No Sunscreen for the Dead

by Tim Dorsey

  They all collected in the clubhouse parking lot, stretching and yawning.

  “. . . Time for a nap . . .”

  “. . . I need my medicine . . .”

  “. . . Check it out! They took down the crime scene tape at the Duncans’ . . .”

  Indeed, they had.

  “Looks like you can sleep at home tonight,” said Lawrence.

  “I better check with the police first,” said Ike, pulling out the detective’s business card and dialing a cell phone. “Yes, this is Mr. Duncan from Boca Shores. You said I could call day or night . . . Well, I noticed the tape is down at my house . . . What? It’s clear? We can go back in? . . . You tried to tell me today? Six times? . . .” He held out the phone and adjusted his reading glasses. “Oh, I have six missed calls. That must be you . . . Okay, thanks.” Click.

  “Sounds like you’re good to go,” said Lawrence. “Think you’re ready?”

  “More than ready,” said Ike. “Between the vacation and last night, I want nothing more than to sleep in my own bed.”

  The couple climbed into their Buick Regal.

  Everyone else felt relief that the Duncans seemed to be bouncing back, but there was still the whiff of concern. They waved as the Buick left the lot, rounded the lake and pulled into their carport.

  The sun began to set over the aluminum roofs as the rest of the residents dispersed back to their own trailers.

  Hours later, a regular evening phenomenon that you could set your watch by: One by one, the mobile homes’ lights went dark in a specific sequence according to respective circadian rhythms.

  Finally, they were all out, except for the dim, bluish glow from an insomniac’s TV showing a blizzard in Buffalo.

  Lawrence sat up in bed. “Did you hear that?”

  “What?” asked a groggy Nancy.

  “I’m not sure,” said her husband. “I think something woke me up.”

  Ding-dong . . .

  Nancy grabbed the bedside alarm clock. “Who can it be at this hour?”

  Lawrence swung pajama legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll find out.”

  He padded his way through the trailer, switched on the porch light and peeked. Then he quickly opened up.

  “Ike! Judy!” He urgently unlocked the screen door. “What on earth are you doing over here?”

  Chapter 30

  Midnight

  Judy had to take a seat in one of the porch chairs. “It was just too soon.”

  “We thought we were ready,” said Ike. “But we got in there and lay down with just our thoughts, and it was way too creepy.”

  “People were just killed in there,” said Judy. “People we knew.”

  “As soon as we got in bed and turned off the lights, the whole room glowed with that stuff the police spray to look for blood,” said Ike. “How can anyone go to sleep like that?”

  “We’re sorry to impose,” said Judy.

  “You know you’re always welcome here.” Lawrence stared out at the dark lake, where fat raindrops began to plunk. “And it looks like you made it just in time.”

  They all took seats on the porch to relax and take in the weather show. The sky began to flash again. A few other still-awake residents emerged onto their porches.

  “When we first moved in, this lightning stuff spooked me.” Judy rocked in her swinging patio chair. “Now I look forward to it.”

  “Me too,” said Ike. “Just as long as I have surge protectors on everything, it’s relaxing.”

  A streak of light crackled sideways across the sky, then a second. Clouds glowed and pulsed on the horizon.

  There was a faraway pop.

  “Transformer.” Ike nodded to himself. “I can always tell now.”

  Porch chairs continued rocking. Lawrence got up and grabbed the handle on the glass door. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I’m good,” said Ike.

  “Maybe a little orange juice?” asked Judy.

  “You got it.” Lawrence went inside and bent down in front of the refrigerator. “There you are . . .” He pulled out a carton and began pouring.

  A louder pop, and lights in the trailer flickered.

  “Transformer.” Lawrence set the carton down. “That one was really close—”

  Then:

  Boom!

  A glass of orange juice shattered on the floor. “Okay, that was no transformer.”

  He raced back to the porch. Everyone was on their feet. And not just his porch, but every single one in the park. Even those where the residents hadn’t been sitting out to take in the storm.

  The lake flickered bright orange from the reflection across the way. On the other side of the water at the Duncans’ trailer, a blue Buick Regal lay in pieces. What hadn’t been blown apart was now fully engulfed in flames, licking at the roof of the carport and beginning to set the mobile home on fire.

  “What the hell?” said Lawrence.

  “Maybe lightning hit the gas tank?” said his wife.

  Lawrence turned to see an ashen, trembling couple. “Geez, are you okay?”

  “Why don’t we all go back inside?” said Nancy.

  Soon sirens streamed into the park. The fire department quickly had the hoses going, and two brave souls with air tanks and flashlights ran into the smoke for the bedrooms. They quickly dashed back out and pulled off their masks.

  “Well?” asked their chief.

  They shook their heads.

  “They’re gone?” said the chief.

  “Yes, literally. The house is empty.”

  The rest of the team quickly sprayed down the flames. Photo albums and other sentimentals might be salvaged, but otherwise a total loss.

  Then more drama as the police arrived. There was excited pointing and other gestures between the officers and firefighters. Unmarked cars screeched up, and detectives joined the scrum. They got on the radio for reinforcements.

  Minutes later, an official van pulled up to the house.

  Lawrence rubbed his chin. “The bomb squad?”

  Earl was out in the road, holding back the TV trucks. More flashing lights poured through the entrance. Someone in thick armor and what looked like a welding helmet approached the Buick’s smoldering chassis. Phones were ringing around the park. Rumors.

  “Ike,” said Lawrence. “Can I have a word inside?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  They went into the kitchen nook and lowered voices. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” said Ike.

  “I’ve known you for a while, and all of this would have been incredible if I hadn’t seen it for myself,” said Lawrence. “First your houseguests and now this. It’s too much of a coincidence. Either you have some serious enemies, or this is a terrible case of mistaken identity, but either way we need to go over to the police right now.”

  “No!”

  Lawrence looked down at his right arm, where Ike had seized him. “Tell me what you’re not telling me.”

  “I can’t right now.”

  “Are you and Judy in some kind of trouble?”

  “Yes.”

  “That settles it,” said Lawrence. “If you won’t go the police, then I will.”

  “Please don’t! It’s much bigger trouble than that.” Ike fell into a chair. “I’ll tell you everything. I just have to collect myself first. It’s a long story, so for right now, promise me you won’t go to the police or tell anyone else we’re here. For the moment we’re safe. People think we died in the fire.”

  Lawrence pointed in the direction of the trailer. “The authorities already know you weren’t home.”

  “But the people who did this don’t. Not yet. And even when the authorities announce that nobody died, the culprits might think it’s disinformation, a cover-up.”

  Lawrence dropped into his own chair. “This is way too much intrigue for me.”

  Red and blue lights filled the kitchen as a dozen more patrol cars rounded the lake and parked at various points. The first
hours would be the most critical.

  Lawrence went to the window. “Cops are starting to knock on doors.”

  “They’re canvassing,” said Ike. “Get Judy in here.”

  Lawrence slid the door open and calmly asked the two women to come inside. “Ike, Judy, go in the spare bedroom and close the door and don’t come out till I say.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Nancy.

  Lawrence stared down the hall until he’d confirmed they were safely in place. He led his wife to the couch. “I don’t know, but it’s something serious. Ike’s so scared he’s afraid to go to the police.”

  “That’s nonsense,” said Nancy. “If it’s something that bad, then they have to go to the police.”

  “You didn’t see his face,” said Lawrence. “Until he tells me the full story, I’m going to abide by his wishes. We can always approach the authorities later, but if he’s right about whatever he’s hiding, then that’s a bell we won’t be able to un-ring.”

  “I don’t know—”

  He grabbed her hands in both of his. “Will you trust me?”

  “Okay, but I’m not a very good actor—”

  Ding-dong . . .

  Lawrence went out on the porch. “Yes, Officer?”

  “Sorry to bother you at this late hour, but may I come in and ask you a few questions?” said a corporal.

  “No problem at all. How can I help?”

  They made use of the patio furniture.

  “The other neighbors said you were close to the Duncans . . .”

  “Yes, very close.”

  “When was the last time you saw them?”

  “This afternoon on our field trip to Saint Petersburg. We said good-bye outside the bus at the clubhouse.”

  “Have you seen or heard anything from them since . . .” The corporal glanced across the lake.

  “Wait. What?” said Lawrence. “They’re still alive? I was just assuming the worst.”

  “Unfortunately, I can’t say anything because it’s early in the investigation,” said the officer. “Is your wife up?”

  “Who?”

  “Your wife. Is she awake?”

  “Um, uh, sure.”

  Lawrence stepped inside the glass door and didn’t expect the corporal to follow, but there he was in the living room. “Honey, can you come here?”

  “What is it?”

  He quickly hugged her. “You’re not going to believe this, but the Duncans are alive!”

  “Really?”

  “The officer can’t say anything official . . . Isn’t that right? . . .”

  The corporal nodded.

  “. . . But I read between the lines. They weren’t home.”

  Nancy gasped. “Oh my God.” Then she glanced down the hall before crying into her hands. “They’re alive! They’re alive!”

  Jesus, Lawrence thought. That really is bad acting. But the corporal seemed not to notice because of the uncomfortable nature of the moment.

  “Ahem, I know this is difficult,” said the cop. “But time is of the essence. Have your friends had any recent visitors? Someone new, not known to you?”

  They shook their heads.

  “Any changes in their behavior lately? Seemed jumpy or nervous?”

  “You know,” said Nancy, “they did appear worried yesterday.”

  Lawrence: What are you doing? Just shake your head no again.

  “Worried?” asked the officer, flipping open a notepad.

  “Yes, they wanted to cash in some CDs, but there was an issue about their taxes.”

  “That’s it?”

  She nodded.

  The corporal closed his pad. “Here’s my business card. Please call if you remember something, even if it seems insignificant. Sorry again for the intrusion. I’ll let myself out.”

  “Anything to help the police,” said Nancy.

  The screen door closed and the officer moved on to the next trailer.

  Nancy turned to her husband. “What’s that look you’re giving me?”

  “What was that business about the CDs?”

  “I didn’t think he was buying it,” said Nancy. “I wanted to make it believable.”

  “Un-believable,” said Lawrence, heading down the hall and stopping outside a closed door. “The officer’s gone. You can come out now.”

  A muffled voice from behind the locked door. “We don’t want to.”

  Ding-dong . . .

  “Stay put,” said Lawrence, trotting away. “Who now?” He slipped back onto the porch. “Serge! Coleman! What are you guys doing here?”

  Serge bounded up the steps. “We came as soon as we heard. Is everyone okay? What about Nancy?”

  “We’re fine,” said Lawrence.

  Serge looked across the lake. Halting words. “Your . . . friends . . . ?”

  “They’re fine. Come inside, quick.” They gathered near the sofa. “God only knows why, but right now I feel you’re the only person I can talk to.”

  Serge smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Because I’ve become a good, trusted friend?”

  “Because you’re shady.”

  “Okay, among your tribe I guess that’s the same as a trusted friend. What’s on your mind?”

  “We’ve got a situation. Have a seat.”

  “Lawrence, don’t make me play twenty questions.”

  “I think someone is trying to kill the Duncans.”

  “I know someone is trying to kill the Duncans.”

  Lawrence’s head pulled back in puzzlement. “You do?”

  Serge nodded severely. “Textbook car bomb like that?”

  “But how do you know it wasn’t a lightning strike on the gas tank?”

  “Because that’s improbably rare. It would have to be a direct hit,” said Serge. “But if I was going to build a car bomb, and I’m not saying I would, but it would be wired to the ignition.” He pointed toward the wall socket next to the TV. “You have a surge suppressor. Excellent. When lightning hits nearby, it fills the air with static, gets into the power lines and shit. It doesn’t even have to hit very close to knock out your cable shows.”

  “I’m not seeing where this is going.”

  “We’ve had a ridiculous electrical storm tonight. Any transformers blow?”

  “A couple, like usual.”

  “The closest?”

  “On one of the poles next street over behind . . . the Duncans’.”

  “Their car was probably rigged to blow when they started it up tomorrow,” said Serge. “An ignition bomb trigger runs on a tiny amount of electricity, but it doesn’t have a surge suppressor. Lucky for them, the static in the air from that nearby strike tripped it early.”

  “How do you know all this?”

  “An excellent childhood.” Serge clapped his hands a single time. “Now, what’s the situation you mentioned?”

  “This way.” They walked down the hall, and Lawrence knocked again. “You can come out.”

  “We don’t want to.”

  “Let me take a wild stab.” Serge looked up at ceiling tiles and tapped his chin. “The Duncans?”

  “They’re in serious trouble. The kind where they can’t go to the police.”

  “What other kind is there?” Serge stepped up and knocked harder on the door. “Please come out.”

  “Lawrence, who the hell’s there with you?”

  “Candygram,” said Serge. “Special delivery.”

  “Everything’s okay,” Lawrence said through the door. “It’s someone you can trust, although it might not initially appear that way.”

  An extended pause. “We’re not coming out.”

  Serge knocked again. “I’ll huff and I’ll puff—”

  “Will you quit that?” said Lawrence.

  “Just trying to add levity.”

  “Ike, listen . . .” Lawrence’s mouth was almost against the wood. After several minutes, he was able to alleviate the tension and talk the Duncans in off the ledge.

  The door cautio
usly opened.

  The ensuing gathering around the kitchen table was more bizarre than the most dysfunctional holiday dinner. Coleman’s head was already down, his right cheek taking on the pattern of a place mat. Serge squeezed stress balls advertising an oral surgery center that was liberal with the nitrous oxide.

  “I’ll be direct,” said Serge. “I’m not with the police or anyone else. I follow nobody. And I’ve been in jams like yours more than you’ll ever know, so lay it on me, bro!”

  Ike exhaled a hard sigh and grabbed his wife’s hand. “Where do we start? It was the sixties and the country was tearing itself apart. If you think things are divided today, you weren’t there. Revolutionaries bombing government buildings, students shot at Kent State. So we joined the anti-war movement and that’s when we did some things we regret and everything went crazy.”

  “I get it,” said Serge. “You were a couple of those flower children who pulled something idealistically stupid and ended up fugitives. They’re still finding people on the run who robbed a bank in Fresno in ’68 to fund the cause.”

  “I wish it were that simple,” said Ike. “Everyone knows J. Edgar Hoover hated the hippies as well as Martin Luther King Jr., and it was an open secret he was trying to infiltrate the movements. So we infiltrated.”

  “You were FBI agents?”

  “It was so easy,” said Judy. “We started out by simply marching and waving signs at the demonstrations, and just like that they invited us in. Everybody was smoking dope, and the organizational meetings were disorganized meetings, playing records, drinking wine, voting whether to throw red paint on an army recruitment office.”

  “I don’t get it,” said Serge. “Then what’s the big secret? Why were you acting all suspicious just now?”

  “What Hoover hated even more than hippies were communists,” said Ike. “Most of the agents infiltrating the meetings were looking to get dirt on the leaders of the war protests. But Judy and I had a special assignment. We weren’t the only ones undercover. The Soviets also used agents to get inside the counter-culture, to stir things up. They had just as easy a time infiltrating as we did, probably easier. Our job was to infiltrate the KGB.”

  “Hold on,” said Serge. “I need a program to keep track of the players. So the FBI sent you into the anti-war movement to cozy up to the Soviets, who were also sent to infiltrate the movement? . . . I guess it makes sense on a certain level.”