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.
“Two buffoons walk into a forest ....”
Not only wasn’t I in the mood for tromping through the woods—I wasn’t dressed for it, either. The thorny palmettos clawed snags in my sweater, and the boggy mud collected on the bottoms of my new, white tennis shoes, weighing them down like Frankenstein clodhoppers.
When Rexel pointed out we could access Lester Jenkins’ cabin at the end of the lane, Grayson had put our plans to interview Officer Jimmy Wells on the backburner. We’d left Rexel’s house and driven directly to the stub-end of the unfinished road where the trailhead started.
As we tromped down the switchback path leading to Jenkins’ cabin, the postmortem pictures of Jenkins flashed in my mind anew.
I shuddered.
This trail is a maze designed by a madman. A dead madman! I hope there’s not any more out here ....
My cellphone chirped, startling the crap out of me. I made a mental note to change my ringtone from the theme of Psycho and pulled my phone from my pocket.
It was a text from Beth-Ann. You OK?
I smiled. She was on speaking terms with me again. I texted back. Yes. With Grayson. Can’t talk now.
She texted, Hope UR not alone in woods w/him. Ha Ha.
I swallowed a knot that cropped up in my throat. Don’t be silly. Call U later.
I shoved the phone back in my pocket. Beth-Ann had ripped me a new one for taking off with a man I barely knew and whom she’d never met. Her concern had been well meaning, but I couldn’t take on her fears, too. I already had enough of my own. I crossed my fingers and hoped her dire prediction that I’d be found murdered by Monday didn’t pan out. I’d just begun to feel I could trust the man in the black fedora. Maybe I shouldn’t ....
“Grayson.” I tugged on the backpack strapped to his back. “I don’t get it. Why all these random switchbacks in the trail? Wouldn’t it have been easier to make a straight path between the pines?”
Grayson turned to face me. “Either Jenkins was trying to disguise the trail, or he had the worst sense of direction of all time.”
“Or he was crazy.”
Grayson nodded. “A third, viable option.”
I chewed my lip. “I think Jenkins was trying to hide the trail. But why? And Garth with his prison compound guarded by a hound from hell. Who exactly are these guys worried is going to get them?”
Grayson’s eyebrows lifted. “Who, or what? That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn’t it?”
My nose crinkled. “For that kind of money, I’d like to take a stab at an answer.”
Grayson’s shoulders broadened. “Fine. But first, you have to name the game.”
“Game? What are you talking about?” Murder me by Monday?
“You know. The game. The universal mind is playing with us again. I can feel it. Didn’t you hear it laughing at us?”
“That was a woodpecker.”
“And who put it there?”
I scowled. Grayson had an infuriating way of being right and wrong at the same time.
He smiled deviously. “We’re following the clues for the next game.”
Right. And the challenge for this round is, which one of us is the bigger lunatic?
I shot him a hard stare. “You really think so?”
Grayson nodded. “Absolutely. Now that the game is afoot, what’s your next move, cadet?”
Flop-sweat broke out on my forehead. I’d never been any good at being put on the spot. “I ... I have no idea, Grayson. I wouldn’t know where to begin.”
Grayson’s face grew somber. “Sure you do. You already figured out the biggest clue.”
“What?”
“I see it on your face. Fear.” He locked eyes with me. “Never forget that. The game is always about fear. Identify your fears, and you have a chance of conquering them.”
“Thanks, Yoda.” My confidence might’ve fled like a bad blind date, but I couldn’t shake my sarcastic wit to save my soul.
The woodpecker’s shrill laugh sounded again.
“That must be Obi-Wan,” I quipped. “I’ve been told he’s our only hope.”
Grayson squelched a grin, then turned and continued down the narrow trail. I sighed and followed suit.
A few switchbacks later, his backpack caught on a palmetto frond. As it came free, the frond flew back like a slingshot, jettisoning a passenger—a cockroach the size of a mouse.
It spread its wings and flew right at my face.
“Aaargh!” I screamed.
Grayson whirled around, eyes wide. He saw me swatting wildly at my insectoid nemesis and laughed.
“Scared of a little bug, are we? Yet another irrational fear you need to tackle, Drex.”
“What do you mean, another?” I stopped waving my arms. “For your information, palmetto bugs aren’t little, Grayson. They’re disgusting. And they carry diseases! So it’s not irrational to be afraid of them.”
Grayson’s lips twitched with amusement. “Right. And here I thought you were a true-blue country gal. So tell me, what’s a roach ever done to you?”
“I grew up in the South, Grayson. Not in a dump. Roaches are filthy!”
Grayson’s right eyebrow shot up. “Really? Then why do roaches clean themselves after coming in contact with humans?”
I scowled. “You just made that up.”
Grayson smirked. “Did I?”
A lizard scurried across the trail. It took a flying leap onto a twig and grabbed the roach in its mouth. I grimaced.
Grayson snorted. “Come on, Princess Leia. Let’s go before Jabba the Lizard gets you.”
Chapter Eight
AFTER ANOTHER TEN MINUTES or so of dodging insects and insults, Grayson and I came upon a clearing at the end of the zig-zagging trail through the pines and palmettos.
We came face-to-face with the dark, ominous husk of a falling-down log cabin. The shattered front window had been crudely sealed with cardboard and duct tape. A tattered, camouflage-patterned tarp sagged over its broken roof.
“Oh, look. The honeymoon suite,” Grayson said.
“Yeah. In Apocalypse Now.”
A torn strip of yellow crime-scene tape waved lazily at us from a post on the front porch. Grayson rubbed his chin. “I guess we’re not the first to arrive.”
My upper lip hooked skyward. “You’re not thinking of actually going in, are you?”
Grayson shrugged. “The scene’s already been compromised, so we can’t do too much more damage.” He swung the backpack from his back and unzipped a pocket. “Here. Put these on.”
I stared at the surgical booties in his hand. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. Over your shoes. We don’t need to add our biology to whatever’s already in evidence.”
I slipped the booties over my muddy tennis shoes. Grayson donned gloves and picked the lock on the dilapidated cabin door. It took him mere seconds. The man had skills, I’d give him that. Where he’d gotten them, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Grayson slipped his lock-picking tool back into his pocket and turned to me. “Here we go, cadet. Our first official crime scene investigation together.” He held up his cellphone. “Want a picture for your scrapbook?”
“I’ll pass.”
“Your loss.” He slipped the phone back into his pocket and motioned for me to step inside. “Come on, then. Ladies first.”
I grimaced. “I think this is a case of ladies not going first.”
“Have it your way. But keep close.”
“The place is the size of an outhouse. Do I have any choice?”
Grayson disappeared into the cabin. I made a few reluctant steps, then gave up and followed him inside.
The stale air in the log cabin smelled vaguely of fish.
And turpentine.
And putrefying
flesh.
Yuck.
“What’s that?” I pointed toward a corner heaped with electronics.
“Jenkins’ ham radio equipment.”
“No. Above it.”
I raised my finger up, toward a clothesline strung high along the back wall. Draped over the line hung ragged, reddish-brown slabs of what appeared to be drying flesh.
My heart began to thump so loudly I was sure Grayson could hear it echoing off the log walls. But I was wrong. He hadn’t noticed.
“Huh,” he said, and walked over to the hunks of flesh hanging from the clothesline like Dahmer’s dirty laundry. “Not your typical cafeteria mystery meat,” he said as he took a piece of flesh from the cord.
He sniffed it. Then—against every normal, human instinct I knew—he opened his mouth to take a nibble.
“Stop!” I screeched.
He looked up, giving me time to run over and slap the meat out of his hand.
“What?” Grayson said. “It’s not human.”
“Ugh!” I hissed. “It’s deer meat, Grayson. Venison.”
“Huh,” he said, studying the meat in his hand. “How do you know that?”
“My cousin Earl hunts deer, remember? And if it were human flesh, I doubt the cops would’ve left it hanging here.”
Grayson nodded, apparently approving of my reasoning. “So, you think Jenkins was making deer jerky in here?”
“Yeah.” I nodded toward the crude kitchen in the corner. “And from the looks of that meat grinder clamped to the table over there, deer hamburgers and meatballs as well.”
Grayson looked impressed. “So that’s what that thing is. I thought it was a giant pencil sharpener.”
“Kind of looks like one. But it’s a vintage LF&C hand-crank meat grinder. The pioneering homemaker’s friend. My Grandma Selma had one. They’re made out of galvanized steel. Practically indestructible.”
Grayson’s lip twisted to the left. “I don’t get it. Why would anyone want to grind their own meat? I’m pretty sure we passed at least one Wendy’s and two McDonald’s on our way to Rexel’s.”
I snorted. “You really are a city boy, aren’t you? Well, Mr. Fancy Pants, outlasting the apocalypse with store-bought goods doesn’t come cheap.”
Grayson shot me a wide-eyed stare. “Who said anything about the apocalypse?”
I picked up a wrapper from the floor. “I think this guy Jenkins was a prepper.”
“A prepper?”
“Yeah. A survivalist. He was ‘prepping’ for the imminent breakdown of society as we know it.”
Grayson scratched his chin. “I thought that already happened. You know, when they made Sharknado II.”
I smirked and walked over to a plastic container the size of a breadbox. It was lying on its side near a corner of the cabin. The lid was off, and the container was covered in small, dirty handprints.
“See these wrappers strewn all over the floor? This container had a good month’s worth of food in it ... before the raccoons got to it.”
Grayson’s eyebrow ticked up. “A month’s worth of food in that small cooler?”
“It’s not a cooler. It’s what preppers call a portable food storage kit. This thing was packed with freeze-dried meals.”
I handed Grayson a shredded foil pouch.
His nose crinkled. “Freeze-dried tuna fish. Yum.” He let the wrapper fall back to the ground and picked up a small, gray tin marked ThermaFuel. “Well, look at that. Who knew doomsday survival included fondue?”
I snorted. “That’s diethylene glycol. Kind of like Sterno on steroids. But it’s for heating, not cooking. A small can like that could warm up this place for the better part of a day.”
“What about this?” Grayson held up a lumpy object roughly the size and shape of a small loaf of bread. It was ashy white. “Let me guess. Fire log? Wait. Petrified fruitcake?”
I shook my head. “I dunno. I’ve never seen one of those. But if it’s fruitcake, that would explain why the raccoons haven’t touch it.”
Grayson grinned. “Only a true sadist would include fruitcake in somebody’s survival gear. Could you imagine if this thing was your last meal on Earth?”
Grayson dropped the misshapen brick onto the floor. It landed with a thud that rattled loose a few shards from the broken window.
I smirked. “Thick as a brick. Just like the ones my Aunt Lucy used to make. We used ’em for doorstops. They’re not pretty. But you’ve got to admit, that thing would certainly last you a while.”
Grayson stared at the ashy clump on the floor. “True. I think our family re-gifted the same fruitcake for over twenty years. But ours never turned white.”
I shrugged. “Maybe it’s mold. Or some kind of protective coating. Anyway, it’s gotta be survival rations.”
Grayson crinkled his nose. “If that’s surviving, count me out.”
I laughed. “Coming from the man who got hungry staring at Jenkins’ man-pudding photos, that’s rich.” I looked over at a stack of empty Dr Pepper cans. “Meat and sodas. How long can someone survive on that?”
Grayson held up a magazine. “As they say, man cannot live by bread alone. I suppose that’s why Jenkins also hoarded these lovely issues of Paranormal Underground.”
I lifted Lucky Red and scratched my scalp. “So he was a UFO freak after all.”
Grayson set the magazine down and turned back toward the radio equipment. “Hey. At least he was aiming for the stars.”
I was about to groan at Grayson’s lousy joke when something erased the notion from my mind.
It was the unmistakable sound of a gun’s trigger-hammer locking into place behind me.
I started to turn around, but something poked me hard in the spine.
A strange voice spat out words usually reserved for old Clint Eastwood movies.
“You two. Put your hands where I can see ’em. Now!”
Chapter Nine
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING in here?” the man behind me demanded.
He poked the hard, pointy thing against my spine again. I had a feeling it wasn’t a churro. I stared ahead at Grayson, afraid to look back for fear it might compel the man to blast a bullet through my guts.
“We’re private investigators,” Grayson said. He shot me a quick glance he must’ve meant to be reassuring.
It wasn’t.
Not even close.
Grayson reached slowly for his jacket pocket. “Here. Let me show you my credentials.”
“Don’t even think about it,” the man barked. “P.I. or not, you’re disturbing a crime scene.”
Grayson displayed his open palms. “True. But the crime scene tape was already broken when we got here. And, technically, you’re disturbing it, too.”
“I’m a police officer.”
Grayson eyed him skeptically, making me think the man holding the gun didn’t fit the part.
“Where’s your uniform?” Grayson asked.
“I’m on plain-clothes patrol.”
“Oh.” Grayson’s face relaxed a notch. “Well, in that case, nice to meet you, Officer.” Grayson extended his hand.
The man behind didn’t reach for it. Instead, he jabbed his gun in my back again and said, “Show me some I.D.”
As Grayson reached inside his jacket, I slowly turned my head and caught my first sideways glimpse of the man holding us at gunpoint.
He was white. Short haircut. Surprisingly young—maybe mid-twenties—and dressed in camouflage hunting fatigues. He could’ve been a military hero or the Unabomber.
I shot the man a weak smile. “We’re working for Chief Warren Engles.”
The young man eyed me sourly. “Yeah, well ain’t that special. Shut it, ma’am. And assume the position.”
The position? What am I supposed to do? Bend over and squeal like a pig?
“What do you mean?” I squeaked.
“Put your hands behind your back.” He glanced at Grayson’s I.D. “You, too, mister. I’m cuffing you both. Put your tin badge away
. You can explain what you’re doing here to my captain back at the station.”
The man’s gun stopped poking my back. A trickle of relief washed over the dread standing on my throat, making it hard to breathe. As ice-cold cuffs slid around my wrists, my old sidekick, cynicism, wasn’t about to miss this golden opportunity.
Well, I guess I can mark “get arrested” off my bucket list.
A touch of hysteria made me giggle at the utter absurdity of the situation—a bad habit I just couldn’t’ seem to break.
“You think this is funny?” the man with the cuffs spat at me. “We’ll see who gets the last laugh here.” He slapped a second pair of cuffs on Grayson and shoved him toward the cabin door. “All right. Let’s go. And no funny business.”
Grayson shot the man an incredulous look. “Funny business? Officer, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
GRAYSON AND I STAGGERED, single file, ahead of the man claiming to be an out-of-uniform cop. He’d refused to show us any identification, and we weren’t in a position to argue. Cuffed like fugitives, we formed a strange, stumbling, six-legged centipede as we zigged and zagged through the narrow, maze-like trail carved in the palmettoes.
About midway along the path, Grayson called out from in front of me. “Officer, couldn’t we solve this whole situation with the help of my old friend, Ben Franklin?”
“Ben Franklin?” I asked. “What about Warren Engles?”
“Wait a minute,” the man said. “You trying to bribe me, mister?”
Grayson coughed. “Uh. Not as far as you know.”
“That’s it!” the young man yelled angrily. “Hold it right there!”
Grayson and I froze in our tracks.
“Turn around,” he demanded. “Slowly.”
I shot Grayson a dirty look. Had his big mouth just cost us our lives? What if this guy was no cop? What if he was the one who’d killed Jenkins in the first place? I had to get us out of this mess!
I winced and turned my pleading eyes to the young man with the gun. “Sir, we’re sorry.” I studied his face for signs of mercy, then a niggling thought wormed its way into my brain.
I’ve seen this guy before.
Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3 Page 27
