Florida Son

by W. J. Costello

  “As soon as I get back to my RV I kiss my wife and I kiss my son. Then I crack open a beer and spend the rest of the day counting my blessings.”

  “Hell of a story,” I said.

  Mr. Messy nodded.

  “That man who threatened my family?” he said. “He makes me feel the same way the bear did.”

  CHAPTER 40

  WHEN I CLIMBED into Julie’s RV she stopped what she was doing and looked up from her laptop. She pointed to her screen.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  She had opened her mouth to speak when my phone rang.

  I answered it.

  “Rip Lane speaking. . . . Good. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Nice work. . . . Yeah. . . . Check’s in the mail. . . . I knew you could do it. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Uh-huh. . . . Okay, talk to you then.”

  I hung up, looked at Julie.

  “Who was that?”

  “Tell you about it later. First finish what you were saying.”

  She pointed to her laptop screen again.

  “You’re not going to believe this.”

  “What?”

  “I got on Facebook this morning to check my messages. I wanted to see if Kirsten Love had sent me anything new.”

  “Did she?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “She unfriended me.”

  “On Facebook?”

  “Yes. She’s not my Facebook friend anymore.”

  “Why would she have done that?”

  “Good question.”

  “Is her Facebook profile still active?”

  “I’ll check.”

  I waited while Julie tapped keys on her laptop.

  “I did a Facebook search of her name,” she said. “Nothing came up. She must have deactivated her account. Or deleted it completely.”

  “Good thing you already downloaded the video onto your hard drive. Otherwise it’d be gone forever.”

  “Not just the video, the photo of Kirsten too.”

  Julie shut her laptop and glanced at me.

  “Maybe this is the end of it,” she said. “Maybe I’ll never hear from Kirsten Love again.”

  “Doubt it.”

  “Me too.”

  A pause.

  “Who was it that called you earlier?”

  “Private eye,” I said. “I had him pull some more phone records for me.”

  “Whose records?”

  “Your old college roommate.”

  “Tina? Why?”

  “Because I was curious about her connection to your brother.”

  “You think they may be in contact with each other?”

  “I did think that. Until the private eye called. He didn’t find any evidence to support that theory.”

  “So much for that.”

  “But he did find Tina’s current address.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Orlando.”

  “Florida?”

  “Yep.”

  “So she lied to me about that. When I asked her if she lived in Florida she told me she was just passing through. Do you remember that?”

  “I do.”

  “So what’s the plan?”

  “We’re going to Orlando.”

  CHAPTER 41

  ON THE WAY to Orlando we drove past several signs for Walt Disney World and I began to think about the story of Snow White. The cast of characters from that popular fairy tale seemed to be making an appearance in my life: Julie as Snow White, her ex-husband as Grumpy, her brother as Dopey, Dusty as Bashful, Kirsten Love as the Evil Queen. And of course Rip as Prince Charming—as always.

  The fugitives I used to hunt were like Disney characters too: Big Bad Wolf, Captain Hook, Cruella de Vil, Hades, Scar.

  By the time we got to Orlando the long shadows of sundown had begun to fade into the deepening purple of twilight. We drove through the city toward an outer suburb. Pedestrians sweltered in high humidity. Cars crowded curbs like piglets to their mother.

  We found the suburb. We found the street. We found the house.

  We parked out of sight around the corner. We didn’t go into action immediately. We waited for a while.

  The blacktopped cul-de-sac was quiet. We were quiet. I like quiet.

  When the moon had turned everything to silver we sprang into action. We hopped off the motorcycle, hustled around the corner, knocked on Tina’s front door.

  The three-story townhouse stood flanked by identical townhouses. The facades were identical. The decorations were identical. The HOA ruled with an iron fist.

  No lights were on in Tina’s townhouse. No cars were parked out front. We assumed she wasn’t home. The knock on the door was just a precaution.

  I knocked again.

  No answer.

  Good.

  Time to go to work. I took out my bump key, thrust it into the lock, pulled it out a click, turned it, thumped it.

  “Easy as that,” I told Julie as we stepped inside.

  She didn’t clap.

  “Hello?” I said. “Anybody home?”

  Silence.

  We shut the front door behind us.

  My pocket flashlight sprayed cold white light into the blackness.

  “What do we do if she comes home, Rip?”

  “We leave through the back door.”

  “You’ve done this sort of thing before, haven’t you? This isn’t your first time.”

  “Nor my last.”

  In the kitchen we found grocery bags from the Piggly Wiggly supermarket. We had run into Tina there when she was grocery shopping in Sarasota. We now knew she lived in Orlando.

  Question: Who does that? Who gets into a car and drives a hundred and thirty miles to a supermarket when there are plenty of other supermarkets within walking distance?

  Answer: Somebody with an ulterior motive.

  When I was told Tina lived in Orlando I immediately began to suspect her motives. I began to think she had run into Julie on purpose, that she had wanted to see her, that she had driven to Sarasota specifically for that reason.

  What were her motives? I didn’t know. But I planned to find out.

  The thin beam of my flashlight played across the living room, along a white shag carpet, up a set of shelves, diagonally toward a painting, down the length of a plush sofa . . .

  Wait. Hold the phone.

  A book. There was a book on the coffee table. The subject of the book disturbed me.

  “Julie, come take a look at this.”

  She gasped when she saw it.

  “Oh my God, Rip.”

  “It could just be a coincidence.”

  “It’s definitely not a coincidence.”

  “You know what this means.”

  “It means you were right to suspect Tina.”

  “I think so.”

  Julie began to shake. I put my arm around her.

  “You want to wait outside while I go through the rest of house?”

  She shook her head.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s go see what else we can find.”

  She picked up the book. Her hands trembled. She leafed through it slowly, pausing on each page, staring at each picture.

  “I used to own a copy of this book,” she said. “I got rid of it a few years ago. There didn’t seem to be any reason to keep it around after Max was gone.”

  I glanced at the title of the book again:

  Sign Language for Kids

  CHAPTER 42

  UPSTAIRS WE HEARD music. Faint. Barely audible. It seemed to come from a bedroom at the back of the house. We stopped and listened for a moment. Then we moved toward it.

  The bedroom door was ajar. Light spilled out of it. A flickering wedge of light. It flickered as if it were dancing to the music.

  We crept closer. I could hear the music better. The tune was familiar. The words were familiar. I recognized the song. I had heard it hundreds of times before.

  “Hey,”
Julie whispered. “That’s the theme song to Sesame Street. It used to be Max’s favorite TV show. He must be here. Tina wouldn’t leave him here by himself. She must be here too.”

  I drew my gun.

  I felt the edge of danger. I like the edge. It challenges my instincts. Keeps me sharp. Fuels me.

  Fear amplifies your energy, heightens your senses, increases your awareness. If you can control the fear, you can make it work for you. The key is to take action.

  I stepped toward the bedroom door.

  You never know what you will find on the other side of a door. You never know whether you will have to shoot or kick, punch or wrestle, grab or bite. But you always know you will be yelling as you do it.

  Sometimes you can sneak a peek into a room before you go through the door. Like when the door is ajar. Or like when it has holes in it. If you get the opportunity to peek inside, you should always take it. Your first glance should never be at eye level and it should never last long enough to give somebody a chance to put a bullet through your skull.

  I crouched down and put my eye to the crack at the doorjamb.

  What did I expect to see? I knew only that I would see Big Bird on the TV screen. Other than that I had no expectations whatsoever. I was prepared for anything. Dead bodies. An empty room. Somebody with a gun. Anything.

  I had no expectations but plenty of hope. Hope that Max was still alive, that he was in the room, that he was alone.

  My eye scanned the room.

  Model airplanes suspended from ceiling. Soccer ball on floor. A little bed. It was a boy’s bedroom. Nobody in sight.

  I moved quickly away from the doorjamb.

  Nobody shot me.

  I didn’t need another peek. One was enough. It was time to go in.

  A quick glance at Julie told me she was on edge. This was a big moment. Her expectations were high. I could see it in her eyes.

  I shouldered into the room. The door flew back.

  My gun swept from corner to corner.

  Nobody there.

  I switched on the lights, switched off the TV.

  Silence.

  My eyes swept the room.

  Blood. On closet doors.

  Julie’s voice broke the silence.

  “Rip?”

  “Stay out in the hallway, Julie.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Stay out in the hallway.”

  My footsteps padded across carpet. My hands gripped two closet knobs. Closet doors squeaked open.

  “What was that noise, Rip?”

  “Closet doors, Julie.”

  “Can I come in the room now?”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “I did.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Two dead bodies.”

  CHAPTER 43

  BOTH HAD BEEN shot in the head. Bullets had entered both skulls from behind. Both faces looked like smashed cherry pie.

  One corpse lay with arms outstretched to sides, palms facing up, fingers curled. The other lay with arms crossed on chest, hands resting on shoulders, fingers splayed.

  Julie stood behind me. Her breath was shallow.

  I didn’t know how she would react. People deal with death in different ways. Some cry. Some want to be alone. Some go through periods of anger. What you see on the surface often bears little resemblance to what a person feels inside.

  I stood studying the corpses. Both faces had been disfigured beyond recognition. Still I had a pretty good idea who they were. I pointed to one.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Julie said. “That’s him.”

  I nodded.

  It is one thing to deal with death in general. It is quite another to deal with the murder of a loved one.

  I pointed to the other corpse.

  “And that’s . . . ?”

  “Yes,” Julie said. “That’s her.”

  I nodded again.

  “Tina, you bitch,” she said, and kicked the corpse. “You bitch.”

  Kicked it again.

  Again.

  “What have you done with my son? Where is he? Why, Tina? Why? What did I ever do to you? You stole my boyfriends, you stole my fiancé, you stole my son. What kind of psycho are you? You sick bitch.”

  Kick.

  People deal with death in different ways. Some kick corpses.

  I watched as Julie sat on her heels beside her dead brother.

  “Moe,” she whispered, “you were a rotten brother.”

  She stood up, shut the closet doors.

  “Let’s go find Max,” she said, and left the room.

  We searched every room in the house.

  “He’s not here,” Julie said. “What are you doing?”

  “Turning on Tina’s computer. We may find clues on it.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  “You want to?”

  “Not really.”

  “Works for me.”

  The computer screen showed a prompt:

  Type your password

  When I glanced over my shoulder at Julie she shrugged.

  “Any guesses?”

  “I can try,” she said. “Let me sit there.”

  I pushed up out of the chair.

  Julie sat down in front of the computer and began to try passwords likely for Tina while I stood behind the chair and watched. She typed in her first guess. No go. She tried her second guess. No go. Third guess. Nothing worked.

  She sat back. She sighed.

  Then she sat forward again and pulled open the center drawer of the desk. She rummaged through envelopes and pencils and stationary. She picked up a small index card with writing on it.

  “Jackpot! This must be her password. Tina always had a bad memory. She always had to write down everything. It would have required too much brainpower for her to remember a password.”

  Julie typed in the password. An hourglass twirled and then the screen changed and desktop icons began to appear on a blue background.

  “We’re in, Rip.”

  “Way to go.”

  She spun the chair around and we exchanged a high five.

  “Let’s see what we can find,” she said, and spun back around.

  She checked the web browsing history. Nothing there. All of it had been scrubbed.

  She clicked on a folder titled OUR CRAZY LIFE. The folder opened. Inside were dozens of photos. She clicked through them.

  We saw photos of Tina and Moe engaged in various sexual acts. The photos were taken in public places: Burger King parking lot, Starbucks sofa, Walmart toy aisle.

  “Classy couple.”

  “Tina and my brother deserved each other. They were nothing but liars and thieves. I’m not surprised to see they were lovers.”

  “I think we’ve probably seen enough photos of your brother’s crack. Why don’t we try a different folder.”

  Julie tried several different folders. We hit pay dirt when she clicked on a folder titled NEMESIS.

  “Look, a photo of Kirsten Love! It’s the same exact photo she used on her Facebook profile page.”

  “There’s your proof,” I said. “What else’s in the folder?”

  “Let’s see . . . Here’s the video she posted on Facebook.”

  “Case closed.”

  “Does this mean Kirsten Love was just a role played by Tina?”

  “Not just Tina, Moe too. I bet they were both in on it.”

  “From the start?”

  “No way to know.”

  “If Kirsten Love was just a role, then who’s the woman in this photo? What’s her real name?”

  “It’s probably just a random photo they found on the web.”

  “You’re probably right.”

  “So we learned a few things here: One, Tina and Moe were lovers. Two, they created a Facebook profile for a fictional person named Kirsten Love. Three, they made a video of a boy’s hands communicating in sign language. Four, they p
osted the video and then friended you on Facebook so that you would discover it. Five, they were both shot dead. Did I forget anything?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Julie said. “We still have some unanswered questions: One, who shot them and why? Two, is Max still alive? Three, where is he?”

  CHAPTER 44

  WHEN WE GOT back to Sarasota Oceanfront Campground that night we told Julie’s mother her son had been shot dead. She sobbed as soon as she heard the news, though not very much and not for very long. He had been a rotten brother to Julie and a rotten son to his parents. It was a wonder anybody cried at all.

  Julie handed her mother a tissue.

  “Thanks, sweetie,” Ruth said, and blew her nose into the tissue. “I guess we now know why Tina phoned my house six years ago: She was dating Moe and wanted to talk to him. I had no idea they were seeing each other. Moe never mentioned anything about it.”

  “I don’t know why they kept their relationship a secret,” Julie said. “Maybe it somehow made things more exciting for them.”

  Lingerie usually does it for me.

  “Tina and Moe were the ones,” Julie said. “And all this time I thought it was Heath. I felt certain he was the one who abducted Max.”

  “Maybe he was,” I said.

  Julie blinked, then stared at me.

  The three of us were sitting at the dinette table in Julie’s RV. Ruth had baked some zucchini bread and we were waiting for the loaves to cool before slicing.

  “What?” Julie said.

  “I’m just saying you can’t rule out the possibility that Heath abducted Max. We found no evidence to prove otherwise.”

  “What about that book we found at Tina’s house?”

  “Doesn’t prove Max was there.”

  “There was a boy’s bedroom with Sesame Street playing on TV.”

  “Still doesn’t prove Max was there.”

  “We found Kirsten Love’s photo on Tina’s computer, and the video she posted on Facebook.”

  “Doesn’t mean Max was abducted by Tina and Moe.”

  “Then what does it mean?”

  “No way to know for sure.”

  Julie frowned.

  “Here’s what I think,” Ruth said. “I think Tina and your brother were just playing mind games with you, sweetie. Moe never got over the fact that you reported him to the police that night. He had to go to jail and then that horrible thing happened to him there. He never forgave you for that. You know your brother: He was mean and spiteful. I think he was out for revenge. I think he wanted to make you miserable. That’s what I think.”