“I’m only home for a day and a half, Mom,” Zach explained in desperation, threatening to shake syrup on her.
Angie conceded to her son. But then I printed out a second copy.
Zach took his pages from the printer and went outside to sit in the white rocker on our front porch. Pages in hand and rocking slowly, he had no idea that he sat just feet from where a protest had been held a week earlier, organized by his own mother.
The Watsons… just a normal suburban family.
22
A QUARTER MILE FROM SHORE, Castro’s yacht had imbedded its nose deep in a sandbar. MC Deluxe caused the imbedding, yet no one was left on board to complain. At 4:35 a.m. the stolen vessel sat vacant, already abandoned, its crew having fled over the starboard side—via rope ladder. Lanny, DJ Ned Neutral, MC, the Former Donald, and the ever-surprising Crackhead were swimming hard for the shore.
A beam of light swept across the water, then jerked out of control like a bad home movie. Some two hundred yards behind the escapees, the Coast Guard cutter slid to a sudden halt, stranding itself on the same sandbar. This event—at least from the escapees’ perspective—served to even things up.
By the time the guards in black fatigues realized what had befallen them, and Marvin had reclaimed his bullhorn, the fleet five were halfway to shore. Battling waves, rain, darkness, and some annoying seaweed that wrapped around their wrists and ankles, they swam hard and squinted through the downpour.
They proved unequal in swimming skills, however. The order had not changed since they first left the yacht: Crackhead was the best swimmer and remained several body lengths out front, MC Deluxe was in a tie for second with Lanny, the Former Donald held onto fourth, and DJ Ned was fifth, far off the pace.
Behind them the bullhorn sounded. “THOU SWIMMETH TO THY DOOM!”
Lanny turned in the water to check on Ned. Beyond the DJ he saw guards on the side of the cutter, lowering an inflated raft into the sea, Marvin behind them with the bullhorn. Through the rain Lanny saw seven guards pile into the raft, one of them revving an outboard motor.
Lanny heard the motor accelerate. A beam from a spotlight passed beside him, then behind him. Back and forth over the water went the beam. Lanny dove under, then rose to check on Ned. Still a long ways from shore, Ned trailed even farther behind, trying his best to propel his large frame through the sea.
“Ned, hurry!”
Ned was by now winded and struggling. “I’ll make it, Lann-o…. Just go!”
Lanny tried to touch bottom with his feet but could not. His survival instincts screamed at him to keep going. He swam harder, harder still, and soon was only a few yards behind Crackhead and MC, who remained out front.
To his right Lanny saw marsh grass, only the tips of the blades showing. The tide had risen, and if there was any beach, it was hidden by the marsh.
Far to his left, the guards in the inflatable raft angled across breakers and bounced over waves. Their spotlight shown firmly on the Former Donald, who had turned left in an attempt to outmaneuver—but had unknowingly swam right into the path of the guards.
“Split up!” yelled MC Deluxe, whose toes had just touched bottom. He and Crackhead moved along as best they could in neck-deep surf, pulling against the current, feet bouncing on sand.
Again the spotlight swept across the water. This time Lanny dove deep and swam for the marsh. Only then did he notice how warm was the seawater. He surfaced and glanced behind him to look for Ned. No sign of him. The saltwater stung Lanny’s eyes, and all he could make out in the distance was the inflatable climbing the next wave, on a beeline for the Former Donald.
Unable to spot Ned and fearing for his own safety, Lanny hid in the marsh. He parted thick blades and pulled himself into the middle. There he crouched, making sure his head was below the top of the grass. Soon he heard yelling, a struggle… but no gunshots.
He had just caught his breath when the spotlight beam came sweeping toward him. Lanny had once seen an escapee in a movie breathe through a hollow reed, using it like a snorkel, but he had neither the time nor the light to search for hollow reeds. He simply submerged himself in seawater and marsh grass, gripping roots on the bottom to hold himself under. The spotlight passed overhead.
Buried under a foot of water, Lanny heard only an outboard engine some distance away. Then the motor shut off. Lanny waited as long as he could, but he needed air. Finally he emerged between grass blades, inhaling in one continuous gulp. He could not see the shore for the marsh, but he could hear the muffled shouts.
The spotlight swept toward him again. He feared for his own capture and went under. Seconds later he rose to get a breath, and now the shouts were loud, and sirens sounded from the beach.
Lanny stood on his toes and peered over the top of the marsh. Two vehicles.
Now four! He saw the Former Donald being led into the back of a Jeep.
Again the spotlight swept across the marsh, and Lanny quickly went under. When he resurfaced, his heart sank.
Down the beach he heard MC Deluxe yell, “Loose me, man!”
From somewhere beyond MC, Crackhead shouted at his captors. “I never done no drugs. I never done nothin’ to nobody!”
The spotlight ceased its searching, and Lanny stood on his toes again. He saw only headlights from the Jeeps, and a steady drizzle reflecting in the beams. No sign of DJ Ned. Then he heard doors slam, engines start. He didn’t know if Ned had been captured or drowned—or both.
Lanny remained in the marsh grass for over an hour, until the first light of dawn crept upon Tybee Island. The shore was vacant now. The Jeeps and the guards and his friends were gone, and Lanny struggled to free his feet from roots and mud. He pulled away and waded out of the marsh, black mud in his sneakers, sharp cuts on his ankles. He sloshed through warm surf onto an empty beach, where the many footprints gave evidence of a struggle.
He stood there dripping like a castaway, his head spinning from the sheer speed at which his circumstances had changed. Oneminute you’re on a yacht with your buddies in a red marble hot tub, the next you’re alone in wet clothes on an empty beach.
Lanny turned and gazed out to sea. Some four hundred yards away, the yacht and the Coast Guard cutter sat at odd angles to each other. Small waves bumped against their port sides.
The sun had yet to emerge and the landscape was still murky when Lanny tromped across the beach and entered a sparse wood. A few palms, some scrub brush, a picnic table. In the distance he heard traffic on a road. He waited in the woods until the traffic passed, then he ran across the road and into a more manicured wood. All the leaves and sticks had been removed, and the dirt had been raked. He found himself running across a mammoth lawn.
No, not a lawn, he thought as he jogged. I’ve stumbled upon another golf course.
Here in the early morning light, wet and tired and hungry, Lanny was welcomed by his old nemesis—signage. This one was small and square and wooden. It had a golf landscape painted in the middle, green and straight, with a pair of white sandtraps etched on opposing sides of the fairway.
Hole #14, 527 yards
Par 7 for the Fortunate.
Par 2 for everyone else.
As was his desire, Lanny had arrived safely back in America. And though he missed his friends and hated that they’d been recaptured, he had made up his mind as to his proper course of action. He would find some dry clothes, get something to eat, and resume his search for Miranda.
Home, sweet home.
23
(a short little chapter dedicated to the capture of DJ Ned Neutral)
DJ NED WAS NOT CAPTURED in the surf with the others. Nor was he caught on the beach or in the marsh. The portly music lover had fooled the zealots—at least for a little while. As the guards sped through the waves during their wee-hour pursuit, Ned knew that he could never out-swim their inflatable to shore. So he took the largest gulp of air he could hold, dove under, and began swimming along the bottom—and out to sea.
At th
at moment, the guards had their spotlight fixed on the Former Donald. Beyond him, MC and Crackhead were spotted running along the beach, and so the inflatable had passed right over Ned. He had heard the propeller buzz over his scalp.
Ned surfaced well behind the raft and back near the sandbar. He dove again and swam along the bottom until the tide pushed him around the sandbar and to the starboard side of the yacht. He hid on the far side of the bow, just beneath the anchor. He peeked around the bow and saw the Coast Guard cutter stranded on the port side, where two remaining guards waited for the inflatable to return and pick them up.
Pressed against the yacht’s side, his feet sinking in wet sand, Ned heard the two guards board the yacht at the rear. Ned looked up some twenty feet and saw the tops of their heads as they searched the bow. Finding nothing, the guards departed and hitched a ride on the inflatable. The raft sped toward shore, where all the action was taking place.
Ned had witnessed part of all three captures. First the Former Donald, who was plucked from the surf;then Crackhead, who was halfway up a palm tree when the spotlight found him;and then MC Deluxe, tackled in the sand as he sprinted for the woods. Not that anyone caught MC from behind;the guards had the benefit of the Tybee Island Beach Police in bright yellow Jeeps. These officers had shone their headlights into MC, blinding him as to where to run.
Alone then and wondering what had happened to Lanny, Ned climbed the rope ladder to hide out in the yacht. For the next few minutes he toyed with the idea of starting the engines and trying to back the yacht out of the sand. But he knew the noise would give him away.
Perhaps wait for sunrise, he thought. Wait till the beach is clear.
Ned went to the captain’s chair and peered out over the steering wheel. Over the bow he saw the first police vehicle leave the beach. Then a second and a third.
Ned held a Cuban cigar, about to light it and celebrate his clever escape, when the guard who had hid in the supply closet came out and slapped the handcuffs on him.
Ned dropped the cigar to the floor and mumbled a curse.
The guard led Ned to the bow, then spoke into a walkie-talkie and told his comrades on shore to come pick up a fourth escapee. Ned saw the inflatable raft turn from the beach and motor toward them.
“Back to Cuba?” he asked the guard.
The guard nudged him to the railing, just above the rope ladder. “You got it.”
By now the rain had ceased, and the sky morphed from murky gray to murky pink. The pair stood there on the bow of Castro’s yacht and watched the raft bounce toward them on the waves. While they waited, the guard checked Ned’s handcuffs for proper tightness and asked, “Wasn’t there a fifth escapee with you all? Some construction guy by the last name of Hooch?”
“He drowned two days ago,” Ned said, looking as solemn as possible. “Tried to swim ashore near Boca Raton.”
“Oh… I’m sorry.”
DJ Ned may have been a slow swimmer, but he was an excellent liar. And he was certain that Lanny would have done the same for him.
24
IT TOOK THREE DAYS, umpteen lies, and the charity of a long-haul trucker, but Lanny managed to hitchhike back to Orlando, where in the dead of night he found his sage green Xterra undisturbed, still parked in the producer’s spot outside of Fence-Straddler AM Radio.
Only this time there was no one inside the station to answer the code word.
The lights were off, and Lanny did not even try the door. He simply waved good-bye to the charitable trucker and unlocked his Xterra. All he had with him were the clothes he’d been given to wear—a Got Religion? T-shirt—plus his wallet and yesterday’s Savannah newspaper.
Atop the fold in the religion section—which made for practically the entire paper—was the headline: Marvin and Friends Capture Four on Tybee Island!!
Lanny turned on his dome light and read for a second time how his four friends had been returned to Cuba. He was particularly interested in the last sentence of the article: One of the five escapees, Lanny Hooch from Atlanta, drowned in an attempt to swim to the mainland near Boca Raton.
Being a man without a country was bad enough—and being a man with a lost girlfriend was even worse—now Lanny was a man without a life, at least according to the Savannah Register
Lanny slept in his Xterra for over two hours. But it wasn’t normal sleep. For the first time since the zealot invasion, he slept hard enough to dream….
Lanny had just driven to Miranda’s apartment to pick her up for a date. She came walking out of her door, smiling in a red dress, her hair pulled over one shoulder. He met her halfway up the sidewalk and they embraced. Then he walked her to the passenger door of his Xterra and gently held her hand as she climbed in. Blissful, Lanny hurried around the truck and eased behind the wheel, wanting to kiss her. But when he leaned across the console to meet Miranda’s lips, she pulled up short and spoke in a voice of doom: “THOU SHALT NOT KISS BEFORE MARRIAGE, SAYETH MY TRUE LOVE!”
Stunned, Lanny retreated, wedging himself against his door. “But. . . but aren’t I your true love?”
“NEVER! MY HEART BELONGETH TO MARVIN!”
Lanny woke shivering in his Xterra, sweat dripping from his brow.
Dream over. Back to the nightmare.
After sunrise he drove once again out to Cocoa Beach and to Pelican’s Harbor Retirement Homes. His previous note still dangled from the nails in the front door;the black leather travel bag still sat on the doorstep;and the penny, that shiny copper penny, was still lodged in the tire tread of the beige Buick.
Beside the car Lanny picked up a rock. With great frustration he hurled it into the street. Then he shouted to the sky, “Miranda, where are you?!”
Like a hungry bird returning again to an empty feeder, Lanny drove next to the Bluewater Marina. If Miranda isn’t there, I’ll go look for her in Atlanta.
Skies were clear when he arrived in the parking lot, and he hurried across the oyster shells and down to the docks.
She wasn’t there, of course.
Neither were most of the boats. All but three had sailed away to parts unknown. Other than the Saniti, only The Humbleness and the Formal on Sundays 2 remained in port.
Lanny gritted his teeth and stepped down onto the Saniti. From what he could tell, the cabin had not been touched, neither had the deck. This lack of additional clues forced on him a new kind of anger, a resentment of his own life: He cursed the takeover;he yelled again for Miranda;he spat into the water and kicked a bench. Finally he reached above both ears and pulled his hair.
Lanny sat on the dock for hours, his mind spinning further into turmoil. But by early afternoon too many memories plus too many disappointments added up and caused him to flee. Off the dock he ran, yelling things unintelligible. He had become a crazed man, and before he left the parking lot and hit the highways for Atlanta, he did something that befit the crazed.
From a neighboring Mazda, Lanny stole both a license plate and a bumper sticker. The car was covered with a rainproof tarp—which made it a logical target. Lanny figured the owner was out to sea, hopefully for several weeks.
The license plate he took read CU N HVN;the bumper sticker read simply, Repent of Bingo. It tore at the edges as he pulled it off. He had some glue in his toolbox, however, and that was enough to secure the sticker to his right rear bumper. Satisfied, Lanny stepped back and admired his new accessories. He figured these items were all the disguise he’d need.
And he was proved right.
At the Cocoa Beach BP station, an attendant came out and inspected the rear of Lanny’s truck. He then shook Lanny’s hand and said, “Thanks for stoppin’ by, brother. Today our low low price is only twelve cents per gallon.”
Lanny nodded in faux appreciation and pumped fifteen gallons into his tank. He wanted to punch the guy for calling him “brother,” but Lanny was now a full-fledged poser, so he kept his cool and went inside to pay.
He felt no joy from being charged only a dollar and eighty cents for fift
een gallons—he’d become numb to any stimuli not directly related to Miranda. In fact, he failed to notice that this was the first positive thing to happen to him since he and MC Deluxe caught the dogfish.
A long journey to Atlanta lay ahead, so Lanny added a grape soda to his purchase. Fidgety and anxious to resume his quest, he thrust a five-dollar bill at the cashier.
The young cashier boy rang up the total, glanced at Lanny’s five, and said, “Sir, I need to remind you that you only have three more days to exchange your old currency for the new.”
Nerves aflutter, Lanny dropped his can of soda on the counter. He quickly picked it up, saying, “Yeah, sure… I know.”
The cashier took his five and handed him his change. “Your change is two dollars and sixty-seven cents.”
“Whose face is on the new—” Lanny glanced down at the ones in his palm. “Oh, never mind.”
“Looks very authentic, doesn’t he?” the clerk said, smiling.
Lanny stepped backward to the door, his eyes still on the bills in his palm. “Yeah… just like, um, the real thing.”
Outside in the heat again, Lanny took deep breaths and tried to stop shaking. He didn’t want to stuff the new bills into his pocket, yet he knew he needed to continue to pose or risk getting sent back to Havana and the paint brigade. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Lanny knew that those fifteen gallons purchased under disguise had saved him nearly a hundred bucks.
He drove quickly to the interstate and sped north. As Orlando became Ocala, and Ocala became Gainesville, and Gainesville, Valdosta, he fought sleep. He stayed awake by lowering his windows and letting the air slap his face. Miles later he began wondering if DJ Ned, MC, and Crackhead were again whitewashing graffiti, and if so, were they listening to the Former Donald whisper yet another daring escape plan? Lanny hoped so;he missed his friends.
Just after 10:30 p.m. he reached Atlanta, where he merged onto 1-85 north and took exit 99 past Pappadeaux Seafood Kitchen. A mile down the road he turned into Miranda’s apartment complex.
A Pagan's Nightmare Page 19
