by Tim Dorsey
Then it was time to be moseying along. He entered the woods again, shaking the tambourine along the way, until he emerged in another clearing.
Serge and Matt were sitting outside their own tent when a jingling sound came toward them from the tree line.
“Where’d you get the tambourine?”
“It came with the beer.” Coleman lit a joint under the stars. “This place rules! There are people all through the woods getting righteously fucked up. You never know what excellence you’re going to stumble across!”
“It’s one of the best.” Serge stared toward the largest fire of all, glowing through distant trees. “An annual event that’s Florida’s biggest haven for preserving the essence of the individual.”
Coleman exhaled toward the sky. “The flute dude said we’re all connected.”
Matt leaned over a notebook. “You were explaining before Coleman came back? . . .”
“It’s DeLand’s Burning Man music festival, held way, way out in the countryside at a secret location each year that’s only revealed word of mouth.”
Coleman blazed a fatty. “Because they want to make sure everyone’s cool!”
“Word of mouth?” Matt looked around. “And still all these people came?”
“Like I said, Burning Man is special. Or rather that’s what it used to be named. Now it’s called ‘the event formerly known as Burning Man.’ ”
“How did it start?”
“They got the idea from the original Burning Man out in Nevada’s Black Rock Desert, which was created to reject the plastic greed of the material world’s war machine and embody the hippie idealism of free communal love, higher conscience and ultimate harmony.”
“Why did DeLand change the name of its event?” asked Matt.
“They received a threatening legal letter over infringement.”
Coleman pointed at a luminous blue beam sweeping through the woods. “I want to check out the stage shows.”
Serge stood up. “Let’s rock.”
The forest was bathed in a surreal soup of smoke and strange light. Serge, Coleman and Matt wandered through shadows and lasers. Swirling rhythmic sounds moved in and out of the space all around them. They passed a row of bongo players who played feverishly for a few moments, then stopped and were answered faintly by other far-away bongos. The woods opened into another modest clearing. Along the edge were small makeshift platforms for musicians. In the middle, beach blankets and lawn chairs. More colored lights spun over a band performing a techno-synthesized version of Santana’s “Soul Sacrifice.”
“This whole scene is giving me an eerie feeling,” said Matt. “Like a kind of preternatural vibe that something really big is about to happen.”
“Something big is about to happen.” Serge led them to the largest clearing of all, brightly lit by flames lapping high into the night. Hundreds of people several rows deep surrounded the giant moon crater of a fire pit, rubbing their arms to stay warm in the uncommonly chilly night. Over their heads, long poles suspended a gigantic X-shaped human form that had been lashed together from straw and sticks. It was raised over the pit and quickly engulfed in a spectacular display that seemed dislodged from some ancient Mayan ritual.
The crowd: “Oooooooooo.” “Ahhhhhhhhhh.”
Serge turned around. “Matt, what do you think?”
“That creepy feeling I had is just getting stronger.” The student held cold hands toward the fire. “And I’m not the superstitious type. It just seems like this is some final quiet evening before all chaos breaks loose.”
“Nonsense,” said Serge. “It’s simply your brain’s unfamiliar reaction to all the unusual sensory bombardment.”
“I don’t know,” said Matt, taking a step back. “I’ve never felt this way before. I’m getting kind of scared.”
“Matt, you’re an educated person,” said Serge. “You know how stupid that sounds?”
“I don’t care if I do sound stupid—”
Coleman shook a jingling round piece of wood over his head. “Hey guys! I never knew I could play the tambourine! And I never even took a lesson!”
Serge looked back at the student. “You were saying?”
“Forget everything I just mentioned.” He began walking. “So where are we heading tomorrow?”
“Thought I’d let you pick,” said Serge. “To compensate for all the time you were stuck in the motel room.”
“Hey, I know what would be a hoot,” said Matt. “How about that wacky small town that’s been in the news lately? I think it’s nearby. Wobbly.”
“Then Wobbly it is.”
Chapter THIRTY-THREE
WOBBLY
A man peeked out the second-floor window of a red-brick building. The old Railroad Hotel was built in 1922 when people still came to Florida by rail. Then they didn’t. The hotel sat boarded up for fifty years until the tourists and antique hunters discovered the town. So it was restored, including the elevator where you had to pull the accordion door shut. The front desk still had the original wooden mail slots and brass room keys. They bought a new chandelier that looked old.
The upstairs view from room 201 began with Shorty’s Garage down below, then Lead Belly’s and the rest of Main Street, fluttering with hopeful Founders’ Day banners. A pair of eyes moved over the unhurried routine of a small town. Longtime residents emerged from the barbershop and pharmacy with crew cuts and ointment. On the sidewalk, small children played jacks and paddleball and hopscotch, except they played them on smartphones. Peter Pugliese pulled the curtains tight and took a seat on one of the beds.
“I don’t understand why I can’t go shopping,” said Mary. “We’re supposed to just stay in the room?”
“It’s only temporary.”
“What was wrong with that nice bed-and-breakfast in DeLand where we were at?” asked his wife. “And what’s all this new drama about keeping out of sight?”
“It’s nothing,” said Peter. “I don’t want to worry you.”
“Well, you are. So I want to know everything.”
“Remember that body they found under our house?” asked Peter.
“You don’t forget something like that,” said Mary. “And then they arrested you!”
“I already explained,” said Peter. “It was a turf war with the sheriff, and they were protecting me from being used as a pawn. The case was immediately dismissed.”
“They have a strange way of doing business around here. And you still haven’t told me why we’re prisoners in this room.”
“We’re not prisoners,” said Peter. “The mayor and the others are just taking extra precautions. Some of the dead guy’s relatives came to town and were upset about the charges being dropped.”
“Didn’t they explain that you’re innocent?”
“Over and over,” said Peter. “Vernon told me the family seems harmless, but to be on the safe side we need to let them cool down. They’re still in the stages of grief. Frankly, I think the mayor’s overreacting.”
“How are we supposed to eat?”
A knock at the door.
Peter sprang off the bed and froze. Then he crept forward and checked the peephole. He opened up.
“Here’s your barbecue.”
“Thanks, Otis.”
Peter returned with a pair of hot sacks. “Mayor said he’d take care of the meals.”
“You’re a little on the jumpy side,” said Mary.
“From hunger.” He unwrapped corn bread and set out the plastic utensils.
Mary got up and went to the window herself.
“Don’t open the curtains that wide!”
She turned and stared at Peter. “Okay, first your startled reaction to the knock at the door, and now this. What aren’t you telling me? I want to know right now!”
“It�
�s just a rumor, but there’s a farfetched story floating around—I think it’s just because they’re from Miami—that the dead guy and his cousin might sort of be, like, in the . . . drug business.” He quickly took a bite of ribs.
“Drugs!” yelled his wife. “We need to go to the police!”
“The mayor and his buddies are the police,” said Peter.
“Not this Barney Fife crap. The real police. In a city.”
“And what will they do?” said Peter. “The thing about small towns is they’re all-powerful. They don’t mind cutting corners when it comes to fending off outsiders to protect locals. I think we’re much safer here.”
“I don’t.”
DELAND
A late-morning fog began to lift from the forest floor as campers stirred in their tents. Someone scrambled eggs over a propane burner. Others rolled up sleeping bags.
Serge finished lashing all his gear to the chopper. “That was one heck of a night.”
Coleman crawled out of the bushes with pine needles and sap in his hair. He stood and smacked a tambourine. “Burning Man rules!”
“Off to Wobbly! . . .”
Serge had the perfect sound track for the rolling hills leading south into Calusa County. Joplin, Steppenwolf, the Byrds.
“ . . . Eight miles high . . .”
“Radio check,” said Coleman. “Love bugs keep getting in my mouth.”
“You know how to fix that?”
“Not really.”
“Wait a second,” said Serge. “What’s that noise?”
The siren grew louder. Serge turned around and saw the flashing blue light. “Shit!”
“It’s a speed trap,” said Matt. “Like they reported in the papers.”
“I know.” Serge angled the motorcycle onto the shoulder. “That’s why I was deliberately going under the limit . . . Let me do the talking.”
Serge removed his helmet as a man in jeans and mirror sunglasses walked up. “Good morning, Officer. I’m sure I wasn’t going that fast. I was watching the gauge very carefully because I’m committed to your mission.”
“License and registration.”
“Can’t help you there,” said Serge.
“No license? Other ID?”
Serge shook his head. “I hid my wallet too good last night with the reminder note inside.”
“What about your friend?”
Serge glanced at Coleman in the sidecar. “That’s an even longer shot. Since I wasn’t speeding, are we done now?”
The auxiliary officer retreated a step and placed a hand on his hip holster. “Don’t move.” Then he waved ahead at another squad car. The signal for assistance.
Moments later, Serge heard handcuffs snap behind his back. “This isn’t good.”
Then Coleman got the bracelets. “What’s your plan?”
“Don’t have one.”
They twisted Matt’s arms. “I have ID if that helps.” Snap.
“Which pocket?”
Matt craned his neck. “Right side.”
The first officer pulled out the billfold and removed a New Jersey license. He showed it to the other cop, who walked ahead and leaned in the passenger side of his patrol car.
“What’s going on?” whispered Coleman.
Serge shrugged.
Up at the squad car, a whiskered man in overalls stuck his head out the passenger window and looked back at the chopper . . .
The officer soon returned and called to his colleague. “Uncuff ’em.”
Matt rubbed his wrists.
“Here’s your license, Mr. Pugliese. We’re very sorry for the misunderstanding. We didn’t know who you were.”
The officers left.
Serge and Coleman glanced at each other, then slowly turned toward the college student. “What happened?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
They rode on.
“Turn up here,” said Matt.
“You know this place?” asked Serge.
“Never been.”
The chopper cruised deep into the countryside.
Matt tapped Serge’s shoulder. “Pull over.”
All three got off the bike and stared.
“Man, it looks like a bomb hit the place,” said Coleman.
“More like a sinkhole,” said Serge. “Matt, why’d you bring us here?”
“That’s my parents’ house.”
“Your parents?”
“It’s the whole reason I suggested we visit Wobbly,” said Matt. “But I wanted it to be a surprise, both for you guys and my folks. Except I didn’t realize there was this much damage. I thought they were still living here while repairs were going on.”
“Do your parents know you’re in town?”
“Not yet.”
“Then I think you ought to call them.”
Matt nodded and walked over to the other side of the road.
“What a trip.” Coleman puffed a one-hitter. “That traffic stop and now this.”
“Why do I get the feeling that the surprises have just begun?”
Matt came back and stuck the phone in his pocket.
“Did you find out where your parents are?”
A glance at the ground. “Yeah.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge. “You look concerned about something.”
“Not sure.” Matt furrowed his brow. “My dad didn’t sound right. Matter of fact he sounded terrible, almost as if he was . . . afraid.”
“Have any idea what it could be?” asked Serge. “Anything unusual happen lately?”
“Nothing, except he got arrested.”
“For what?”
“He told me it was just for show. Part of a local feud between the mayor and the sheriff.” Matt pointed across the field. “Right after they found the body under the house—”
“Whoa! Stop, back up, slow down,” said Serge. “We’ve just entered a surprise theme park. Take your time and start at the beginning and tell me everything.”
“Okay, my dad’s a geologist and he moved down here because of all the new work . . .”
Chapter THIRTY-FOUR
DOWNTOWN
A bell dinged in the restaurant’s kitchen window. A rack of ribs was up. A waitress carried a tray of sweetened iced tea. Children with crayons colored paper place mats. A stegosaurus.
The front door of Lead Belly’s flew open. Steve marched straight for the table in back. “You were out at Peter’s house twice the other night! Someone saw you go back again after the sheriff left! I want my money!”
“Will you keep it down?” snapped Vernon. “And pull up a chair. We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Please, there are families,” said Jabow. “Have a seat and hear us out. We need to work on this together.”
“Things have gotten out of hand,” said Vernon.
“Gee, you think?” said Steve.
“We did go back out to the house the night of the blue moon,” said Jabow. “We couldn’t do anything the first time with the sheriff there.”
Vernon leaned over potato salad. “Peter’s got the money.”
Steve reclined and folded his arms. “I don’t believe you.”
“We went down the hole under the house and there was a big cavity where someone had been digging. We found a few loose bills. Only a few loose bills.” Vernon reached in his pocket and handed them across the table. “These look familiar? . . . Otis saw Peter’s car out at the place earlier in the evening. He took the money. Why else would he disappear?”
“He’s gone?”
“Vanished,” said Vernon. “You do the math: He’s got a company job, regular hours and movements, a wife, then poof! Nowhere to be found.”
Steve
glared.
“Still need convincing?” said Jabow. “Here’s a photo of his burned-out car that we found this morning in a ravine behind the Clancy farm. Probably already has new ID and everything.”
“That son of a bitch!” Steve started getting up.
“Sit back down,” said Vernon. “And here’s where we need to keep our voices really low. Where’s the best place to hide when everyone thinks you’re a thousand miles away?”
Steve began to smile. “He vanished . . . but you found him? He’s still in town?”
“We each have our own roles to play,” said Vernon. “This falls into your area of expertise. We can’t get involved in what we’re guessing you’ll have to do, but we won’t interfere, either.”
“Where is he?”
Vernon tilted his head up the street. “Room 201.” He pushed a brass key across the table.
Steve grabbed it and left without further words.
Everyone around the table watched silently until the restaurant’s front door closed behind him.
“Think it’ll work?” asked Otis.
“We’ll use the sheriff so there’s no tracing it back to us,” said Jabow. “They’ll pick him up tonight after the deed is done.”
THE RAILROAD HOTEL
Knock, knock, knock.
“Barbecue . . .”
No answer.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Anyone in there? . . . I got your food.”
Still nothing.
A brass key quietly slipped into a knob that was turned with excruciating slowness. Steve stuck his head inside. All clear. And luggage still in the room. Perfect. Then he saw the bathroom door closed and heard the sound of a shower running.
Plan A was to jump Peter if he answered the door. Steve enjoyed the theatrics of Plan B better. He would take a seat and wait with a gun for him to return. He’d done it before. The look on the faces was priceless.
And the room was perfectly configured. There was a short, narrow hall next to the bathroom door, which created a blind spot in the bedroom for him to sit concealed in the corner for maximum shock value when the person walked farther into the room.
Steve walked farther into the room.
He stopped. The seat in the corner was already taken. A man in a tropical shirt pointed a gun.
