by Tim Dorsey
The ceiling creaked, and they looked up.
“It’s time,” Serge said solemnly. “Follow me.”
He led them into the vault. Walls flickered with dozens of candles stair-stacked all over the place like a mountain temple in Mongolia. Coleman looked down at a fast-asleep Jill. “How do you always make them snore like that?”
Serge was busy readying the vault fallout-style. He carefully arranged military rations, jugs of water, batteries, Band-Aids. A nine-volt weather radio was on low volume, breaking the stagnant air with a steady, mechanical voice. “…The following is an update from the National Weather Ser vice. A hurricane warning remains in effect until noon tomorrow from Cape Sable to Cape Haze. Hurricane watch from the Dry Tortugas to the mouth of the Anclote River…. Next update at 2300….”
They broke out a case of MREs, and Serge snatched a heating pouch away from Coleman.
“Hey!”
“I haven’t forgotten last time.” Serge grabbed one of the jugs. “Just a little water.”
Jeff wasn’t waiting. He sucked the contents straight from a cold plastic pouch.
“You must be starved!” Serge leaned his own pouch against an activated heater. “Most people hate this stuff.”
Jeff ignored him, ravenously scraping the inside of the pouch with a camouflaged spoon.
“Serge,” said Coleman, “any more Tootsie Rolls?”
“Bunches. Here.” Serge did The Guy Toss. Coleman caught one, and the rest bounced off his chest. He fired a joint and peeled a candy wrapper. He had no further needs.
“…Sustained winds one hundred and five miles an hour, gusting to one-twenty…. Naples Inlet, eight-foot swells….”
Something that sounded bad smashed against the outside of the bank. Serge handed Jeff a second, steaming pouch. “They’re better warm.” Jeff attacked it like the first.
“Careful.” Serge yanked his hand back. “You almost took one of my fingers.”
“Funny, I didn’t feel hungry before. Now I’m famished.”
“Nerves. It means you’re finally calming down.” Serge tore open his own pouch of lasagna-shaped soy trickery. He propped himself against the vault wall next to McSwirley and dug in.
“…Peace River six feet above flood stage….”
Into the night: spooky gales, percussion of outside debris, the vault thickening with humidity. Candle wax pooled, and Jill snored. Coleman was passed out again in another of his trademark chalk-outline sleeping positions. Just Serge and Jeff and the weather-radio robot: “…Category four. Sustained winds one hundred thirty-two….”
Three A.M., still hopelessly awake. Soaked T-shirts came off. Bare chests trickling with sweat. Jeff ’s started to heave.
“What’s the matter?” asked Serge.
“Trouble…breathing….”
“Asthma?”
Jeff shook his head. “Panic thing. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes it’s this.”
“Please don’t cry. I can’t take that.”
“Just suffocating this time.”
Serge lit a new candle and planted the base in hot wax. “Didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve noticed you’re a little on the tense side. Might want to cut back on the sodas.”
“Might want to cut back on getting abducted.”
“We’re going backward again,” said Serge. “I told you, this isn’t a kidnapping.”
“What is it, then?”
“Okay, technically it’s a kidnapping. But it’ll go better on your breathing if you think of it as protective custody.”
Jeff grabbed his heart.
“Maybe this will help,” said Serge. “You know the gopher tortoise?”
“What?” Shallower breaths.
“Gopher tortoise. Florida protected species. Burrows these under ground tunnels near the beach, some forty feet long. That’s why a lot of wildlife survive hurricanes. When instinct tells them a big blow’s on the way, they head down the tortoise holes. Opossums, raccoons, big snakes—constrictors and venomous…”
Faster panting. “What’s that got to do with me being kidnapped?”
“Everything,” said Serge. “Most of the animals are mortal enemies. But mystically they call a truce while hunkered down waiting for the storm to pass. Like Foghorn Leghorn and that dog punching out their time cards. So even if I was going to kill you—which I’m not—you’re perfectly safe to night. The Law of the Tortoise Hole.”
Jeff took his hand off his heart.
“It’s passing?” asked Serge.
Jeff took a deep breath. “Sorry for snapping at you.”
“No, you’re within rights. This is a lot for anybody.”
“It’s not this. It’s—”
“It’s what?”
Jeff put up a hand for additional time. A little more oxygen first. That’s better. “I saw All the President’s Men.”
“Good choice. Relevance?”
“It’s what inspired me to be a reporter. Wanted to make a difference. Investigate corruption, right injustice, empower the powerless.”
“So? We all used to believe a bunch of naïve horse shit.” Serge saw Jeff ’s expression. “Oops, you still believe it. Sorry. I was thinking of something completely different.”
“Are you mocking me?”
“I’m good,” said Serge. “Go. Proceed…”
Jeff took another full breath. “They told me in school I might have to start on the cop beat. Didn’t give it much thought back then. But after a couple of months…all the death…”
“I get it now,” said Serge. “You saw too many bodies. Understandable.”
“No,” said Jeff. “I haven’t seen a single one.”
“Then what’s the deal?” asked Serge. “No bodies, no problem.”
“The survivors. They’re even worse. I wish I saw bodies.”
“Transferred grief.” Serge nodded. “You struck me as empathetic.”
“I think about them all the time. A lot of them scream.”
“I’m sure they do. Very traumatic finding out.”
“Not when they find out.”
“When?”
“When they answer the door and you say you’re a reporter. Runs about fifty-fifty. Half want someone to talk to; the rest feel like they’re being victimized again—and you feel like you’re doing it to them. You feel like shit.”
“They ever take a swing?” asked Serge.
“That’s one of the first things you learn: Right after knocking, off the porch.”
“Hard way to make a living.”
“Supposed to average three months. It’s been three years. This mom jumped off an overpass. Very public, very messy. I argued against the assignment. Her husband was too distraught when he answered the door. Just shook his head. But some teenager inside heard me and started shrieking hysterically. Her daughter…”
“That’s a tough one,” said Serge.
“…The wife of a park ranger washed away in floodwaters trying to save a kid’s dog. They were still hoping, but mainly it was recovery detail. She’s waiting at home for the call either way. Instead she gets a call from me. I had to hold the phone at the end of my arm. Half the newsroom heard her. Kids who couldn’t get out of burning houses. Others beaten to death by live-in boyfriends. What are the moms thinking bringing these guys home? The medical reports don’t pull punches. Too strong to print, but you have to read them…”
“Jeff, maybe you should stop.”
“…Five-year-old who accidentally killed himself. Shotgun left loaded in a closet. Three hours later I’m standing in this cabin out in the country, Legos still on the floor…”
Serge decided it best to let him vent. On and on. Serge had never heard such a cavalcade of sorrow. A forum apparently was what Jeff needed. He eventually tired and stretched.
Serge looked at his watch. “You should get some sleep.”
“I’m too awake.”
“You were yawning.”
“I know. I’ve been having trouble sleep
ing ever since taking the cop beat—completely tired and completely awake at the same time. Ever happen to you?”
“All the time. Like now. The air is still. Still air freaks me out.”
“Still air?”
“To sleep, I need air movement and white noise. A fan or A/C. It puts the brakes on my thought locomotive. If the air’s still, my mind bounces all over the place, and I’m up for hours flipping the pillow. Did I turn off the oven? Are the doors locked? Is my heart beating correctly? If not, then what? Was I impolite to that clerk? What exactly is a hubcap diamond star halo? When did I forget that cinnamon toast was an option? Then I’ll notice a bright dot inside my eyelids. But when I try to focus on it, the thing drifts to the side. So I’ll rotate my eyeballs and coax it back to the center again, and it drifts again and…Jeff…Jeff?”
He was snoring.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
TAMPA BAY TODAY
The budget meeting. Everyone congratulated McSwirley.
“Incredible work on the series!” said an elated Max. “The second part sold even more than the first. We’ve doubled our press run for tomorrow.”
A man in a blue-and-red baseball cap approached the table with a large, flat box. “There a Jeff McSwirley?”
“Right here.”
The man set the box down and read the receipt. “Large combo with cheese bread.”
“But I didn’t order a pizza,” said Jeff.
“It’s okay. Guy downstairs at the back door already paid. Said something about a surprise for your hard work.”
“Cool!” Jeff grabbed the cardboard lid.
“Nooooo!” Mahoney dove over the table. He snatched the box out of Jeff ’s hands, dashed across the conference room and slammed it down into the saltwater aquarium. “Nobody move!” He flipped open his cell and hit speed dial. “Bomb squad?”
Metro Tom arrived at the meeting. “Sorry I’m late…. Jeff, don’t worry about lunch. My treat. Got a pizza coming.”
“It’s already here.”
“Where?”
Jeff pointed behind a tiny skeleton popping out of a treasure chest.
A man in a blue-and-red baseball cap approached the table. “Jeff McSwirley?”
“Right here.”
“Large all-the-way, dipping sticks.”
Jeff opened the lid.
“Hold it,” said Tom. “What’s this?” He peeled a greasy page off the top of the pie.
“What is it?” asked Max.
Tom’s eyes shot toward him. “We have to cancel the series!”
“Why? What’s that thing say?”
“‘Cancel the series or Jeff dies.’ It’s signed ‘Serge.’”
“Serge doesn’t like the series?” said Max.
“No, he loves it,” said Tom. “But the note says he watched The Mean Season again last night and thinks it might get the other killer pissed off at Jeff.”
“There is no other killer,” said Mahoney. “Don’t you get it by now? He’s the same guy. He’s gone around the bend.”
“Either way, we have to stop the series,” said Tom.
“Nothing doing,” said Max. “We’re running it.”
“You can’t!” said Tom.
“Excuse me,” said Jeff.
“I’m running it!”
“No you won’t!”
“Excuse me…”
“Yes I will!”
“You won’t!”
“I will!”
“Excuse me!”
The editors turned.
Jeff ’s hand was raised. “May I say something?”
“Definitely,” said the maximum editor. “You wrote these incredible articles. What do you think? We should run them, right?”
“Sir, I don’t think I’m in any danger from Serge.”
“What do you mean?” asked Tom.
“I don’t think he and the other killer are the same guy.”
“Of course they are,” said Mahoney.
Jeff shook his head. “I spent four days with Serge. At first I was scared to death; then I got to know him.”
“And you don’t think he’s crazy?” said Mahoney.
“No, he’s nuts, all right,” said Jeff. “But there’s a method to the madness. As bizarre and erratic as he may seem, I discovered a consistent underlying moral code.”
“You felt safe with him?”
“Not remotely,” said Jeff. “But I was worried about his impulsive risk taking. I’d stake my life that he’d never intentionally harm me.”
“I ain’t buying it,” said Mahoney. “Schizos sometimes only show one face to certain people. I’ve been studying him for over a decade, not four days.”
“It’s moot anyway,” said Tom. “We’re not going to press.”
“Sorry,” said the maximum editor. “Even if I wanted to, it’s physically impossible to cancel the series.”
“Why’s that?”
“Already raised ad rates. That would mean a refund.”
PART THREE
Hurricane Esteban’s early effects had been making themselves known for six hours now, but the slow-moving eye had stalled over the Gulf, gathering strength before landfall.
Serge was up early in the vault, monitoring developments on his battery-powered TV. The attention centered on the Naples shore.
“…Naples is Florida’s last major city on the bottom of the west coast. During the 1980s, it wore the mantle of America’s fastest-growing statistical area. Development had since jumped the interstate like so many wildfires that sweep the region. Gated communities, upscale shopping centers, country clubs. From the air Naples inspires the question, who plays that much golf?…”
“Serge,” said Coleman. “You’re doing it again.”
“…But there would be no tee times today. Sand traps were water hazards, and the club house staff raced to hack down coconuts before they could become cannonballs. Esteban had just been upgraded to the fiercest of the record-threatening year, each new televised landfall increasingly populated with agenda-sluts occupying respective spots along the beach at trade-show intervals. The usual TV cast of human wind socks now competed for space with feverish preachers, doomsday prophets, has-been folk-singers, self-published psychics and T-shirt vendors. The Reverend Artamus Twill, from Church City, Virginia, was down on the beach with his congregation, eyes closed and heads bowed. Twill raised his right palm in stiff-armed opposition toward the crashing surf, praying for God to stop the hurricane or at least make it swerve into the wickedness of Fort Myers….”
Jeff woke up. “Who’s Serge talking to?”
“…There was a second congregation from Sarasota, who had become rudderless and depressed since the feeding-tube guy started making commercials for Subway sandwiches—until finding a new cause and flipping their picket signs over for fresh writing space…. There was the research team, previously developing Neville Gladstone’s suborbital rocket ship, which had been diverted to create an anti-hurricane machine that was now moored two miles offshore on an oil barge: fifty 747 Pratt & Whitney turbofan jet engines mounted in concentric circles and pointed skyward to create an opposing updraft that theoretically would dissipate steering currents into the upper troposphere….”
Jill woke up. “What’s Serge babbling about?”
“…Sunrise was a half hour ago, but you couldn’t tell. A steady drone of gas-powered generators lit the beach in flood-lights. There had been some notable overnight microbursts, but disappointed reporters currently idled in a lull between storm bands. Make no mistake, the hurricane would soon be the genuine thing, but right now it was still theater. Channel 7 came back from a commercial for personal-injury lawyers. ‘…Joe, can you pan to that flying napkin?…’ Then small waves became large. The reporters donned bright slickers with their stations’ logos and color schemes flapping in the growing gale. Rain cut loose. Hoods went up over heads, goggles with watertight seals. More strength. Correspondents leaned into the wind. A Florida Cable News cameraman zoomed in
on the Sarasota congregation: ‘Fuck the devil!…’”
“Does he talk like this often?” asked Jeff.
Coleman cracked a breakfast beer. “So often I barely notice anymore.”
“…Finally it got real. Honolulu-size waves pounded the historic fishing pier. A pizzeria awning cut loose, frame and all, gaining altitude like a box kite. Rookie reporters would have been worried, but not these veterans. They’d developed a system. As long as the lightest TV personality was okay, they all were. That happened to be the five-foot-three, ninety-pound correspondent from Channel 2. She was placed in the path of hurricanes because she was hot!…Then she was gone. A forceful gust sent her eight feet up. She landed flat on her stomach, screaming and clawing the slick grass for traction, but the wind was too strong and sent her skimming like an air-hockey puck until she was finally yanked to a stop at the edge of the seawall by her rock-climbing harness. A winch on the Channel 2 van began reeling her in. The tidal surge raced toward shore. It pitched the anti-hurricane machine up on its side. The barge took flight, fifty full-throttle jet turbines propelling it in crazy, random loop-de-loops in the sky before barreling toward shore inches above the surf, scooping the Reverend Twill off the beach and splattering him into a three-story oceanfront mansion….”
Serge turned toward Jeff and Coleman.
They were staring back.
“What?”
“You were doing it again.”
“No I wasn’t.”
“Yes you were. You said the Channel 2 chick just went.”
“I did?” said Serge. “Wow. Then there’s not much time. We have to be out the front door before the second guy goes.”
Jeff pointed at the TV. “The second guy just went!”
“Which one?”
“The Party Parrot…. Oooooh, he got hung up on the jetty.”
“Oh, shit.” Serge grabbed a duffel bag. “Move it!”
Their gear was already assembled in the bank’s lobby for a quick break. Serge threw open the door and raced outside with Jill and Coleman. Three quick trips and the Hummer was loaded again. “Jeff, come on!”
An echo from the vault: “I’m not going.”
