by Tim Dorsey
“What do we do?”
Serge cranked the outboard engine with abandon and roared out of the park.
“There’s another manatee,” Coleman shouted above the noise.
“Manatees! Shit!” Serge cut the engine. “You’re never supposed to go above wake speed around them. I almost did something immoral.”
“Don’t look now, but a golf cart is coming down the bank behind us.”
“There’s cover of darkness under those trees up ahead,” said Serge. “If we can just get around this bend.”
“He’s shining a flashlight in the water,” said Coleman. “I think he knows we’re out here. The beam is coming this way.”
Serge grabbed Coleman’s shoulders. “Get down!” The guard’s searchlight swept through Spanish moss where Coleman’s head had just been. The pontoon boat silently drifted out of sight.
The electric motor started, and the craft trolled to the nearest clearing on shore. Serge hopped out.
“Where are you going?”
“Just follow me.”
They only had to jog a hundred yards before coming across the chopper that Serge had hidden in brush on the side of an empty street. He pulled a small box from his backpack and tossed it deeper into the bushes, then climbed on the bike. “What are you waiting for?”
Coleman stood in surprise. “What a coincidence our bike was here.”
“Just get in the sidecar.”
Matt was peeking out the window of the budget motel when the chopper pulled up.
The door flew open. “Where have you guys been?”
“Just some housekeeping.” Serge pulled a canvas bag off one of the handlebars. “You like carrots?”
“What?”
“It’s late,” said Serge. “Let’s all get inside and go to sleep.”
“You’re not telling me something,” said Matt.
“What? Me?” said Serge.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” said Coleman.
Matt eyed them warily as they turned down the covers.
“Since you’re the guest,” said Serge, “I’m going to make the supreme sacrifice and sleep with Coleman so you can have the other bed.”
Matt stood by a nightstand. “Your arm. Is that blood?”
“Good night.” Serge turned off the lamp.
Matt slipped under the sheets. “Is something going on I should know about?”
“Coleman!” yelled Serge. “Did you fart?”
“Me?”
“That’s it,” said Serge. “It’s the Dutch oven for you!”
“No! Not the Dutch oven!”
Serge pulled the covers over Coleman’s head.
“Let me out!” Coleman thrashed underneath. “It’s like the gas chamber!”
Matt shook his head and rolled over on the mattress to face the other way.
Time passed.
Serge stood over Matt. He waved a hand in front of the young man’s face. No response. He returned to the other bed and shook a shoulder. “Coleman, wake up.”
“What?”
“We have to get going.”
“Where?”
“Just don’t make any noise.”
The pair crept out of the room and mounted the chopper again . . .
. . . Ten minutes later, the motorcycle returned to the motel parking lot. The engine was off as it coasted the last fifty yards to their room.
“Remember not to wake Matt,” Serge whispered.
Coleman climbed out of the sidecar with a small cardboard box they had just retrieved from the brush next to the state park. “What’s in here anyway?”
“Remember the thing I attached to the top of the fence post just before we split on the pontoon boat?”
“I don’t know what that was, either.”
“A mini video transmitter powered by a nine-volt battery,” said Serge. “They’re all over the Internet for ninety-nine dollars. We couldn’t stick around for obvious reasons, but there was no way I was going to miss the season finale.”
“So we’ll get to watch it after all?”
“As many times as you want.” Serge took the package from Coleman. “The transmitter’s great but has a limited broadcast strength. This box contains the accompanying portable receiver and digital recorder. I had to stash it within signal range. Now all we have to do is plug it into my laptop and watch our new nature documentary.”
“Remember Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom from the sixties?” asked Coleman. “How did their cameras always seem to be at the right place when shit went down?”
“It was uncanny,” said Serge. “One minute into every show, you’d hear Marlin Perkins’s solemnly reassuring voice: We have been on our quest for days, but the jungles of Madagascar have withheld their secrets . . . Then, just off camera: Okay, boys, release the rhinoceros with the trained chimp riding on its back smoking a cigar.”
“Nature’s cool!”
Serge swiped his magnetic room key. “Be as quiet as possible.”
They slunk inside and Serge configured the electronics to his computer. “Here we go . . .”
A finger pressed play.
A grainy picture in amber light.
Coleman touched the screen. “There’s our guy lying on his back in the dirt, held in place with tent stakes.”
“Move your hand.” Serge swatted it. “I want to see Betsy make her entrance.”
“There she is.” Coleman’s face glowed from the screen. “And she’s eating your carrots. How’d you know?”
“Just a hunch, but they like almost anything.”
“Now the dude’s head is twisting every which way like he’s super scared.” Coleman leaned closer. “Uh-oh, I think he just crapped himself.” Giggling.
“It’s funny that he’s defecating?”
“No, Betsy,” said Coleman. “The guy’s terrified for his life, and Betsy’s wearing that funny straw hat the farmer put on her, with little holes cut out for the ears to poke through.”
“Normally I’m against the anthropomorphic dressing of animals because house cats don’t dig Brazilian beach thongs, but in this case it adds a detail that the reporters will be helpless to resist.”
“How’d you get the whole idea to begin with?”
“I was looking for something like Betsy anyway, regardless of whether I had a student to instruct.” He placed a hand over his chest. “When I heard that Lu had lost his soul mate, Susie, it broke my heart. I said to myself, ‘Whatever else I do before leaving town, I’m buying a donkey.’ ”
“She’s eating more carrots.”
“It’s official now: love at first sight,” said Serge. “Lu the hippopotamus is following her everywhere.”
“That guy on the ground seems worried.”
“Why? They’re not bothering him, and the park rangers are sure to discover his plight in a few hours,” said Serge. “This is probably the easiest bonus round any contestant has ever played.”
Coleman bent even closer. “Did you deliberately place all the carrots in a circle around that dude?”
“Me?”
“Betsy is stepping over him to get to her next snack . . . and here comes Lu . . .” Coleman covered his face with a hand, peeking through fingers. “I can’t watch . . . Ouch!”
“That was just an arm,” said Serge. “He’s got another. Imagine if that was his chest.”
“I don’t have to,” said Coleman.
“Ooo.” Serge winced. “That tickled.”
“Humans are a lot like tomatoes,” said Coleman.
“Looks like Betsy missed a carrot on the other side,” said Serge. “She’s coming back.”
“So is Lu,” said Coleman. “Make that ketchup.”
“Damn.” Serge tapped on the keyboard. “Thought it would last
a little longer.”
“What are you doing now?”
“My latest task in social engineering for a brighter tomorrow,” said Serge.
“Which is?”
“A sentimental touch. I’m posting this on the Internet.” Keys tapped. “The best part is that Lu rediscovered true romance . . .”
Footsteps and a yawn. “Can I see what you guys are watching?”
Serge slammed the laptop closed. “Criminy sakes! Matt, don’t sneak up on us like that!”
“Sorry.” He sat down on the edge of a bed with mussed hair, smacking his lips and tongue with cotton mouth. “So what was that on the screen anyway? Looked like someone in serious trouble.”
Serge turned the laptop over and studied its underside. “There’s something wrong with the power supply. It does that at the worst times.”
Chapter TWENTY-FIVE
THE NEXT DAY
Late-morning traffic whizzed by on U.S. Highway 19. Out-of-state tourists in SUVs and rental cars slowed as they approached the parking-lot entrance, then continued on when they saw the barricades and police officers waving orange batons.
The roadside attraction didn’t have any visitors this day, but its lot was still full. Police and other emergency vehicles. Detectives, state officials, satellite trucks.
A TV reporter stood on the side of the road in front of the crime tape.
“This is Jessica Meredith reporting live from Homosassa Springs state park, the site of an overnight tragedy reminiscent of the killer-whale death at Sea World. Police are releasing few details, but apparently an intruder cut through a fence under cover of night and found his way into the pen of the locally beloved celebrity hippo named Lu, where he was inadvertently stomped to death. Those close to the case describe a macabre scene too gruesome for words, as well as the presence of a mystery donkey seen in this photo wearing the cutest little hat . . .”
Medics wheeled a zippered body bag to the coroner’s van.
“ . . . Unnamed sources have identified the victim as Rudolph Blix, the operator of a controversial sex website that has been assailed by animal-rights activists such as those who can be seen here to my left . . .”
A row of roadside people cheered and waved signs at traffic:
HONK IF YOU LOVE LU!
“ . . . In a final twist to the already bizarre chain of events, someone anonymously posted an Internet video supposedly showing the actual moment of death, and those knowledgeable in the field say it has become an instant viral favorite among the crushing-fetish community . . .”
A high-handlebar motorcycle honked as it sped past the sign wavers.
ACROSS THE STATE
Another packed lunchtime crowd in Lead Belly’s.
Baby backs, pulled pork, slaw. Three tables formed a long one. Everyone pushed empty plates forward. “Let’s get started.”
“Court is in session,” said Jabow. “The Honorable Judge Vernon presiding.”
He used a saltshaker as a gavel. “Bail is set at a hundred dollars.”
“I don’t have that on me,” said Peter.
“What you got?”
He looked in his wallet. “Seventeen.”
Saltshaker banged. “Bail reduced to seventeen dollars. Defendant is free to go.”
“I am?”
“No, Jabow’s taking you to a safe place until all this blows over.”
“But—”
“Kid, you’re not from around here,” said Vern. “When things get ugly, it’s butt-ugly.”
Jabow looked up at a wall clock advertising defunct root beer. “We better get going before you-know-who shows up.”
“Take the rear door,” said Vernon. “Car’s waiting.”
“Do you have to put a coat over my head?” asked Peter.
“Yes.”
They disappeared out the back, and Steve came in the front.
Vernon stood and waved with a smile. “Come on over!”
Steve walked purposefully with an air of deliberate action. Most who had seen it before didn’t see it, or anything else, again. He stopped at the edge of the table. “Maybe I need glasses, but there doesn’t seem to be any money or my cousin.”
Otis pulled out a chair. “Please have a seat.”
Steve just glared. So did his goons, who were much closer to the table this time, no longer caring if other customers noticed they were packing.
“First,” said Vernon. “I’m sorry we had words yesterday. But it caught us totally off guard because we had absolutely nothing to do with any of this.”
Steve’s stone face said he wasn’t buying.
“It deeply concerned us,” the mayor continued. “So we got right on the case. I put all my officers on it. From what we’ve learned, it was totally understandable how you reacted.”
Otis nodded. “We all would have done the same.”
Steve’s head turned slowly from one face to another. “You have something to tell me, or are we just getting old here?”
Vernon slapped the empty wooden chair. “You really need to have a seat. Then we’ll give you every last detail.”
As they say, the silence was deafening. Nobody spoke in the high-stakes staring contest. Vernon thinking: This could go either way.
Finally, Steve looked over his shoulder with a brief tilt of his head, and the goons fell back to flanking positions on each side of the front door. He sat down. “Speak.”
“This is kind of hard to say, so I’ll just say it: Your cousin’s dead.”
If Steve’s eyes were lasers, everyone at the table would have burst into flames. “What happened?”
“We haven’t pinpointed the exact cause yet, but it was definitely murder. And definitely connected to your missing money,” said Vernon. “I was horrified to think such a thing could happen in our lovely town—and to a relative of one of our finest citizens, I might add. So like I mentioned before, we threw every resource we had at this, and you’ll be happy to know we’ve already made an arrest.”
Another glare.
“Maybe ‘happy’ isn’t the best word.”
A single measured syllable: “Who?”
“Peter Pugliese. You’ve seen him in here, mid-forties, office type.”
Steve inhaled hard through flared nostrils. “My patience has left the building. You just made the wrong enemy.”
“What? Why?” Vernon held out innocent hands. “We gave your concerns our total attention and got immediate results.”
“You think I’m so stupid I can’t see through your bullshit?” said Steve. “Scapegoating some cubicle gnome?”
“He actually works in the field,” said Vernon. “With a real hard hat.”
“He’s a dork who wouldn’t last five minutes in Miami.” Steve shook his head. “It was all of you. I know it as sure as I breathe. Martin uncovered what you were doing with the money, and you took him out before he could say anything.”
“But it was Peter—”
“Then how do you explain the text Martin sent me? ‘They’re crawling under a house with the money’?”
“That puzzled us, too,” said Vernon. “But if you notice, it doesn’t specifically say who ‘they’ are. We have reason to believe Peter buried your money under his house.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s where he also buried your cousin’s body.”
Steve swallowed hard at the news. “Where’s his body now?”
“Still under the house.”
Another stare from Steve, but this time from his brain locking up. “This is the craziest fucking town.”
“I know it’s complicated, so just hear me out,” said Vernon. “Turns out Peter was into all kinds of deep shit that we never imagined. Remember you said he was a dork, but consider this: People would have thoug
ht the same thing about you, sitting in here in that dry-cleaned shirt eating ribs with a knife and fork. Because that was the false image you were creating. So was Peter . . .”
Steve’s expression said: You just bought yourself another minute.
“ . . . I don’t want to go into specific details here for obvious reasons, but we also had some money of our own that needed a little rinse cycle. Somehow Peter got wind and approached us. Said it was one of his specialties, so we gave him a shot.”
“Then he just buried the money?”
“Apparently that was just a waypoint before he could get the funds offshore,” said Vernon. “But he really came through. We’ve actually seen our accounts in the Caymans and Panama. So when you needed the same service, we told you we could handle it through our bank but instead gave the money to Peter and split the commission.”
“So you lied to me?”
“Steve, we didn’t lie. We just didn’t tell you about Peter—just like you wouldn’t want us giving your name to him,” said Vern. “We were insulating you. I’m sure that’s how you’d want us to handle business.”
That part did make sense, but: “I’m still not convinced.”
“I wouldn’t be, either,” said Vernon, reaching into his pocket and unfolding paper. “Check these out.”
Steve scanned the pages. “What am I looking at?”
“Peter heard we had an issue with an insurance underwriter pulling out of our subdivision project,” said Vernon. “So he came to us again and said he could fix our problem, but it would cost much more than his usual testing fee. Those are his geology reports.”
Steve held the pages side by side. “Why two reports? And why are they completely different?”
“He filed the false one with the underwriters,” said the mayor. “To give the project the go-ahead.”
“What about the other report?”
“He just gave it to us,” said Vernon. “We asked him about it, and all he said was that it was his insurance. But the insinuation was clear: If we ever double-crossed him, he’d claim it was the real report and we had switched them. Got to admit that’s pretty sharp. We’re also looking at some irregularities at the water plant due to another report he provided without us even asking.”
