The Riptide Ultra-Glide

by Tim Dorsey

  Pat stopped and took her hands in his. “Baby, I’d never do anything to put you in harm’s way. My face is still hot, but I’m thinking straight now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Sometimes private citizens just have to step off the sidelines and take action for the betterment of society.” He dialed his cell phone. “Hello? Is this the Oasis Inn? . . . Could I have the room number of Patrick McDougall? . . . You’re not allowed to give out information on guests? Then could you ring his room for me? . . . Thanks . . .”

  Bar snapped a whisper: “What are you doing?”

  “Shhhhh! . . . Hello? . . . Yes, I’m also staying at the Oasis and we were just leaving the parking lot and I thought I saw a dropped wallet outside your room with a lot of money blowing out of it, but we were really late for something and couldn’t stick around . . . Who is this? . . . I can’t hear you; you’re breaking up.” Pat held the phone out at arm’s length and clapped it shut.

  “What’s going on?” asked Bar.

  “To the window!” said Pat.

  Bar joined him, heads side by side in the curtains. “This is actually exciting.”

  Pat’s nose was almost against the glass. “And it’s totally safe behind this window, like it’s all happening out there on TV—”

  “A door’s opening!” said Bar. “Hide!”

  They pulled the curtains tight to their faces, so each only had one eyeball’s view.

  Two people came out. A woman in sparkling hot pants and a halter top, bare feet, with a tall blond wig that looked like it was kept in a sock drawer. The man weighed half as much, wearing orange paisley boxers and a LeBron James jersey that was inside out. They scanned the ground in front of the room. Even crouched down to peek under cars for fluttering currency. Then she kicked him in the ass, literally, and chased him back into the room . . .

  Back across the street, Patrick McDougall wrote “113” on a notepad and held it up. “Is that the right room number?”

  “It’s the one I saw,” said Bar.

  Pat grabbed his cell phone, then thought about it and put it down. He picked up the rotary phone on the nightstand—and thought about that, too. He hung up.

  After years of marriage, it was telepathy. “Pat,” said Bar. “I saw a pay phone at the corner. They can’t trace the anonymous tip call to us or the room.”

  Pat ran out the door, rooting around in his pocket for change. He dialed 911. “Hello, yes, my emergency is that someone is staying in room 113 of the Oasis Inn with a stolen credit card . . . How is that an emergency? Because if you hurry, you can catch them! . . . My name? . . .” He hung up.

  Bar was waiting when he got back. “What did the police say?”

  “They’re sending someone, but I got the feeling it wasn’t a top priority.”

  “But they stole from us.”

  Pat shrugged. Then they watched out the window.

  And watched.

  “They’re not coming,” said Bar.

  “But they’re supposed to,” said Pat.

  The couple got tired of peeking outside and made sandwiches from their cooler. They watched some tube, local news. Drifter arrested in slaying, police ask public’s help in identifying torso, man charged with groping Minnie Mouse at Disney, vacationers carjacked in a rental from airport. They decided not to watch the tube.

  Pat stretched and yawned. They checked the window one last time to see if the police had come, then went to bed.

  Chapter Twenty

  JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT

  Another full moon rose above the trees.

  A key went into the trunk of a Gran Torino. The hood popped. Wolfgang Finch raised his hands. “Please don’t kill me.”

  “That’s entirely up to you.”

  “I’ll do anything,” said Wolfgang.

  “I know you will,” said Serge. “Let me give you a hand out of there since you’re tied up.”

  “Hey.” Wolfgang looked back up the road. “That’s my car.”

  “Coleman drove it over behind us.” Serge grabbed him roughly by the collar and began walking him down the street, where the front of a black car sat even with a white line painted across the pavement. “And a nice ride it is, classic BMW, the best old ladies’ money could buy.”

  “I’m so sorry about that! You don’t have to do anything to me.”

  “Maybe.” Serge opened the driver’s door. “But I’m concerned that if I let you off easy, I’ll be gypping you out of a free self-improvement lesson . . . Get in.”

  Wolfgang looked both ways. A long, empty road in both directions, surrounded by woods. Nowhere to run. “You realize that somebody could drive by any minute. You’ll get caught.”

  “I don’t think so.” Serge pushed Wolfgang’s head down and shoved him into the coupe. Then he stuck his own face inside. “Before I opened my trunk to let you out, I borrowed some barricades and detour signs from a nearby road construction site. They’ve got a million of them—never miss a few. And I set them up at both ends of the street so nobody will inadvertently drive by, because this might get embarrassing if you start crying. I respect your dignity.”

  A beer can popped. “Serge,” said Coleman. “Where are we?”

  “Glad you asked!” Serge turned on his camcorder and handed it to his buddy. “We’re in Lake Wales. Spook Hill to be specific. So renowned locally that the nearby school is named Spook Hill Elementary, and its mascot is Casper the Friendly Ghost . . . But what’s spooky about this hill? you ask. I’ll tell you! Ancient lore has it that this was an old Indian settlement, and the biggest granddaddy gator of them all used to raid its residents. The brave chief set out alone into the marsh to vanquish their foe in single-handed combat. The chief prevailed, but the struggle was so fierce it left a depression massive enough that the next rainy season created a lake.” Serge laughed heartily and elbowed Wolfgang. “The wacky stories we have in our state’s history! That’s why I love this place!”

  “But, Serge,” asked Coleman, “what’s the spooky part?”

  “It’s also been said that this hill is haunted, either by the gator seeking revenge, or the chief protecting his land. The ghost wasn’t clear on that.” Serge ran back to his car and returned with coils of thick rope. He reached into the BMW. “Now hold still.”

  “No! Stop!” Wild wiggling. “Not that! Oh God, I know what you’re going to do! I’m begging you!”

  “Shut up!” Serge socked him in the jaw, then lowered his voice. “Can you let a man concentrate while he’s working?”

  Serge continued his task until he was finished with a series of intricate knots. He’d pushed the driver’s seat all the way back and left Wolfgang sitting cross-legged on the floorboards, hands bound and neck tied securely to the bottom of the steering wheel. Wolfgang’s nose pressed hard against the blue-and-white BMW emblem in the center of the wheel.

  Serge made another supply run and wedged a pair of bricks under the brake pedal. “Ain’t no way those are coming loose. Stay there—I’ll be right back.”

  Serge retrieved a cooler from the Gran Torino and set it beside the Beemer. Then he ran into the woods. Wolfgang heard a scraping sound and tried to turn his head to see. Serge dragged another barricade scraping across the street and around to the open driver’s door.

  “We’re almost ready.” Serge patted the top of the barricade with a flashing amber light. “This is the last detail and then it’s all up to our contestant. I promised I’d give you the chance to decide your fate.”

  “We’re almost ready to do what?” asked Wolfgang.

  “Stage a car accident.” Serge spread his arms. “I’m sure your new investor told you all about it, so the odds are in your favor, right?” He opened the cooler and held an ice block in his captive’s face. “Got three more of these. I’m going to place them in front of the front tires and behind the rear t
ires.” He ran around the car and came back.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “The air bag is going to break his neck.”

  “That’s what he was thinking during all that screaming a few minutes ago.”

  “Reminds me of what Jim Davenport did to that carjacker.”

  “That was different.” Serge reached inside the car and threw the gearshift in neutral. “But it was the kernel of this concept.” He faced Wolfgang again and rubbed his palms together impishly. “Ready to play?”

  The answer was uncontrolled sobbing.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Serge. “It’s hot as hell out tonight, so that ice is going to melt pretty fast on this pavement. And when it does, since the car’s in neutral, this baby will begin rolling either forward or backward. So you just tell me which way you think it will go, and I’ll set the barricade up on the other end of the car. If you’re right, the BMW will harmlessly roll to a stop. If you’re wrong, you hit the barricade, and the air bag goes off, and yuck . . . you can figure it out.”

  Wolfgang just stared sideways with his nose mashed into leather.

  “Which is it going to be?” asked Serge.

  “Is this a trick question?” asked Wolfgang.

  “I don’t know. Is it?”

  Wolfgang twisted his head slightly. “Obviously that way.”

  “Which way?”

  “Backward,” said Wolfgang. “Downhill.”

  “Excellent!” Serge dragged the barricade and set it up an appropriate distance in front of the car. He returned—“Let the games begin!”—and slammed the driver’s door.

  They retreated to the opposite side of the road as Coleman raised the camcorder and filmed little rivers of water trickling from under the tires. “That ice is melting fast like you said. It’s almost gone . . . But I don’t get it. You usually never give assholes such an easy chance to get away.”

  “Look again.”

  “At what?”

  “The ice water.”

  “Hey, it’s trickling the wrong way.” His head swung toward Serge. “But how is that possible?”

  “This hill is what’s known as a gravity hill, also known as a magnetic hill . . .”

  “The ice is gone,” said Coleman. “The car is starting to roll . . . uphill?”

  “Actually an optical illusion of the landscape, because the human mind prioritizes visual cues over internal equilibrium.” The coupe continued picking up speed. “Early settlers first discovered it when they noticed horses increasing their labor when they were supposed to be going downhill.”

  Hysterical screaming from the luxury sedan as it crossed the final distance and crashed into the barricade.

  Bang.

  The pair winced and puckered their butts.

  Coleman turned off the camera. “Spook Hill sure is spooky.”

  Serge slapped him on the back. “I love keeping legends alive.”

  MEANWHILE . . .

  Two A.M.

  Pat woke up. He looked at the digital alarm clock as the number flipped over. 2:01. Then he looked the other way. Bar’s eyes were open, staring back at him.

  “How long have you been awake?” asked Pat.

  “I just woke up.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Did something wake us?” Bar sat up in bed. “Maybe a sound in our sleep?”

  “What was that loud noise just now?”

  “Sounded like a firecracker,” said Bar. “I’ve been hearing them ever since we checked in . . . What are you doing?”

  Pat was out of bed. “Turning on the TV to block the noise so we can sleep.”

  They closed their eyes again.

  They opened them. Bar was staring again. “Did you put on a police show?”

  “No, those are real sirens.”

  They both threw off the blankets and ran to the window.

  Across the street, a patrol car jumped the curb and screeched to a stop, high beams blazing on the door of room 113 at the Oasis Inn.

  “Well, what do you know,” said Pat. “They’re finally responding to our call.”

  “It’s about time.”

  The officer drew his weapon and took up a defensive position in the parking lot, shielded by the open door of his car. More cruisers converged from both directions on U.S. 1 until six units were angled in the parking lot, all headlights on the room. More officers behind doors with large guns.

  Bar looked back at her husband. “I thought you said this credit-card thing wasn’t a priority.”

  “Looks like they changed their minds.”

  One officer made a series of silent signals, and the K-9 unit led the charge. They kicked in the door and poured through.

  Pat tore open another granola bar. “This is almost worth getting our credit card stolen.”

  Bar looked at him.

  Back out the window: The K-9 unit emerged and gave the remaining troops the all clear. Then typical aftermath. Ambulances arrived. A supervisor’s unmarked car. The TV trucks. One officer began unrolling yellow crime-scene tape.

  The locals slowly began creeping forward to form the required sidewalk gallery of onlookers.

  Pat slipped into his pants.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Going outside to see what’s happening.”

  “Wait for me . . .”

  The police took statements and drank coffee. Onlookers swapped gossip, gestured in every direction and floated various theories involving drugs, sex slaves, black helicopters and another face-eating zombie.

  Paramedics appeared in the doorway, wheeling out a stretcher.

  Bar nudged her husband. “Looks like they had a fight. One of them’s hurt.”

  Small wheels wobbled as the paramedics pushed the stretcher toward the back of an ambulance.

  “I think he’s more than hurt,” said Pat. “The sheet’s covering the entire body.”

  “He’s dead?” said Bar.

  “From what I’ve seen on TV shows.”

  More paramedics came out. Another stretcher.

  “They’re both dead?” said Bar.

  “And I just talked to them a few hours ago,” added Pat.

  “You’re saying that like you knew them.”

  “Ooooo, there’s a lot of blood on that sheet. It’s near the head.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  One of the ranking officers called a small meeting on the opposite curb. “Get those shell casings to forensics, dump the motel’s phone for all calls incoming and outgoing, and”—he made a twirling gesture in the air with his finger—“canvass five blocks. Make sure to check all the Dumpsters and storm drains.”

  The officers respectfully nodded and dispersed. Eventually, so did the onlookers. A few at first, until the McDougalls felt slightly conspicuous.

  “Let’s get back inside,” said Pat. “We don’t want to be the only ones out here.”

  A last officer: “ . . . And check that pay phone at the corner.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  THE NEXT MORNING

  Rush-hour traffic stacked up on I-95 near the Pompano exit.

  Rubberneckers.

  But no wreck. Just another roadside altercation, where a couple of motorists screamed in each other’s face on the highway shoulder that sloped into the palmettos and a ranch fence. A more common sight in South Florida than a flat tire.

  Vehicles slowed even more as the entertainment increased. It had come to blows. Rabbit punches and roundhouse haymakers. Someone got thrown over the hood. The other had sand and gravel thrown in his face. They tangled up good, rolling on the ground, pulling hair. The taller one finally broke free and ran back to his car.

  A gun came out.

  That made half the other drivers duck and speed away. The other half stopped completely.
/>   The unarmed combatant was back on his feet, holding out his arms, begging and pleading as the gunman approached.

  Before the witnesses could digest what they were seeing, two large-caliber shots rang out. But unlike the movies, when a victim’s body jerks as slugs strike, the unfortunate person simply slumped straight down to the ground like an electric toy being unplugged.

  There was an immediate string of rear-enders. Then more crashes as the crazed assailant swept his gun at their cars—“What are you looking at, motherfuckers?” The gunman finally tucked the pistol in his waistband, grabbed his victim under the armpits and dragged him back to his car, where he pushed the body into the backseat and took off for the exit.

  Halfway down the ramp, Coleman sat up in the backseat of the ’76 Gran Torino and looked out the rear window. “Those people are really acting jumpy. They’re all standing outside their cars on cell phones . . . I guess those blanks in your gun sounded pretty real.”

  “America loves fake disputes!” said Serge, reloading in his lap with live bullets. “This is going to be the best reality show ever!”

  “Where to now?”

  “The beach,” said Serge. “At some point, our show has to capture a real crime in progress or we face criticism from CNN’s Showbiz Tonight. Hand me the camcorder so I can change the tape.”

  Coleman turned around and reached behind the backseat, toward the middle of the carpeted ledge under the rear window, where the video camera was duct-taped in place and aimed out the rear of the muscle car to film the previous action. “What kind of crime? . . .”

  U.S. 1

  Nine A.M.

  Patrick McDougall’s eyes fluttered open in room 17 of the Casablanca Inn.

  Bar opened hers, too.

  “Some noise again?” asked Pat.

  “I don’t know. I was asleep.”

  A sharp knock on the door.

  “Don’t answer it,” said Bar. “Probably that woman.”

  Another hard knock. “Police. Is anyone in there?”

  Pat jumped out of bed. “I better answer it.”