Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  Grayson tilted his head and looked me in the eyes. “Am I right?”

  I shrugged. “How does chasing monsters tell the world to shove it?”

  Grayson’s face lit up with an almost sinister delight. “Don’t you see? It’s the ultimate color-outside-the-lines kiss-off. No one can discredit you from an already unaccredited career. Am I right?”

  My lips curled into a tentative smile. “Yeah, I suppose. But Grayson, even you’ve got to admit that’s a pretty low bar.”

  “Bar, shmar. This whole idea of goal setting is nothing more than a no-win scenario designed by society to prove we’ll never live up to its expectations. Let it all go, Drex. Sit back, let go, and breathe in the freedom.”

  I sat back and sniffed the air. “Right now, freedom smells like sweat and burnt tortillas.”

  Grayson laughed. “And here’s the best part. If we .... No. When we come up with hard, irrefutable evidence that one of these cryptid creatures exists, there’s no banana cream pie big enough to cover the egg that’ll be all over their faces.”

  I grinned. Grayson messed up his metaphors, just like my Grandma Selma used to when she was alive. It was the one thing about him I was totally onboard with.

  Something deep inside me relaxed. I sighed and reached for a taco. “So what do you think really happened to Jenkins, anyway?”

  “Too soon to tell. We’ll need to examine the body first.”

  “Wha—?” A piece of taco tumbled from my gaping mouth.

  Grayson eyed the mangled glob on the table. “Or at least get our hands on the autopsy report.”

  I wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. “Ugh. I was afraid you’d say that.”

  Grayson locked eyes with me again. “By the way, how are you feeling? You know, with the whole vestigial-twin gonad thing going on in your skull. Had any more weird hallucinations?”

  “None that spring to mind.”

  Grayson’s face grew serious. “We’re partners, now, Drex. If you want me to help you master your gift, you’re going to have to let me know whenever you see something weird.”

  “Gift?” I scowled at Grayson. “If this was really a gift, I could return it.”

  Grayson shook his head. “Women. Even God doesn’t know what to get them.”

  I sneered and took a savage bite of taco. As I chewed, I glanced over at the slob seated across from us. I nearly choked.

  The man appeared to have just survived an attack by giant moths. His T-shirt was peppered with gaping holes which offered innocent bystanders glimpses of his doughy side-rolls and curly armpit hair. A long, gray beard hung down from his face and spilled onto his impressive beer gut. His neck and arms bore enough tattoos to qualify him as a human sandwich board.

  If God really knew what women wanted, that guy wouldn’t exist.

  I nodded my head in the man’s direction. “We’re in Florida, Grayson. When you ask whether I’ve seen something weird, you’re gonna have to be a lot more specific.’”

  Grayson’s eyes shifted to the tattooed man, then back to me. “I see your point. How about this: Have you seen anything that shouldn’t be there?”

  I nodded toward the tattooed man. “Yes.”

  Grayson snorted. “Okay. Anything you wish wasn’t there?”

  I nodded toward the man again. “Too many to count.”

  Grayson grinned. “All right, Drex. Have you seen anything that makes you question your traditional concepts of reality?”

  I sighed. “No. But that picture of Jenkins reduced to flesh pudding comes close.”

  Grayson nodded and glanced back at the food truck. “That reminds me. I want to see a dessert menu. Flan, perhaps?”

  “Ugh! You’re incorrigible!”

  Grayson laughed and ogled a laminated menu.

  “You said our next step is to talk to that vet guy. Rexel, right?” I asked.

  “Yes. I gave him a call while you were in the ladies’ room. He said he could meet us at two o’clock.”

  I glanced at my cellphone. “That’s in like, twenty minutes.”

  “No problem. It’s just around the corner.”

  “Around these parts, Grayson, nothing is just around the corner.”

  His eyebrow shot up. “No? In that case, I suggest we get going, cadet.”

  Our eyes simultaneously shifted down to the last remaining taco on the table, then back up.

  We both grabbed for it.

  Grayson was quicker.

  He shot me a victory grin, took a huge bite from the taco, and handed me the rest.

  I smiled and took it.

  I guess partnering with Grayson has its privileges, after all.

  Chapter Six

  THE DERELICT RV SHIMMIED southbound along the Redman Parkway that divided Plant City—the strawberry capital of the world—in half. As we crossed over SR 60, the parkway turned into SR 39. Not that the change in numbers made any difference. Everything along that strip of highway was the same, ubiquitous shade of forgettable.

  As we passed through the tiny town of Hopewell, I began to wonder just exactly what the hell the people around here were hoping for.

  I looked down and squinted at the tiny map on Grayson’s smartphone. “Swiney ... or is it Swilley Road? Anyway, it’s supposed to be around here somewhere. On the right. Before you get to Keysville Road ... or is it Keystone?”

  Grayson shook his head. “Grab a pair of glasses out of the glove compartment, would you? You look like a politically incorrect emoji. All you’re missing are chopsticks and a pointy hat.”

  I scowled. “Do it yourself, then.”

  I shoved his phone back at him. Grayson refused it.

  “Nothing doing. Driving while operating a cellphone is worse than playing Russian roulette. Over a quarter of all accidents are caused by cellphone usage.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You and your so-called facts. Why don’t you just let me drive, then?”

  “Uh ... because you can’t see?”

  I scowled again. “I can see well enough to shoot.”

  “You’ve got presbyopia, Drex. Your near vision is deteriorating. Welcome to the short-arm club.”

  I frowned. “But I’m not even forty.”

  Grayson smirked. “You’re an overachiever. Congratulations. Now grab a pair of specs so you can read the display, already!”

  “Ugh!” I jabbed the button on the glovebox. It dropped open. I picked out a pair of cheap, plastic eyeglasses and settled them on my nose. When I glanced back down at the phone, I nearly gasped at the amount of detail it displayed.

  “There it is,” Grayson said. “Swilley Road, right?”

  I looked up. The blur from the lenses made me instantly nauseated. “Ugh. Yeah. Right.”

  I looked down at the phone again. Grayson hooked a sharp right, sending me lurching sideways.

  “Geez, Grayson!”

  He snorted. “Come on, grumpy. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Where granny hides her Geritol, apparently.”

  I took off the glasses. “That Garth guy said Rexel is a stickler for protocol. I don’t want to look like a dimwit again. What was that thing you two were talking about? An M and M?”

  “EME. It’s ham radio jargon for a moon bounce. That’s when you use the moon as a passive reflector to establish a signal path. Earth-Moon-Earth equals EME.”

  “Right.” I still didn’t understand what the hell he was talking about. But did it really matter? When would that subject ever come up again in my lifetime? Never. “Hey, after Rexel, then what?”

  Grayson came to a stop sign and looked both ways. “We’ll check out Operative Garth’s brother on the force. Jimmy Wells.”

  “I thought we didn’t use real names. And how’d you find out his, anyway?”

  “It was on the mailbox. They live together.”

  “Oh.” Two guys, no gal. Well, that explains the filth.

  “So much for anonymity,” I quipped.

  Grayson’s eyebrow ticked up. “And so
much for your observational skills.”

  I frowned. Grayson noticed.

  “Listen,” he said. “You’re new at this. Everybody’s got to start somewhere. So be a good intern, would you? Keep an eye out for a small tower. That’ll be Rexel’s repeater. He said we can’t miss it.”

  I licked my wounds as we drove through a half-finished subdivision. The place appeared to have been abandoned by its developer decades ago. Like some wannabee Chernobyl, a smattering of houses dotted the crumbling asphalt lanes and empty cul-de-sacs. The rest of the lots lay vacant and weedy.

  We turned a corner. Amongst a stand of pines, I spotted a crude metal structure that resembled the Eiffel Tower—if it had been built by a scrap metal salesman after downing a bottle of mescal.

  I jabbed a finger at the windshield. “Is that it?”

  “Yes. Good eye, cadet.”

  I perked up and I allowed myself the edges of a smile. “Turn there,” I said.

  Grayson made the turn and rumbled down the road to the end. He pulled the RV onto a tidy, crushed-shell driveway leading to a modest, well-kept block house covered in brick a shade too red to be real. The lawn, trees, and bushes bore the precision trim jobs of a seriously hardcore anal-retentive.

  Grayson shifted into park. Before we could even open the doors, a short, wiry old man emerged from the house, checking his watch. His bald, liver-spotted head glistened in the sun. When he looked up, his face appeared frozen in a state of permanent condescension. He probably could’ve played General McArthur if he wasn’t the height of George Castanza.

  “You take the lead on this,” Grayson said, smirking as he threw me under the bus. “Get one under your belt.”

  “Wha—?”

  “Like I said, just follow my lead.”

  “You’re a minute and thirty-eight seconds late,” Rexel barked as we climbed out of the RV.

  “I ... we’re ...” I fumbled.

  “Excuse our delay, Mr. Rexel,” Grayson said. “My partner, Pandora here, was overcome with admiration for your magnificent repeater.”

  Rexel peered over his bifocals at me. His skeptical frown softened into a smile that seemed so foreign to his face I was afraid it might crack. “Why thank you, young lady.”

  “That’s some repeater,” I winged.

  Rexel beamed. “Built it myself.”

  “You don’t say!” I cooed. “Truly impressive. You ever do EMEs with it?”

  Rexel’s face went disconcertingly dreamy. “Been known to do an EME a time or two, young lady.”

  I looked over at Grayson just in time to see his eyes finish rolling. I turned back to Rexel. “Mr. Rexel, we’re here investigating the sad demise of Mr. Lester Jenkins.”

  Rexel sneered. “Not that sad, if you ask me.”

  I blanched. “Why?”

  The skinny little man’s face twisted as if he’d sucked a lemon wedge. “Damned amateur. Jenkins barely knew what he was doing. Always skimming the guidebooks and skimping on the rules.” Rexel shook his angry, turtle-like head and spat. “That lazy scumbag was always kerchunking on my repeater.”

  I shot Grayson a quick, wide-eyed glance.

  He grinned, but offered me no lifeline.

  I nodded at Rexel sympathetically. “I hate when that happens.”

  Rexel gave me a sharp nod, then continued his tirade.

  “No matter how many times I told him, Jenkins never gave out his call sign when he keyed up his radio. Pinged off my repeater without even so much as a ‘How do you do.’ It was annoying as all get out, I tell you.”

  What the hell?

  I shot Grayson a Mayday look. He finally took the lead.

  “So, Mr. Rexel, how did you know it was Jenkins if he didn’t give his call sign?”

  Rexel turned to Grayson and doubled up on his sour expression. “He was at that disgrace of a shack he called a cabin near ‘bout every Friday. He’d always ping my repeater around the same time. Quarter to six. Right before happy hour at Blarney’s Bar. It was the only thing that sorry S-O-B ever did on a reliable basis.”

  “I see.” Grayson rubbed his chin. “And what about his last transmission? You heard it, correct?”

  “Yeah. The idiot was yelling, ‘They’re here. They’re here.’ Sounded like he’d already had a few. I asked for his call sign ... you know, to keep a decent level of protocol. The man didn’t bother to reply. I’m telling you, Jenkins had no manners whatsoever.”

  I sighed. He was probably too busy dying.

  Rexel snorted derisively. “Jerk never even bothered to get more than a Technician Class license. Me myself? I went all the way to Amateur Extra Class.”

  Wow. Where’s that extra class now?

  Grayson acknowledged Rexel with a nod. “Did Jenkins say anything after that?”

  “Nope. Let me tell you, I gave him a piece of my mind over not using his call sign. But the jerk didn’t give me so much as the courtesy of a reply to that, either. Typical Jenkins.”

  Grayson’s brow furrowed. “How far away is Jenkins’ cabin from here?”

  “Half a mile, maybe. It’s down there, at the end. Where the road cuts off.” Rexel pointed down a paved road that appeared to lead to nowhere. “Jenkins would park his truck down there and follow the trail in the woods.”

  “What happened here?” I asked, glancing around at the vacant lots and weedy sidewalks. “Why didn’t they finish the subdivision?”

  Rexel’s expression told me I’d hit a nerve. “They were supposed to build more houses, but then the EPA said the land’s too swampy. Damned EPA cares more about the life of some stupid toad-frog than it does its own war veterans.”

  Grayson gave the old man a sympathetic look. “Mr. Rexel, who do you think Jenkins was referring to when he said, ‘They’re here.’?”

  Rexel shrugged. “Those damned toads for all I know. Like I said, he was a real booze hound.”

  Grayson nodded. “Well, thank you for your time, sir.”

  “Sure. Always happy to help out a fellow ham radio operator.”

  I nearly snorted. Right. Unless he’s Lester Jenkins.

  I plastered on a smile and climbed into the RV. Rexel came up to my window and looked at me as if he expected something.

  “Uh ... that really is a really nice tower you’ve built there, Mr. Rexel,” I offered.

  Rexel shot me a lascivious grin. “You really like my little elephant, don’t you?”

  Yuck. “Uh...sure.” I rolled up the window and locked the door before Rexel climbed in and gave me a hug or something.

  Grayson turned the ignition, and as he slowly backed down the drive, Rexel winked at me and waved.

  I groaned. “I feel like I’ve been slimed.”

  “What?” Grayson asked. “You mean like Jenkins?”

  “No. Worse.”

  Grayson’s right eyebrow flat-lined. “What’s going on?”

  “What did Rexel mean with that crack about me liking his little elephant?”

  Grayson opened his mouth to answer.

  “Wait!” I blurted. “If it’s gross, I don’t want to know.”

  Grayson laughed. “He was referring to his tower, Drex. A repeater that can receive further than it can transmit. You know, big ears, small mouth. Like an elephant.”

  “I’d say Mr. Rexel has big ears and a big mouth.”

  Grayson shrugged. “He seems harmless enough. A man needs his hobbies, after all.”

  “I guess.”

  Grayson reached below the dash and fiddled with the knobs on his ham radio. It crackled to life.

  As static filled the cab of the RV, I frowned. All that stupid radio jargon the men had used with each other. Who in their right minds would care about any of that crap?

  “I don’t get it,” I said finally. “What’s so great about this amateur radio stuff?”

  “What?” Grayson nearly veered into the gutter. “It’s only like the original internet, Drex. With a ham radio you can talk to folks all over the world. Even in outer spac
e.”

  “Outer space? Gimme a break. Don’t tell me you believe all that stuff Garth said about talking to aliens?”

  “Well, I believe it’s possible, sure,” Grayson said defensively. “Ever since Russia launched Sputnik, amateur radio buffs have been monitoring the skies for space transmissions.”

  Grayson smiled wistfully at the windshield. “The Apollo missions were a dream come true. As a kid, I remember tuning in to the astronauts’ live broadcasts from space. Good times.” He turned to me. “That was possible. So, why shouldn’t we be able to tune in to space alien’s transmissions?”

  I shook my head. “I guess. But what are the odds of that happening?”

  “I’d say pretty good. You may not realize it Drex, but there are over three million amateur radio operators around the world. Tuning in to an alien life form on a subspace channel is bound to happen. It’s just a matter of time.”

  I snorted. “Meanwhile, you know, while you guys are waiting for ET to phone home and all, what else do you do for fun? Swap Tang recipes with each other?”

  “No. We ....” Grayson coughed. “We exchange weather updates and whatnot.”

  I smirked.

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” Grayson turned a knob on the ham radio. “You can also monitor police transmissions with this baby. And airline pilot chatter. There’s even some spooky ‘black channels’ out there broadcasting encrypted messages twenty-four seven. I think you’d be surprised what ham radio operators can pick up.”

  “No offense, Grayson, but if they’re all like Garth and gramps back there, I’d be surprised if they could pick up anything.”

  Chapter Seven

  A FINGER OF DREAD RAN a cold, sharp nail down my spine as I inched behind Grayson, mimicking his movements along each zig and zag in the narrow trail that meandered through the boggy Florida scrubland.

  The terrain was flat and sandy, covered in a thick carpet of waist-high palmetto bushes. Amid the sea of jagged, silver-green palmettos, patchwork islands of dwarf, moss-covered scrub oaks and towering, red-barked pines jutted out.

  The only sounds were our footsteps and my own groaning complaints. In the distance, the shrill, laugh-like call of a pileated woodpecker rang out. I wondered whether he’d just told a joke at our expense.