by Tim Dorsey
“You never liked these towels.”
Serge closed the door. “What?”
“I knew it.”
Serge gritted his teeth. “The towels are fine. I may eventually grow to hate them at this rate. But right now they’re still okay by me…. Can I leave now?”
“Go ahead. Go off with your friends.”
“It’s a trick. That means stay.”
“I want to make a nice home for us.”
“And I’m all for that.” He looked at his watch and emitted a high-pitched whine of anxiety. “I understand completely. I promise I won’t use the towels.”
“No, just the guest towels.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You don’t use them.”
Honk.
“I really gotta go.”
Molly’s silence said not to.
“Okay, you win!” Serge dropped into a chair. “Let’s talk about it. Are there any other movie props around here that I can’t touch or I’ll get a ration of shit?”
Molly ran crying into the bedroom and slammed the door.
“What did I say?”
Monday evening: six-thirty. Sheriff’s substation, Cudjoe Key
“I HATE THE night shift,” said Walter. He dumped an old pot of coffee in the sink.
Gus highlighted a textbook with a yellow marker. “It’s always slow on Monday.”
Walter went through mail at his desk while new coffee trickled. Gus swivelled his chair and taped another fax to the wall.
Walter came over with his coffee mug. He had an envelope in the other hand. “I got a piece of your mail by mistake.” He handed it to Gus. “It’s from Internal Affairs.”
“How do you know?”
“I opened it.”
“Thanks.”
“Someone filed a complaint about you having marijuana evidence that was supposed to be destroyed.”
Gus tossed the letter aside and resumed reading. Walter took a sip and stared at the wall. “New bulletin?”
“They connected another possible murder to the Duster.” Gus made a yellow line in his book. “And the missing woman’s green Trans Am was spotted in Marathon.”
“Looks like trouble.”
“I know,” said Gus. “They’re probably both headed our way.”
“No, I mean you’re not supposed to tape stuff to the walls. Department rule.”
Gus looked up dubiously at his partner, then back to his textbook.
“I’m just trying to help,” said Walter. “You’re already under investigation. Is it true you were even showing drugs to kids?”
“Walter, you were there. It was a class.”
“I’ll say whatever you want me to. We’re partners. You just tell me what the line is, and that’s how I’ll testify.”
“Testify?”
Walter pointed back at his own desk. “Got a letter myself from Internal. They want me to turn on you. They can stick their rules. This is about loyalty.”
“Let me see that letter.”
“I’m not allowed to show you.”
Gus returned to his book.
Walter took a sip of coffee. “What are you reading?”
“Psychological profiles,” said Gus. “I’m getting a strong feeling that something big is about to happen around here.”
“Looks boring.”
“Actually, it’s quite amazing.” Gus tapped a page. “Check this out. They’ve developed a written test that’s ninety-nine percent accurate in determining whether someone’s a potential serial killer.”
“Baloney,” said Walter. “If it’s a written test, they’ll just lie. People are going to answer the way they think you want them to.”
“That’s the fascinating part,” said Gus. “There are a bunch of obvious questions on the test where people will answer like they think they’re supposed to: ‘If you could get away with it, would you shoot someone who slept with your wife? Stole ten thousand dollars? Got you fired?’ But those are the null questions. Scattered in between are a handful of innocuous ones a person would never suspect—those are the real questions. Any answer would appear benign. But they’ve empirically prescreened the test, administering it to hundreds of murderers in prison, as well as people of unimpeachable character, boiling down the questions until they arrived at a short list with a ninety-nine percent mutual exclusion rate between the two groups.”
“Like?”
“Like this one. A woman is at her mother’s funeral and she meets this hunk of a guy. It’s love at first sight. The next week the woman murders her sister. What was her motive?”
“I don’t know,” said Walter. “Her sister made a move on the guy?”
“No.”
“The woman started dating the guy, and her sister told some horrible lie that made him dump her?”
“No.”
“I give up.”
“Here’s the red-flag answer that says you think like a killer: She wanted to meet the guy again at the next funeral.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“That’s why normal people don’t give that answer.”
“It’s a stupid test.”
Gus grabbed the keys to the cruiser. “We need to get going.”
Seven o’clock, plus a few minutes
AN ECLECTIC BLEND of people in “I Follow Nobody” T-shirts milled around the base of the Bogie Channel Bridge, where Serge’s notice on the community center’s bulletin board had told them to assemble for their first field trip. They were joined by several regulars from the pub and some clowns from a local carnival who were buying pot from Coleman.
A ’71 Buick Riviera skidded up, and Serge jumped out. “Welcome to the Night Tour!”
He reached in the backseat for camera equipment. “Truly apologize for being late. Hate it when people do that to me. Unavoidable personal emergency. Okay, I’m actually having marriage problems. But that’s confidential; I can’t reveal any details. Even I don’t know the details. And I definitely don’t want anything getting back to her in such a small town that might make it worse. So all I can tell you is I think my wife is getting her period. Is everyone ready?”
They nodded.
Serge began leading them on foot over the bridge.
“…Observe the stars, their concentration and brightness almost like special effects this far from the light pollution of the cities…. And now we come to the night fishermen. Can’t say enough about the night fishermen! You see them throughout the Keys, every night, all night. How can they spend so much time like this? When do they sleep? What about their jobs?…” The fishermen stared at Serge as he walked by talking loudly. “…Don’t they know how to form relationships? What killed their life ambition? Keep it up, guys!…And now we come to No Name Key, best viewing location for miniature deer, especially at night when it’s cooler and they come out to forage….”
The gang walked two more miles down the straight road across the island. They saw a total of eight deer, including a doe and a fawn that slowly crossed the street ahead of them and climbed into the brush. They came to the end of the road, which used to be the ferry landing before they built the Seven-Mile Bridge. Now it was just ruins with a barricade and reflective warning sign so tourists wouldn’t drive into the water.
“This way.” Serge left the road and started up an unofficial footpath that led from the north side of the pavement. The gang followed. After a few hundred yards, dense trees gave way to a moonlit clearing bordered by mangroves on the bay side. Water from a rising tide splashed through a maze of exposed roots that ensnared trash. Swim trunks, fishing line, rusty beer cans, two shoes tied together, mildewed pup tent and a Clorox bottle.
Somebody else already occupied Serge’s clearing. Teenagers in trench coats and stud collars and black makeup. They tended a waning campfire. A small pelt lay on the ground, blood and entrails. One of them held a stick over the fire, roasting an animal heart.
“Who the heck are you?” asked Serge.
&nbs
p; The teen with the stick took a bite off the end. “Vampires.”
Another teen with spiked palm mitts relieved himself in the bushes. “Devil worshipers.”
“Which is it?” asked Serge.
“Both,” said the one by the fire.
“I see,” said Serge. “Overachievers.”
The one at the fire stood up. He was the leader because his mother let him borrow the station wagon. “What are you doing here?”
“Holding a meeting,” said Serge. “We reserved this clearing. It’s been on the board at the community hall all week. I know we’re a little late, but we still have the rest of the hour.”
“You have intruded on the sacred sacrificial circle,” intoned the leader. “And now you must die….”
One of the people susceptible to joining cults raised his hand. “Is it hard to become a vampire?”
“…We call on you, most high Satan, to strike down the unbelievers…” The leader continued incantations as he walked around the group, drawing on the ground with a long stick. “…I am now drawing the death pentagram, condemning your souls to the eternal bowels of hell…. Pardon me….”
“Oh, sorry.” One of the clowns stepped out of the way so the teen could continue his line.
“…Your mortal remains will be torn asunder, consumed by the seven-headed beast, your intestines devoured….”
Coleman tapped Serge’s shoulder. “He’s making me hungry.”
“Me, too. Night Tours require munchies.” Serge borrowed a cell phone and punched in a number. “Hello? No Name? Eight large pepperoni supremes. Make it an even ten….”
“…Oblivion awaits. I unleash the curse of the black tabernacle….
“No, that’ll be delivery,” said Serge. “You know the clearing off the north side near the ferry landing? That’s right, the devil-worship place. Thanks.”
The teen began saying The Lord’s Prayer backward. “…Evil from us deliver and temptation into not us lead. Trespass against forgive… Wait, that’s not it. The ‘trespasses’ always mess me up….”
“Hey, Vlad the Imp,” said Serge. “Until oblivion gets here, we’ll just start our meeting over there if that’s all right.”
They gathered round Serge’s feet at the edge of the clearing. He began his trademark pacing.
“The Keys are an enchanted land removed from the continent, evolving independently like the Galapagos, a necklace of lush little neighborhoods across the Overseas Highway where the bad parts of town have boats up on blocks. Churches, dogcatchers, school buses, oncoming bikers low-fiving on drawbridges, art-guild galleries specializing in watercolors and handbags made from coconuts, streets like Cutthroat Lane and Mad Bob Road, a fire chief actually named Bum Farto, a mayor arrested for shaking down jet-ski rentals, tourists eating mangoes out of motel swimming pools, wild roosters, feral cats, Duval merchants charging credit cards of Dutch visitors five hundred dollars for a T-shirt, federal roadblocks sparking the Conch Republic revolution. ‘Remember the Aloe!’ Then, greed. Unaffordable resorts crowding out the funk that brought ’em here in the first place. A bearded, turtle-necked Papa Hemingway reduced to a logo for Sloppy Joe’s franchises like some kind of literary Chef Boyardee. The real Key West vanishing, moving toward a convergence point with the Key West pavilion at Sea World: tourists forsaking the genuine article to stumble through piped-in Jamaican music, plastic trees and misting wands, thinking they’re part of the wild Key West lifestyle. ‘Y’all better stand back. I’m pretty crazy. Who knows what I’ll do next? Guess I’ll buy me another Creamsicle.’ I tried to warn them. ‘Run!’ I yelled. ‘Run before they strap the rat cage on your face!’ But nobody wanted to talk to me except security….”
The audience heard a rustling in the brush. Serge stopped his speech. The head teen arose by the campfire. “Almighty Lucifer has heeded our unworthy calls….”
The rustling grew louder. Something large approached through the mangroves.
“The sword is raised! Beg for the mercy you won’t receive!…”
Everyone tensed and huddled together, eyes shifting nervously. The sound came closer and closer until it was right at the edge of the clearing. Whatever it was would emerge any second.
“Bow your heads for sweet death! Behold! It is Satan!…”
A deliveryman in a paper cap popped into the clearing. “Ten supremes?”
Serge waved. “Over here, Satan.”
The gang began chowing.
“Is that pizza?” asked one of the vampires.
“Yeah,” said Serge, holding up a slice. “Want some?”
“Sure!”
“Approach not the unbelievers!” yelled the leader.
“But it’s pizza.”
The two groups merged, stomachs filled, then digestion. Everyone gathered quietly around Serge by the campfire. His face glowing red as he poked embers with a stick. A number of attentive squirrels, owls and deer arrived and listened along the edge of the woods.
“…The Keys are like Florida squared, but not for long. It’s a creeping rot, inoperable gangrene moving up a limb, starting at Mile Zero and crawling east along U.S. One. Key West was the final haven of the true individual, a subtropical Greenwich Village. But it got too popular. In came shortsighted developers, cutting off their own air supply, raising prices so high that service employees can’t afford to live there any longer….”
A vampire raised his hand. “Is this a concurrency flaw in the growth-management plan or simply a multi-dwelling density issue?”
“It’s both, but it’s more. Who’s heard of Donald Greely?”
Some hands went up. “Isn’t he supposed to move down here?” asked a teen.
“Just did,” said Serge. “But here’s the worst part. He’s planning a major development. Not supposed to, under the deal with the bankruptcy court. So he’s fronting for some cats. It’s along the protected southern shore of Key West.”
“But if it’s protected…”
“Bribes,” said Serge. “Bribes and secrecy. That’s the part I hate the most. I’m not a hard case. Developers have to make a living, too. Just do it in the open. But, no, it’s all cigar smoke and brown envelopes slipped inside coat pockets. Secrecy, secrecy, secrecy!…”
“Then how did you find out about the development?”
“Can’t tell you. It’s a secret.”
“What can we do about it?” said one of the clowns.
“Glad you asked. Greely’s laying a preemptive foundation of local goodwill by giving to all these charities. The climax is this new community appreciation festival he’s sponsoring Saturday. Big shindig, free food, music, blahblah-blah—you know, the kind of event they advertise with vinyl banners over the road. The newspaper even published a schedule of all these celebrity appearances he’s going to make—limbo, parasail, get on stage to sing with one of the bands—trying to prove he’s a regular guy.”
“But Serge, what’s that got to do with us?”
The air cooled. A previously unseen cloud slipped across the moon. Serge rubbed his palms together. “I have a plan. Here’s what we’re all going to do….”
There was an ominous rustling again out in the dark brush. Serge stopped talking. People looked in the direction of the sound. Goose bumps.
The rustling grew louder. Then a final snapping of branches before a large form appeared at the edge of the woods.
“The Skunk Ape!”
“Hi, Serge.”
“Hi, Roger.”
“I smelled pizza.”
“A few slices left. Have at it.”
“Thanks.”
Serge crouched by the fire again. “Okay, here’s the plan.” He laid it out in detail. A role for everyone. Compartmentalized. Tight synchronization. He was just about finished when there was another rustling from the woods.
“What now!”
A naked woman popped into the clearing.
Bud Naranja jumped back in alarm. “That’s her! That’s the woman who kidnapped me!”
>
“Hi, Serge,” said the woman. “Been a long time.”
“I’m married now.”
“Damn.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I smelled pizza.”
“Roger’s got the last box.”
“Cool.”
Serge pulled a large envelope from his shirt, removing a stack of papers that he began handing out. “Here are your plans for our tactical operation at the Greely festival. Each is different depending on your mission…. And one for you and you, and one for you…Accompanying the plans is a separate homework assignment. It’s a scavenger list. Right after this meeting I want you all to go on your own Night Tour and find as many items as you can before dawn. Then we’ll meet at the address at the bottom for breakfast—if you make it! And one for you, and one for you…Each item must be touched for it to be considered an official find. Do not remove artifacts. Photos or tracing permitted…. And one for you, and one for you…Coleman, one of the vampires didn’t get one.”
“I see him.”
Serge held up the empty envelope. “Everyone got theirs?…Good. Gather round.” Serge put out his right arm, palm down. Everyone made a tight circle, placing their hands on top of Serge’s, like a college football team before a big game. “Bow your heads,” said Serge. “Almighty Father, please stop making jerks. Amen…Break!”
36
A GREEN-AND-WHITE sheriff’s cruiser flew east on U.S. 1. Walter had the microphone in his hand. “Ten-four, we’re rolling.” Gus hit the lights and siren.
A NAKED WOMAN walked down a dirt road on Sugarloaf Key. She was reading a piece of paper.
The woman approached the bat tower and placed her palm against the side. She grabbed a pen from over her ear and crossed it off the sheet. She wandered off into the darkness reading the paper.
A sheriff’s cruiser rolled slowly down a dirt road on Sugarloaf Key. Gus scanned with the search beam. They reached the end of the road, their spotlight sweeping across the base of the bat tower. Walter was on the radio. “…Nope, no sign of her.”
SERGE AND COLEMAN walked down another footpath from the clearing until they reached an opening on the water. Small waves lapped the shore. Coleman was carrying his flexible cooler. “I love Night Tours.”
