Ed’s scissors snipped behind my left ear, and the metallic sound brought me back to my senses. “We’re way off the subject of our relational problems, aren’t we?”
I wasn’t sure what I had said wrong, but Larry got that uncomfortable look about him again. He appeared to be thinking deeply, as if trying to work something out in his mind. His gaze darted from the magazine to my feet and back again to the magazine.
“Therapy, Ned. My therapist is out of town this week, so this is my substitute therapy. I can smell the salt air now.” Larry held up the magazine to Ed. “Can ya smell the salt air?”
“Salt air,” Ed parrotted, now working on my right side. “You don’t say.”
Larry sat straight again. “And you, Frank?”
“Very salty. Now lean forward so I can shave your neck.”
Larry kept his sideburns and I got the clean-cut look. Parted to the left, as always. I shut my eyes while Ed dusted hair clippings from my face with a towel.
I did not earn a tiny American flag.
He tossed the towel into a bin, and I paid and tipped him. Larry paid and tipped Frank. We said our good-byes to the barbers and were heading for the door when Ed spoke from behind his chair, which now sat empty. “All this talk of building a beach house, of investments and stuff. . . what’s with that? You two inheriting some money or somethin’?”
Larry and I exchanged a glance. You tell him. No, you tell ‘im.
Perhaps we were getting ahead of ourselves. In retrospect, what followed was likely my attempt to drown the problem with Angie. Vocational success is a type of Kevlar; it makes men bulletproof to unreasonable wives.
I turned and addressed my curious barber. “Ed, Larry has created something unique. And I’m hoping to sell it to Hollywood.”
Big Ed sat down in his barber chair and snickered. “Yeah, sure. Of course you are.”
“No, really.”
Larry nodded with enthusiasm.
Frank placed a bib around Ed and prepared to trim his coworker’s already short hair. “You two go fool somebody else.”
I left Larry standing there to defend himself and hurried out to open the hatch of my Saab. Moments later, I walked back into the barber shop and over to Ed, who was instructing Frank, via hand signals behind his head, what kind of cut he wanted.
I thrust some pages into Ed’s lap. “Here, Ed. All I can spare is chapters twelve through fourteen.”
“What’s it about?”
“Last pagans on earth, running from religious zealots.”
Ed snorted to the ceiling. “You guys are playin’ with me.”
“No, we’re not,” Larry offered. “Read ‘em and let us know what ya think.” Larry gave Ed the thumbs up. “You might find it interesting, Eddie. You, too, Frankie.”
Frank smirked and switched on his shears.
Big Ed sat perfectly still, a tiny American flag protruding from his shirt pocket as he began chapter twelve in his very own barber chair.
12
EVEN AFTER A THIRTY-MINUTE phone conversation, Detour Airlines could not help Lanny locate Miranda. They claimed no record of her arrival or departure.
Lanny grew so frustrated with the representative that he hung up, rushed out of the radio station at 10:00 p.m., and drove himself to the Orlando airport, unaware that he’d been followed. He felt confident in his ability to deal with zealots. He simply gritted his teeth, wore his poser T-shirt, and moved among them, regardless of the corny signage that tainted his coming and going.
At Detour’s check-in counter he waited for a family to finish their business before resuming his pleas. The counter girl greeted him with a blank expression, as if she had no experience dealing with disappointment. She read the wording on his T-shirt, smiled, and said, “Religious howdy to you, too.”
Lanny tapped the top of her monitor. “Surely this computer of yours can track the boarding of Miranda Timms, who was supposed to be on Flight 1241 from here to Atlanta last Monday at 11:45.”
She typed the information into her keyboard and stared at her screen. “We have no record of a Miranda Timms, sir. And besides, Flight 1241 was delayed, then rerouted.”
“Because of weather?”
“No, to tour Israel.”
Lanny leaned over the counter and cocked his head to view the monitor. “Delta Express, I mean Detour Express, reroutes Orlando to Atlanta flights to the Middle East?”
“We do now.”
“But. . . why?”
She kept typing, talking to her space bar. “Well, the new guided tours by Marvin the Apostle are a big hit. He’s especially knowledgeable about the garden of good and evil. Would you like to book a flight?”
“Um, no thank you.” Lanny stared again at the flight board, dumbfounded as to his best move. All he could think to ask was, “Where would I find this Marvin fellow?”
“Oh, we’re not allowed to follow his movements, sir. He’s accountable to no one.” Counter Girl eyed Lanny’s choice of clothing again. “But ya know, sir, Marvin would likely appreciate one of your Religious Howdy T-shirts. If you have an extra you could mail it to national headquarters in D.C.”
Lanny rubbed his eyes and re-read the flight board. Miranda, where did they take you? Did you even make it to the airport?
“Lemme think about it,” he replied, stalling to gather his thoughts. “But just who all is in D.C. now?”
She typed something into her keyboard. “I heard on the news that there are thirty-seven U.S. Senators in office, busy unseparating all the churches from the states.”
Lanny kept the conversation going even though he held little interest in politics. “Only thirty-seven, eh?”
She nodded and continued to monitor her screen. “Eighteen Republicans and nineteen Democrats, which is a bit surprising.”
Lanny could no longer feign interest, and his agenda pressed forth. “I really just wanted information on Miranda Timms. Can’t you help me?”
Counter Girl blinked at him, as if waiting for more. Finally she said, “Could she possibly be an unfortunate one?”
“Um, I’m not sure.”
Counter Girl had been very matter-of-fact with her news summaries, and now Lanny was certain—as long as he continued to pose well—that she was the one person who could help him. What he didn’t see was her typing a note to security that someone had asked for flight information on an unfortunate one, and had done so without giving the secret two-word code phrase. Oblivious to his oversight, and curious as to the inner workings of the zealot world, Lanny stayed put, scanning his surroundings for clues.
Counter Girl tried to delay Lanny by holding up a lime green brochure and waving it in his face. “Can I interest you in our First-Timer’s Special, sir? Roundtrip tickets to visit the Offering Plate Museum in exchange for advertising Detour Airlines on your car for one year.”
Lanny wanted only information on Miranda, so he shook his head no. Counter Girl tried again to delay him by offering more specials, but he was no longer interested in talking. Frustrated and alone, Lanny left the check-in counter and rode the escalator down to the parking garage. The smell of car exhaust hovered around him, but he paid it no attention. For a long while he just leaned against the front of his Xterra and stared blank-faced at the ground. He replayed in his head the past week—the running, the searching, the desperation. What did I do to deserve this fate?
He pulled an old photo of Miranda from his wallet and stared at it for a long while. She was peeking out from behind an oak tree, smiling. The wind had whipped some strands of hair across her eyes.
Lanny’s sigh was one part nostalgia, two parts remorse. She had invited him to fly to Orlando with her, but he had stayed on in Atlanta to finish some jobs and earn some needed money. He could have been with her… wherever she was.
Lanny slid the photo back into his wallet, stuffed the wallet into his back pocket, and unlocked the door to his Xterra. He never even glanced to the far end of the parking deck, where the two men in the blac
k Lincoln were calling in his license plate number, which of course belonged to a Camaro up on blocks in an Atlanta apartment complex.
Lanny paused and listened as a jet roared away. He considered driving back to Atlanta, but he was weary and feared he’d be pressing his luck. Tonight, sleeping on the floor at Fence-Straddler AM Radio sounded pretty good.
At least the building had a shower. And at least he could talk to Ned.
Maybe the DJ would let him plead over the airwaves again.
He backed out of his space and pulled forward toward an exit sign. Then he turned left onto the descending loop out of the parking garage.
The black Lincoln followed at a distance.
Outside the radio station’s main entrance, Lanny stood in darkness and muggy air and pounded on the door. For two minutes he pounded.
From the opposing side, Ned’s voice filled with fear and doubt. “Who is it?”
“It’s me… Lanny.”
“How do I know it’s you?”
“It just is. Open up.”
Ned reached for the knob but stopped short. “I’ll need some proof.”
“Man, I was just with you on your plane. We flew to Abaco.”
“And?”
Lanny pounded on the door. “And the zealots changed the movie dialogue in Titanic, you moron. And then we googled ourselves and ran to the airport and flew back to Florida.”
A long pause. “And?”
“And then we went to the Cocoa Beach marina, where you picked up a dead gull and thought it was some kind of spiritual symbol—which was ignorant of you ‘cause it was only a dead bird.”
Another long pause. “Okay, you can come in now.” The door opened in a rush, then shut hard as Lanny entered. DJ Ned patted him on the back and muttered, “Sorry.”
Lanny squinted beneath harsh florescent lights. “What got into you?”
“I wasn’t sure your poser T-shirt would fool ‘em again.”
“Works great, Ned. The zealots don’t suspect a thing as long as you have religious wording on you somewhere. You should try it.”
Ned led the way down an empty hall and changed the subject. “Man, it’s just so freaky being here alone. That, and all the changes to music lyrics. I’ve been listening to that sister station for the past hour and tracking the edits.”
Lanny followed him back to his office, where Ned sat back at his computer and pointed to the monitor. He had it all organized in an Excel spreadsheet: In the first column was the name of the group; in the second column the original title of the song; and in the third he put parentheses around the zealot title.
Ned pointed to rows 1 to 3 of his spreadsheet. “The zealots went hardest after disco. These first three are the ones that irk me the most.”
Lanny leaned down to read over Ned’s shoulder:
KC and the Sunshine Band Shake Your Booty (Do Your Duty)
ABBA Dancing Queen (Dancing’s Wrong)
Sister Sledge We Are Family (We’re Still
Family—but some
are estranged
red-headed
stepchildren)
Lanny saw this musical diversion as an opportunity to get his mind off Miranda, so he pulled up a chair beside Ned and offered to help. By 11:00 p.m., Ned and Lanny had compiled a list of every song that they held as sacred, from rock to disco to rap to pop and even a dozen movie soundtracks.
DJ Ned knew that he could never battle the zealots on every front. But he could defend music.
At least he could do that.
Lanny was dozing in his chair when Ned went back into the booth for an 11:30 p.m. weather update. Ned watched the text scroll onto his monitor and waited for a commercial to end.
Seconds later he pulled the mic to his lips. “Good evening, folks. This is DJ Ned Neutral, still broadcasting from my secret booth in Jacksonville and hoping that your cleanup from Hurricane Gretchen is going well. Lots of homes and boats were trashed last week, and I remind you that anyone who wants to volunteer should contact the local Red Cross, which I figure is one of the few entities that has not changed its name.”
Ned decided that some music without lyrics, like some Miles Davis jazz, would be a nice alternative for his listeners. He slipped the CD into a slot and pushed PLAY.
Across the street in the Lincoln, both men wore headsets tuned to Fence-Straddler AM. The driver even tapped his fingers to the jazzy beat.
“Tomorrow?” asked his cohort, typing information into a laptop.
“Tomorrow.”
Two of five red call lights had been lit since he went on the air, and Ned checked to see if either caller was responding to Lanny’s request for help. Both, however, were lobbyists for the PFSC, so Ned ended the calls and signed off for the night. He shook Lanny from slumber and urged him to lay down on one of two cots that Ned had stored away. They dragged the cots into the hallway and placed them on either side of the water cooler.
Before going to sleep, Lanny removed his shoes and glanced down the hall at Ned’s silhouette. The weary DJ was brushing his teeth over the kitchen sink.
“Ned?”
Ned spit and rinsed. “Yeah?”
“I’m going to go searching for Miranda in the morning,” Lanny said and settled into his makeshift bed. “And I want to go alone.”
Ned made his way over to the second cot and sat on its edge, stretching his fleshy arms. “Fine with me. I’ll be busy here.”
Tomorrow DJ Ned would begin fighting for his sacred territory. Tomorrow would be Waterloo for the originality-challenged. Tomorrow Ned would play all his favorite songs in their original version. From his own CD collection he would play them, just to aggravate the zealots.
For the affable DJ, rock and pop hits from the past three decades were the closest thing he knew to religion. Music made him feel a part of something. He’d do anything to protect music and those who wrote it. He’d even once mailed fifty bucks to Vanilla Ice when Ice fell on hard times.
13
LANNY HAD BEEN SITTING on the beach since dawn, trying to turn his confusion into comprehension. The sun rose boldly over the Atlantic, and behind him lay battered beach houses, the destruction from Gretchen. Workers had arrived early at the houses, and soon the high-pitched buzz of skill saws sounded in the distance. Each time a saw cut off and whirred to a stop, it reminded Lanny of his regular life in Atlanta—arriving home covered in sawdust, taking a quick shower, and rushing over to Miranda’s apartment to see her. It was so easy, so routine.
After a few more minutes of reflection, he took a sharp shell and wrote in damp sand all the possibilities he could imagine.
1) She’s out looking for me, maybe back in Atlanta.
2) She’s hiding on some other small island in the Caribbean.
3) She’s held captive, but safe.
4) She’s been captured and converted, and is now a zealot herself. (Is the condition reversible?)
All four possibilities fought for supremacy. One seemed just as likely as another. He refused to consider a fifth possibility—dead and gone—simply because he knew Miranda was a smart girl, too savvy to fall prey to zealots. He remembered the feel of her embrace and wondered if he’d taken it for granted. He remembered the photo album of their vacations together and wished he’d brought it with him. Now here he was, alone on a Florida beach, wearing a T-shirt that broadcast a religion to which he did not subscribe.
Just so I can roam freely. He felt ridiculous. He started to pull the shirt over his head. But instead he made a fist and punched the sand. How free is anyone who has to wear such garb? Feels more like imprisonment.
A hundred yards down the beach, perched behind a high dune, one of the men from the Lincoln watched Lanny through a small telescope. His own T-shirt read “Enforcer of the Movement,” and he spoke to the driver of the car through a cell phone. “We’ll need them to be together before we nab them.”
“Ten-four, Corporal.”
Lanny remained seated in the sand, watching small waves rise
and crash. He heard power tools fire up again, and he wondered how many of those workers had missing loved ones. Do those remaining really miss them? And who has it worse: Distraught parents? Distraught kids? Little League teams with only four players?
Oddest of all to Lanny was the lack of sadness—really of any emotion at all—shown by zealots. As if the fact of their domination outweighed regret.
Lanny checked his watch. 8:46. With his toe he carved MIRANDA above the four possibilities. Then he stood and almost managed a smile as he thought of DJ Ned back at the station, already two hours and forty-six minutes into his six-hour play list of original pop songs. Ned had started with the A’s and was working through the list alphabetically.
Lanny turned from the ocean and brushed the sand from his behind. Ten minutes later he entered for a third time the main road into the Pelican’s Harbor Retirement Homes community. The house was his best source for clues, and he wanted to search inside. He parked his Xterra on the street and approached the house.
The beige Buick still sat in the driveway. Lanny knelt beside the back tire and checked for the penny in the tread. Still there, still shiny.
On the front porch the black leather travel bag still sat against the front door, and the note Lanny had left days earlier fluttered above the knob, its ink fading.
He broke in through a back window. Lanny pulled the screen off and left it teetering atop a bush. Then he crawled through the window and landed headfirst in a spare bedroom. He knew this was the room where Miranda would have stayed. On his feet again, he saw the bed made; the closet, empty. Same for the chest of drawers.
Lanny moved to the next bedroom, used by Miranda’s parents and reeking of old lady perfume. He searched their bureau but found only some senior citizen pills, loose change. A calendar of events for community residents. A tide chart for August.
The living room was similarly neat, and the light blue carpet looked recently vacuumed. Lanny spotted a stack of mail on the kitchen counter, yet his perusal of it yielded only a power bill, a cable bill, some AARP literature.
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