

The briefcase holds contracts, financial records, and a series of photos—blackmail material, it seems, involving high-ranking local and State officials and criminal organizations. They had been using the Dark Ocean Villa as a rendezvous point, a place to meet in secret and conduct their shady business.

But at some point, things had gone awry. The man on the beach—J—had tried to get out, but someone had silenced him. Now, they were coming for Randall.

As Randall examined the briefcase and uncovered the documents, fragments of his past began to resurface. He recalls the photograph, the one of him and the unidentified man and it suddenly hits him: the man wasn’t just a business partner or acquaintance. He was the man Randall had killed.

The memories are hazy at first, but they start to sharpen with each passing moment. It had happened on a night much like this one, the two of them standing on the same beach. Thomas hadn’t planned to kill him. At least, that’s what he tells himself. It had been an accident—or so he thought.

But the more he remembers, the clearer the truth becomes. The man had been someone important, someone Thomas had once trusted. But that trust had been broken. Maybe it was over money. Maybe it was something more personal. The details are blurry, but the outcome is undeniable: he had murdered the man in cold blood, dumped his body in the sea, and buried the past. Until now.

As the realization sinks in, Randall is consumed by guilt, but it’s too late to go back. The body on the beach is a gruesome reminder of what he did. He begins to piece together the events leading up to the murder. J had been involved in illegal activities, and Randall had chosen to get mixed up in it. The deal had gone south, and Thomas, in a fit of rage or panic, had taken matters into his own hands. He hadn’t intended to kill him, but once it was done, there was no turning back.

But now, someone knows. The briefcase, the photograph, the key, and now the letter are all part of a game, and Randall is now the target. Someone has left these clues for him to find, forcing him to confront the truth.

Just as Randall pieces this together, a noise startles him. It’s footsteps echoing through the house. It’s not those of his brothers, as they went on down the hallway ahead of this office he’s in now. Someone else is here. His heart pounds as he realizes the letter wasn’t just a warning; it was a trap. They’ve been watching him all along. Who are “they”? he wonders, almost aloud.

Randall begins to spiral into despair, and the sound of footsteps again echoes through the estate. He grabs the briefcase and bolts for the door, but it’s too late. A figure blocks his path, dressed in black, their face obscured by the shadows.

The figure steps out of the shadows. This time, the face is visible and he is surprised to see that it’s a woman. She is calm and composed, and her eyes lock onto Randall’s with a knowing intensity.

“Randall Rodrigo,” she says, her voice cutting through the thick air, “you thought you could bury the past. But here we are.”

He stumbles back, his mind racing. “Who are you?”

The woman steps closer, her gaze unwavering. “That’s not the right question. The question is, why did you do it?”

Randall feels the weight of her words. He can no longer pretend he doesn’t know what he did. The truth is clawing its way to the surface, and there’s no escaping it. “I didn’t mean to,” he mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t supposed to happen.”

But the woman isn’t interested in his excuses. “You killed him, Randall. You thought you could walk away, leave him to rot. But the dead have a way of catching up with the living.”

Randall wants to call out for Remington and Rowan, but he knows he must handle this situation on his own. It’s time for him to stop being the baby brother and step up to his past as a grown man.

As she speaks, Randall begins to realize who she is—J’s wife, seeking revenge for what happened. She pulls out a small device, showing him footage from the night of the murder: grainy, shaky, but unmistakable. It’s him, standing over the body, hands bloodied, panic in his eyes as he drags the corpse toward the water.

The woman gives him a cold smile. “I’ve been waiting for this moment for years. You took everything from me. It’s time for retribution.”

Randall’s heart pounds in his chest. He had been so careful. He thought he had covered his tracks. But someone had been watching all along.

The woman steps forward, her voice low and dangerous. “You have two choices, Randall. You can turn yourself in, let the world know what you did… or you can run away from the truth of what you did and the pain you caused. But I’ll always be one step behind you. I’ll make sure you never know a moment of peace again. Do you understand me, Randall?”

He feels the walls closing in. His mind races with fear, guilt, and self-loathing. Turning himself in would mean certain imprisonment, but running would leave him trapped in a life of constant fear. He stares at the woman, her calm demeanor hiding the fury she must feel. She’s giving him a choice, but it’s no choice at all. Either way, his life is ruined.

Randall hesitates. He considers the weight of his guilt, the burden of living with his crime. Could he live with himself if he kept running? Could he face the consequences of his actions?

He takes a deep breath, his mind torn between flight and surrender. The woman watches him, waiting for his decision.

If he chooses to run, he’ll spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder, haunted by the knowledge that someone is always hunting him. But if he chooses to turn himself in, he’ll face justice—and perhaps, in some small way, redemption.

They stand there in silence, staring each other down, each waiting for the other to make the next move.

Two shots, just a nanosecond apart ring out and the woman falls to the floor. Randall looks up to see Rowan and Remington standing at the office door, both holding rifles. He can see the smoke shooting out as they lower the weapons to their sides.

“I suppose you have lots of questions, Randall. Let’s go down to the beach and Rowan and I will tell you a story you’ve long since forgotten.”

He nods, and they all walk slowly out of the estate. Remington tosses the car keys to Rowan.

“You two go on. I want to make sure this place is locked up tight. I’ll meet you at the car.”

They nod and begin walking away.

Remington watches them for a moment, and then returns to lock the front door. He again looks for his brothers and then locks the gate behind him.

Randall can hear the brothers talking as they walk, and when the sounds are muffled so as not to make out their words, he strikes a dictatorial pose.

In one fluid motion, he pulls on his neck to loosen the rubbery mask, rolls it up to his forehead, uses his left hand to remove it from over his head, reaches for his rifle with his right hand, delivers two bullets squarely to the backs of Rowan’s and Thomas’s heads, and watches as their bodies fall to the ground as though they were blow-up dolls who’d suddenly sprung a leak.

Wearing a broad smile, he walks closer to the scene, acknowledging to himself that he enjoyed this part immensely.

Looking down at them, he finally squats down to get a closer view. He lifts Rowan’s limp wrist, unfastening the gold Rolex and then dropping the arm back into the dirt. He stands up and affixes it to his wrist. Then he looks down at the bodies and delivers the words he has longed to say…

“On this last day of your previous life, Randall Rodrigo, you’ve made possible a future I have often fantasized of but never thought would come to fruition. For this, I thank you.”

 I’m bestselling USA Today and Wall Street Journal author Connie Ragen Green, imagining stories based on truth but recreated as fiction and sharing my innermost thoughts with you as a reader. Let’s connect, shall we, and discover the future that awaits us in a world where truth is often more strange than fiction.