by Tim Dorsey
“Widen the search outside the port?”
“No, too much time has passed. He’s gone for now,” said Hector. “We’ll wait until tomorrow and pick up his trail. Start loading the van from the boat.”
One of the men lifted a cooler off the pier. “You yelled something on the marine radio about a satchel?”
Hector braced himself, holding the shotgun’s cold steel barrel sideways against his forehead. He clenched his eyes shut. “I know, I know.” He opened them and raised the twelve-gauge. “I would never have imagined that anyone could be so incompetent as to fuck up my load, lose a death-penalty witness, and my bearer bonds!” He took another bullet snort and raised his barrel.
“You can’t be this stupid!” said Roger. “You can’t shoot cops!”
Blam! Blam! . . .
The officers toppled backward.
“Holy shit,” said one of the crew. “What do we do now?”
“Finish loading the truck.”
Chapter 21
The Present
A vulture circled. A turtle crossed the road. An alligator watched with two eye bumps that looked like knot holes on a log floating down a drainage canal.
Serge grunted with a lug wrench, tightening the final nut on the spare tire that replaced the shot-out one.
“Someone’s pulling over,” said Coleman. “And the tarp is moving.”
Serge looked over into the bed of the pickup truck. Groaning from under the tarp as the hostage beneath it regained consciousness and attempted to stand. Serge whacked the rising spot with the wrench, and the tarp fell flat and quiet. Headlights lit up Serge and Coleman. Another truck parked behind them.
A man in a uniform got out and hitched up his pants like a southern sheriff. His vehicle had a winch and tool compartments. “You fellas need any help?”
“No, Mr. Road Ranger.” Serge leaned casually against the side of the pickup and sipped a thermos. “But thank you for your service. Everyone takes the road ranger for granted, tirelessly driving up and down the highways and byways of America, looking for stranded motorists with families huddled in a ditch, watching steam pour out from under the hood and wondering how they will survive to see another sunrise, as if their plane had gone down in the Himalayas, until suddenly, ‘Hooray! It’s the road ranger! He’s our hero!’ You guys should wear capes and get all the girls. If you have a petition I can sign to that effect, because I remember the day long before road rangers when we all had to depend on each other, and small-town folks actually stopped to help neighbors in distress. Then those days passed and now drivers see broken-down motorists and immediately construct a belief system giving them a free pass not to stop and help: ‘If you hadn’t been lazy, you could have afforded a more dependable vehicle, and you’re probably on welfare or drugs or both, not to mention in this country illegally. In fact now that I think about it, I’m glad you’re broken down. Fuck you people.’” Serge’s hand shot out. “They hit the pedal and zoom! Speeding right on by. But not the road ranger. You guys are policy-neutral. Thank you.”
The man scratched his head.
A groaning from under the tarp.
Serge and Coleman began coughing.
“Are you sure everything’s okay?” asked the ranger. “Did I hear something?”
Serge pointed over the man’s shoulder. “Is that a broken-down car with small children and a pregnant woman in labor?”
The ranger spun around. “Where!”
Serge reached over and conked the tarp with the wrench again. “Sorry, it’s just a tree. My eyes must have been playing tricks in this light.” He knelt next to the truck, pumping a metal handle to lower the tire jack. “That just about does it. We’ll be on our merry way.” A muffled groan. He tossed the jack hard onto the tarp. “Thanks again for all you do! Go get the girls!”
Serge climbed in the pickup, and Coleman got in the Nova. The ranger continued staring in puzzlement as both vehicles drove off into the dark swamp.
Twenty minutes later, two pairs of headlights swung down a previously anonymous dirt road. The pickup stopped at the location of the illegal dumping. Serge got out his flashlight and splashed down into the water again. He inspected the heavy-metal batteries, tossing them one by one onto the side of the road.
Coleman crouched at the edge of the dirt. “Are you going to clean all this up yourself?”
“No.” Serge shined his light on the label of another battery, discarded it and picked up another. “I don’t remotely have the proper disposal resources. I’ll need to call in an anonymous tip and let the authorities handle it.”
“Then what are you doing now?”
“Looking for the appropriate battery.” Another hunk of plastic and metal landed at Coleman’s feet. “My teaching seminar requires scientific precision.”
“You’re going to teach that guy under the tarp a lesson?”
“Whether he chooses to learn is up to him.” The light hit another label.
“What exactly are you looking for?”
Serge plucked more rectangles from the water. “These lithium-ion batteries are both amazing and harrowing. It’s a major advancement that such a small package can power a computer for hours. At the same time, the technology is hell on the environment when it’s run the course. Not to mention that there have been more than forty recalls in the last decade and a half.”
“Why?”
Toss. “They have a nasty habit of exploding. But most people think, ‘Okay, it’s just a little battery in my laptop. Big deal. How bad can an explosion be?’”
“Except it’s serious?”
“Most definitely.” Serge wiped hands on his shirt and pulled out his phone. He tapped buttons as he climbed the bank. “Check out this video. There are dozens of these on the Internet where special laboratories force a battery into a runaway state . . . See how it vented out the side of the computer.”
“Doesn’t look scary to me,” said Coleman. “Only a little smoke.”
“That was just the first cell. Ion batteries usually have between three and twelve. Each cell ignites the next, growing hotter and more violent. When the public heard about the recalls, they imagined a single bang, but it’s a rolling fireworks show, building to a big climax.”
“The second cell just went.” Coleman squinted at the tiny screen. “That one sent fire out the keyboard . . . Wow, the third was like a Roman candle shooting up to the roof of the lab. Except it didn’t look like a regular flame.”
“That’s because it was a shower of incandescent heavy metal burning at more than a thousand degrees.”
“The fourth blew the whole cover off the computer, and there’s fire everywhere . . . Now five. Ka-boom! . . . That rocks! Can you save this so I can watch again later when I’m more stoned?”
Serge jumped back in the water. “Knock yourself out.” His quest continued. Eventually he had an array of batteries lined up on the hood of the pickup.
“What’s special about those?” asked Coleman, still watching the phone screen.
“I need to select the batteries with the most cells.”
“Why?”
Serge grinned big. “Longer life expectancy.”
He went to the trunk of the Chevy and pulled out his own laptop. He removed the battery and began comparing it to those assembled on the pickup. “No good, no good, no good, not this one, not that . . .”
“What’s the problem?” asked Coleman.
Serge picked up another battery, but negative results. “I need to find one of these he dumped to fit my computer.”
“Why not just use the battery that came with your computer?”
“You’re joking, right?” The next battery snapped perfectly in place. “If there’s no irony, what’s the point? The reason some of these explode is that the cells overcharge. That’s why they all come with an overcharge-defeating circuitry. That’s the key. And the batteries that go rogue usually have one of three bad things in common: the circuit was already defective leaving the
factory, it got damaged by dropping a laptop, or there’s deliberate sabotage. You’ll notice that in all those Internet videos, scientists omitted showing us the critical yet utterly simple step that their labs use to set off the batteries, because you can’t have the general public running around knowing how to detonate laptops, or life in Starbucks will suddenly become way too exciting. Suffice to say, all it takes is an ordinary screwdriver.” Serge reached in his pocket. “Well, I’ll be!”
“A screwdriver,” said Coleman. “What are the odds?”
Serge leaned over the battery . . .
Chapter 22
1989
It was noon and it was dark.
The curtains were closed in the beach-style bungalow, and all the lights were off. Just little glowing slits from the blinds.
The slits created an eerie effect, lighting up the dust in the air at striped intervals, like a black-and-white pulp movie from the fifties. They made horizontal lines across Kenny’s hot chest.
Kenny remained perfectly still in the old La-Z-Boy where Darby used to sit. He reclined with a Remington rifle across his chest and an open box of ammo on the adjacent table.
He had been there for hours. All his senses at battle stations. He heard a fly buzzing somewhere in the room. He hadn’t eaten and wasn’t hungry. He only slept minutes at a shot before startling himself awake and aiming the gun at nothing.
Kenny kept wondering why nobody was bursting in. He’d had so much luck the other night at the port that it would surely run out.
The whole horror show was a repeating loop in his head. He nodded off again, and the nightmare became real: climbing out of the water, hopping the fence . . .
. . . Kenny sprinted past the dry docks at full gallop and made the corner between empty boat lifts. Subtlety had left town. A hundred yards ahead across an abandoned lot, sanctuary. He now fully appreciated the value of creating separation from your car. It sat on the edge of U.S. 1, parked at the port and away from it at the same time. But the final space between him and the vehicle was completely naked. No obstruction, with clean sight lines. And the car was fully lit up by the highway’s jarring crime lights. Anyone would see him.
He never broke stride, alone in the middle of the wide-open, feeling more and more exposed. Nothing else around in the closed-down industrialness. No other movement to dilute noticing his movement. No pedestrians, birds, not even traffic on the road, because everyone knew this wasn’t a place to be at this time of night. The racket of his feet slapping the pavement made what seemed like deafening echoes off the metal buildings.
The car was only feet away, and Kenny slowed to get his hand in a pocket for the keys. That’s when he saw the headlights. A minivan. No time to reach the driver’s seat. Just dive behind the back bumper.
He peeked under the car. The headlights came right toward him and lit up the pavement under the vehicle, forcing him to scoot around behind one of the tires. He sat on the ground, back against the fender, staring up at the stars and bracing for what surely would come next.
Then it didn’t come. He looked under the car again. Unbelievable. The headlights had swung toward the fence at the dry docks. The fence’s gate wasn’t even locked, but the minivan smashed through it anyway. The van stopped. Sounds of frantic men running around. Shouts.
“I found his footprints . . .”
Kenny kept glancing at his driver’s door handle. This was a dilemma with fangs. Go for the door and risk being found. Don’t go for the door and risk being found. He took quick breaths, steeling himself to make the lunge. And every time he was about to spring, another shout in the distance that froze him.
“I think he went that way . . .”
The crew checked all the logical hiding places: between the cargo containers on the loading dock, all the train cars in the railroad yard, even climbed on top of the petroleum tanks.
“Check under the semi-trailers . . .”
It finally hit Kenny. They were locked in the mind-set that he’d never had time to clear the port and was sheltered in position somewhere in that haystack of metal. He hoped they didn’t suddenly grow an IQ.
Kenny was looking under the car when the headlights came his way again, through the busted fence, and turned back in the direction of the shrimp boat. He waited and watched to make sure nobody was left behind on mop-up detail. Then he quietly stood, got in the car and pulled onto the road. They didn’t know what his car looked like, so he took the quickest route to safety, back north past the municipal marina. As he approached the scene of the crime off to his right, he couldn’t help but glance over.
Two more bright flashes from a shotgun, and two police officers fell over. “Jesus!”
He raced the rest of the way back to the bungalow . . .
. . . Where he now sat staring at an open leather satchel on the floor. All those bearer bonds with high denominations. He started thinking extra loud inside his head: Why the hell did I grab that case? It just made me a magnet. For that matter, what am I doing sticking around Darby’s pad? I don’t know anything about smugglers, except from TV, but they’re always tracking down witnesses or people who take their money, and I’m both. Then again, all they’d heard was Darby’s first name. Maybe it isn’t so bad after all. I’ll simply go to the police. I didn’t do anything wrong. Just an innocent bystander that the bad guys are after. The satchel will be a little awkward to explain but I’ll convince them. All I need to do is calm down and be rational. I’ll go to the police. He nodded to himself and began to stand. Shit, the police! After last night, I don’t know which ones are honest. And the dirty ones know that I know too much! They’re on the hook for murder! I definitely can’t go to the police! He dropped back down into the chair. “I’m so screwed!”
Hours of trembling and abject panic.
Kenny eventually coaxed himself back in from the emotional ledge. His right hand left the gun and pulled on his chin. Hmm. The police just lost two of their own. So they have to be seriously pissed at the smugglers right about now. Maybe if I come forward and offer to testify to put them away—and play dumb about the rest . . . No, they’re sure to figure it out . . . Or maybe they could . . . On the other hand . . . But then . . . But not . . . But . . . Wait! I’ve got it! There’s no way the whole department is in on it. I just need to take the temperature of the situation and figure out my best move. There must be something about this on TV. And on the bright side, it can’t get any worse.
He grabbed the remote control and clicked on the midday report. A press conference at police headquarters. Behind the podium, a massive showing of the force—black mourning bands around their badges. The top brass and a vast majority of the department were on the up-and-up, and in the dark. Only a handful knew the real story. But they had been the first ones on the scene, and their initial reports were driving the narrative.
The chief stood at the microphone. “. . . As you know, this city has lost two of its finest, and none of our resources will be spared until we bring those responsible to justice. We are asking the public’s help for any leads in solving this most heinous of crimes . . .” He turned the podium over to the head of the detective division.
“. . . While it is still early in the investigation, we’ve developed a theory based on the discovery of a third victim, a civilian named Darby Pope, whose body washed ashore this morning at Phil Foster Park. Apparently the port and marina were being used in a major drug-smuggling operation. We have reason to believe that all three victims stumbled upon this activity. And although Mr. Pope was not involved, we’ve received information that an acquaintance of his was the gunman who ripped off the smugglers’ money . . .” A photo of Darby in better times filled the screen. “. . . Anyone out there with information concerning who has recently been in Mr. Pope’s company is asked to call this number . . .” Digits appeared over the bottom of the podium. “. . . A fifty-thousand-dollar reward is being offered by the Benevolent Association, and of course your identity will be kept strictly confidentia
l . . .”
A rush of shit hit Kenny’s heart. They’re pinning it on me? Holy fuck! Forget trusting anyone. The entire department is now ready to shoot first!
He heard noise outside in the driveway and peeked through the blinds. Four police cars. Officers got out. This is it, thought Kenny. They might not know I’m in here, but it’s obvious procedure to check a victim’s residence. Either way, it’s probably not a good idea that I’m holding this rifle.
He threw it across the room. He waited.
And waited. No knock at the door. Nobody crashing in.
Kenny went to the blinds again. The officers were getting back in their patrol cars and driving away.
He returned to his chair, clicked off the TV and began panicking again in the dark.
What in the hell is going on?
What was going on:
Just after the discovery of the slain officers, a frantic meeting had been set up in the wee hours. This time at a quarry west of West Palm, out in the swamp and cane fields near Twenty Mile Bend.
A minivan was waiting when the patrol car rolled into the gravel darkness with its headlights off.
The officers got out and didn’t wait for hello. “How could you fuck this up so badly?” said a sergeant. “We should kill you right now!”
“Me? Are you serious?” said Hector. “Your boys screwed the pooch on this one. Letting outsiders watch the whole drop at the marina, then making a stupid excuse that these civilians could be trusted.”
“So you shot them?”
“I was a little coked up, but I’m good now.”
“Our friends are still dead, you cocksucker!”
A long stare. “Okay, I’ve tried being reasonable, but I’m getting tired real fast of taking that kind of mouth from a couple of peasants,” said Hector. “How much do you make a week before what I kick in?”
“You know what happens to people who shoot cops?” said the sergeant. “You’re just lucky that killing you would only increase the risk of our business arrangement coming to light.”
