My eyes had just completed their orbit in my sockets when we reached the RV. Stanley came trotting up, holding his duffle bag.
“You got the files?” I asked.
“Yeah, man. But I think the tooth fairy is getting suspicious.”
“Tooth fairy?” Grayson asked, looking intrigued.
“The guy who checks the dentures at night,” I said.
Earl laughed. “Woo, boy, I love me some spy talk! Can I have a secret code name, too?”
“Sure,” I said. “Ignoramus.”
I looked up at Stanley from my wheelchair. “You in? We could really use whatever insider info you might have about Banner Hill and the guys who’ve gone missing.”
Stanley winced and bit his lip. “Uh ... geez.”
“Please,” I said, touching his arm. “We may be the only hope these guys have.”
Stanley’s board-straight posture went limp. “Okay. But can you drop me off at home afterward?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. Now, let’s load up.”
“Where are we going?” Stanley asked.
I glanced around and noticed everyone was staring at me with expectant looks on their faces.
Crap. Am I really in charge now? What have I done?
“Uh ....” My gut gurgled. “We need protein. You know, to fuel our brains. Those donuts didn’t cut it. I say we hold a strategy meeting at Topless Tacos. Everybody in?”
“Yeah, sure,” Stanley said. “I could eat.”
“Tacos sound good,” Earl said. “What time do they open?”
“Eleven,” Grayson said.
I glanced at my cellphone. It was 9:38. “Oh. Well, if you drive slow, Grayson, we should get there just as they open.”
Grayson snorted. “If I drive that slow, we’ll be pulled over for causing a public hazard.”
“Uh, looks like we got a problem, Houston,” Earl said.
“Ugh! What now, Earl?” I grumbled.
He nodded toward the back of the RV. “Looks like somebody done stole the back tire, Mr. G.”
Our eyes shifted to the gaping dark hole under the chassis where the back left tire used to be.
“Great,” I said. “What do we do now?”
Earl grinned. “Not to worry. Sit tight. I got us a plan.”
BEFORE I COULD OBJECT, Earl had disappeared, off on a self-described “secret mission” to obtain a new tire for Grayson’s RV.
Knowing Earl’s penchant for both auto mechanics and James Bond films, I gave him about a fifty-fifty chance he’d return alive.
Meanwhile, Grayson, Stanley and I sat around on a bench outside Banner Hill, looking like time travelers who’d arrived thirty years too early to our retirement party.
“I don’t understand it,” I said to Stanley. “Why has nobody reported any of these vets missing?”
“They have been reported missing,” Stanley said.
“To who?”
“To Ms. Gable. From what I hear, she’s got Officer Holbrook investigating.”
“That cop we saw at Topless Tacos?” Grayson asked.
Stanley nodded and fiddled with the end of one of his dreadlocks. “Yeah.”
“What do you know about Rocko?” I asked.
Stanley’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“The tattooed man who drives that Bertie and the BERPS van. He’s the one who dropped Melvin off here yesterday afternoon.”
“Oh. That guy.” Stanley shrugged. “Nothing, really. He just started turning up this week to take people to that revival thing.”
“Doesn’t anybody monitor their comings and goings?” I asked.
Stanley shrugged. “Hey, if it’s church related, it kind of gets the green light around here. No questions asked.”
Grayson shot me an I told you so look. I pursed my lips.
“The tattooed guy’s name is Rocko,” I said to Stanley. “It seems awfully suspicious that he began showing up the same time the vets started going missing, isn’t it?”
Stanley opened his mouth to answer. The roar of a loud muffler appeared to come out. It pierced the sleepy, mid-morning slumber surrounding Banner Hill, and was quickly followed by the blast of a horn tooting out the musical notes to the first line of Dixie.
I suddenly wished I was in the land of anywhere but here.
“Who’s that?” Stanley asked.
“Earl,” I said. “That’s his truck, Bessie.”
Earl parked the massive, black monster truck on the street in front of Grayson’s RV. Comparing them side by side, the two vehicles were almost the same size. However, Bessie came equipped with a 540-horsepower Hemi engine and tractor tires taller than me. With enough rope tied to its trailer hitch, that truck could yank the teeth out of King Kong.
Earl hoped out of the cab and waved to us. Then he bounced a new tire out of Bessie’s tail gate and disappeared with it on the other side of the RV.
“Okay, start from the beginning,” I said to Stanley. “When did the vets first go missing?”
Stanley glanced around, then lowered his voice. “First I heard of it was Wednesday morning, four days ago. That’s when Larry Meeks disappeared from room 2G. But whatever happened to him went down on Tuesday night.”
“Why do you say that?” Grayson asked.
“Wednesday morning, his bed was made up.”
“So?”
“Larry never made up his bed. Said it hurt his arthritis.”
“So, you’re saying he never slept in his bed Tuesday night?”
Stanley nodded. “Which was weird, because the day before, I couldn’t get him out of it. Said he was too tired to get up.”
“I remember that from his file notes,” I said. “You recommended a blood analysis. The results showed he had mild anemia.”
“That’s right.”
“What about Harry Donovan?” Grayson asked.
“Pretty much the same routine. Harry ate dinner Wednesday night, and was still up when denture check rolled around.”
Grayson cocked his head. “What’s up with this whole tooth patrol thing, anyway?”
Stanley shrugged. “Draper insists on it. Anyway, Harry disappeared the next morning.”
“Was his bed still made up?” I asked.
“No. I tucked Harry in that night myself. The guy was white as his sheets.”
“And Charlie?” I asked.
Stanley stared at his hands. “Pretty much the same thing. Ate dinner Thursday evening, then disappeared overnight.”
I glanced down at the files Stanley had pulled from his duffle bag. “These new guys, Tom Hallen and Joe Plank. Were they at dinner last night?”
“Sure. Nobody misses potpie night.”
My gut gurgled involuntarily. I set my purse on the bench and scrounged around for a Tootsie Pop. Grayson took the opportunity and grabbed the files from my lap.
“These new guys. Did they have bloodwork done in the days preceding their disappearance?” he asked as he flipped through their records.
“Not that I know of,” Stanley said.
I plucked the sucker from my mouth. “Wait, I just realized something.”
“It’s about time,” Grayson said. “Tootsie Pops are a mental crutch, Drex.”
I shot him some side eye. “No. These men. They’re all DNRs.”
“Democrats, Not Republicans?” Earl asked, wandering up.
“No!” I frowned. “They’re all on their last legs, and they know it. They’ve all signed DNR forms—as in Do Not Resuscitate.”
Chapter Forty-Four
WITH ALL FOUR OF US crammed into Bessie’s front cab, we looked like hillbillies heading to a Sunday hootenanny. Stuck between Earl and Grayson, there was no escape.
“This is kind a like The Expendables,” Earl said, shifting the monster truck into third, making me duck right to avoid his giant elbow.
Why do I always have to sit by the gear box?
“What are you talking about?” I asked, bracing my foot against the floorboard in case more evasive man
euvering was required.
“That movie,” Earl said. “Them vet fellers that went missing. Maybe they knew they was probably gonna die.”
Grayson took his nose out of the file he was reading. “Well, given that the youngest one of the bunch is seventy-two, that’s pretty much a given.”
Earl shook his head. “That ain’t what I mean.”
“What, then?” I asked.
“These fellers what disappeared from Banner Hill. What if they believed they was on a secret mission—one they wasn’t likely to come back from?”
Like when you went out to get a tire for the RV?
“Hold on a second,” Grayson said. “You may be onto something.” He shuffled through the files. “Tom and Joe were in Vietnam at the same time. From 1960-62. So were Larry, Harry and Charlie.”
I shot Grayson a look. He tapped a finger to his temple. “Eidetic memory, remember?”
My brow furrowed. “Is it possible they were all members of the same troop, fighting the Viet Kong together?”
“It’s possible,” Grayson said. “Now they could be banding together to fight a new enemy.”
“King Kong?” Earl asked.
I elbowed him in the ribs. “What if they all have that Peoria thing, Grayson?”
Grayson’s left eyebrow disappeared under his fedora. “Peoria?”
“You know. That blood disease. What did you call it?”
“Porphyria.” He glanced at the files. “There was no mention of it in their paperwork.”
“What if the enemy they were all fighting was Old Mildred?” Stanley asked. “What if she took them to some other world with her?”
“Hmm,” Grayson said. “An intriguing possibility. There does seem to be some evidentiary commonality, what with the purple light you reported, Stanley. The light also appeared right as Balls was attacked, too.”
Stanley flinched. “Something attacked someone’s balls?”
“I knew it!” Earl said. “It’s the Attack of the Purple Pe—”
I jabbed Earl in the ribs again. “Shut up and drive. We are not going down that road again.”
THE CUTE WAITRESS AT Topless Tacos had already taken our orders. When I find something good, I tend to stick with it, so she already knew mine by heart—Mahi tacos and nacho salad.
While the four of us waited in hungry anticipation around the shiny red table in the corner, we discussed Bertie’s potential as the leader of a new psychic vampire cult hell bent on world domination.
Well, at least it wasn’t boring.
I took a slurp of Dr Pepper and looked up. Through the glass storefront, I saw a white van pull into the lot. As it parked, I was treated to the smiling face of Bertie and his rainbow BERPS.
“Uh-oh. We’ve got company,” I said.
Earl whistled. “Speak of the devil.”
“Not so fast,” Grayson said. “That has yet to be scientifically proven.”
Stanley’s face twisted with worry. “What do we do now?”
Grayson leaned in across the table and whispered, “Improvise.”
We all nodded uncertainly, then turned and stared out the plate glass window. Rocko climbed out of the van, clad in his customary black leather and full-sleeve tattoos. He put on a pair of sunglasses, adjusted his red do-rag, and swaggered across the parking lot up to the front door.
He flung it open and glanced around. The cocky confidence plastered on his face withered into disappointment.
“Where’re all the topless chicks?” he asked, whipping off his sunglasses.
The feminist in me smirked.
“False advertising,” Grayson said.
“Figures.” Rocko’s shoulders slumped. “Hey. I know you. Yesterday. Parking lot. You’re the RVers, right?”
Grayson tipped his fedora. “Nice to see you again, Rocko. Please, join us if you like.”
“Thanks. Let me just make a pit stop at the head, first.”
Rocko ambled out of earshot. I leaned in close to Grayson. “What are you doing, inviting the enemy to the table? How are we going to discuss bringing Bertie down now?”
“Elementary,” Grayson said. “We fight fire with fire.”
“We’re gonna burn the place down?” Earl asked. “Ain’t that illegal?”
“Not arson,” Grayson said. “To slay a psychic vampire requires a psyche approach.”
My nose crinkled. “I don’t get it.”
“Just follow my lead.” Grayson looked around the table at Earl and Stanley. “No mention of Bertie or psychic vampires, got it?”
“Got it,” Earl said, and saluted.
“I didn’t see nothin’, I won’t say nothin’,” Stanley said.
“Shh. Here he comes,” Grayson whispered. He motioned for Rocko to sit beside him.
“Tough day at the office?” Grayson asked the former biker turned van driver.
I suddenly felt a migraine coming on.
“Last day of a revival is always the hardest,” Rocko said. “I could use a beer.”
“Let me buy you one,” Grayson said.
Rocko shook his head. “No. I gave all that up for the BERPS.”
“Me, too,” Stanley said. “Wine is a whole lot less gassy.”
Grayson shot Stanley a quick can it look. “What?” he asked, holding up his hands. “It’s true.”
“So, Rocko,” Grayson said, turning on the charm, “What do you like most about your life on the road with Bertie?”
What is this? An interrogation or a date?
“The opportunity to travel, I guess,” Rocko said. “Meet new people.”
“Nice.” Grayson slapped on a grin. “Sounds like you’re a religious man and a free spirit.”
“Yeah, I guess.” Rocko broke into a smile. “I like to think so.”
“Perhaps you can help us, then,” Grayson said. “My friends and I were just discussing the difference between a religion and a cult.”
Grayson glanced our way. We all smiled and nodded like idiotic bobble-heads.
“Cults are bad,” Rocko said.
“That’s right,” Grayson said. “You know how you can spot the difference?”
Rocko bit his lip. “Uh ... cults serve Kool-Aid?”
“Well, yes,” Grayson conceded. “That, and the fact that cult leaders are bullies. They’re always acting better than everybody else. You know, like they’ve got some special powers nobody else has.”
Rocko nodded. “Uh-huh.”
Grayson scooted his chair closer. “Cults don’t like you to think for yourself, either. If you don’t follow the rules, or if you say something bad about the group, a cult leader will tell you you’re a disbeliever, and that you’re going to burn in hell.”
Rocko’s face reddened. He shifted in his seat. “Really?”
“Absolutely. Cult leaders are slick,” Grayson said. “And they’re total control freaks. You see, they keep members under their thumbs by telling them that all kinds of horrible things might happen if they even think about leaving the cult.”
Rocko chewed his lip. “Bertie’s always telling me I should get my tattoos removed.”
“What?” Grayson gasped. “These beautiful works of art?”
“Is that one supposed to be Woody Woodpecker or Miss Piggy?” Earl asked, nodding at Rocko’s forearm.
Grayson shot my cousin a shut it glare, then turned back to Rocko. “Cult leaders are also cheapskates. The skinflints don’t even want their workers to be able to have a place of their own.”
The veins in Rocko’s temples looked like tree roots. “I been workin’ for Bertie for forty years. All I got to my name is a sleeping bag stowed in the back of the van.”
“That’s not fair,” Grayson said. “Cult leaders also—”
“Wait a minute,” Rocko said. “Are you saying brother Bertie is a cult leader?”
“Me?” Grayson gasped, then shot us a surreptitious wink. “How would I know, brother?” He put a hand on Rocko’s shoulder. “All I’m saying is, that if the shoe
fits, somebody’s likely to get kicked in the ass with it. I just don’t want it to be you.”
Chapter Forty-Five
“WELL, LOOKS LIKE IT’S all over but the cryin’,” Earl said, and nudged me on the elbow. We stared across the table at Rocko. Grayson had reduced him to rubble.
“I gave Bertie the best years of my life,” Rocko sobbed. “And for what?” He grabbed Grayson’s bottle of beer and glugged half of it down.
Grayson wrapped an arm around Rocko’s shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up, brother. We’ve all been there.”
“That’s right,” Earl said. “I used to believe in Bertie, too. I sent him a pile of emails about poor Sally, but he never even bothered to write back.”
“Sally?” Rocko asked, sniffing back a tear.
Earl nodded. “The two-headed turtle I found in Wimbly swamp last year. She’s a red-eared—”
“Amen, brother,” Grayson said loudly. He shifted his eyes to me and nodded once. “What about you?”
I flinched. “Uh ... I found out my father isn’t my father.”
“Amen. Everybody’s got troubles,” Grayson said.
Stanley glanced over at me, his eyes wild with stage fright.
“Brother Stanley?” Grayson prompted.
Stanley licked his lips. “Uh ... I can’t go to Jamaica without somebody sticking a joint in my mouth.”
Grayson nodded. “That happens to everybody, son.”
“Amen, brother,” Rocko said. “Kingstown. Those were the good old days.”
“All right, men. One for all, and all for me. We’ve got work to do.” Grayson straightened his shoulders and puffed out his chest, morphing from mentalist to Army man in half a second flat.
Impressive.
“Five men have gone missing from Banner Hill,” Grayson said as if he were laying out the tactical maneuvers for an impending war. I could almost see the American flag flying behind his head as he spoke.
“These heroic veterans fought on foreign soil so we could be free. Now, it’s up to us to return the favor. We need to find out what happened to them, and set our MIAs free—if they’re still alive. Can I get an amen?”
“Amen!” Earl and Rocko cheered.
Stanley and I glanced at each other, then chimed in lamely. “Amen.”
Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3 Page 58
