A woman—wait, was it a woman? Or a troll? The hag wore a paper-thin undergarment—Troy choked back the bile in his throat—and held a cast-iron skillet in one hand. She shook it over her head as she yelled at him. It took a few minutes before he could make out what she was saying and even when he thought he had it, he only caught a few words. Something about the police and jail and vagrant. He knew better than to wait around until he figured out exactly what she was saying.
He got up and started running … er, limping down the highway. He wasn’t sure exactly where he was going. The cop had said not to go back to the tennis club, Cinnamon wasn’t anywhere to be found, and he didn’t have any money to get a hotel room or a drink. As he walked, the various points of pain that were likely areas of his body that would be bruised tomorrow began to throb. He slowed and eventually came to a stop. He desperately needed to think. He sat down and ran through the events of the past few days.
The cop had said that the fellow at the tennis club must have been after him, but that didn’t make sense. Troy didn’t have any money, didn’t cause anybody any trouble, and didn’t have any enemies—or friends, for that matter—that might want to do him harm. Cinnamon might have gone back to work. He could walk to Woody’s and see what was up with her. But the more he thought about that, the more he was sure she wouldn’t go back in there … at least not tonight.
He decided to take his chances and go back to the Islamorada Tennis Club. At least there, he would have a hot shower and a bed to crash into so his aches and pains could have a chance to recede. And he’d be careful approaching the place. He knew enough about stealth to check it out before any potential threats detected his presence.
Half an hour later, he was tiptoeing through the edge of the mangroves on the north side of the tennis property. It was deeper and muckier than usual after all the rain and for a second he wondered if he’d made a huge mistake trudging into the swamp with his bad knee. But slowly and surely, he made his way toward the one visible yellow lightbulb on the backside of the pro shop. He poked a hand through the foliage surrounding court number one and pulled it back slightly so he could see the porch. Nothing. No movement. No sign of anyone there. He was about to push through and go into the apartment when something bumped against his leg.
He jumped, sending a knife of pain into his knee and he sat down hard. He found himself chest deep in the murky water staring at something long and bumpy floating just above the surface. He lurched backward hard, suddenly terrified that the gator he’d heard poking around outside the fence was about to make a meal of him. He kicked with his good leg and it thumped into the side of the thing.
It made an odd, hollow sound and Troy realized the object wasn’t moving. He tested it with another gentle kick. Still nothing. He squinted his eyes and saw through the dirt and grime on it a patch of bright orange peeking out. He moved closer and used his hand to sweep across the top and revealed even more of the object’s true color. It was smooth along most of its length, but his hand caught on something sharp down near the front. He pulled away, thinking he’d been bit, even knowing this wasn’t an alligator. He glanced at his finger to see he’d cut himself on whatever this was.
“Well, that’ll be infected by morning,” he muttered.
And then it struck him as he stood and looked at the floating, orange thing in front of him. It’s a kayak, he thought. Or a paddle board or something. He reached under the closest edge and heaved up. With an unceremonious splash it flipped over and he could see that it was, indeed a kayak. To his untrained eye, it looked like it might be an expensive one. But then he saw what he’d cut himself on. The front of the thing was a jagged mess. It had been torn and cut and shredded like the Orca in Steven Spielberg’s classic, Jaws.
“I think we’re gonna need a bigger boat,” he quoted the famous line. “Or at least one with fewer holes.”
As if hearing his doubt of its seaworthiness, the kayak gurgled and began to sink. He chuckled and it echoed in the trees with an odd sound. He made a mental note that he’d come out here tomorrow and get it out of here and take it up to the dump.
The strange echo of his laugh came back again, which he thought was weird since he hadn’t laughed again. The next sound was closer and Troy realized, with new terror, that it wasn’t a chuckle he was hearing. It was a chumpf.
“Dangit,” he wheezed, and tried to slowly move away from the kayak, back toward the road.
It was a long, long way, and his knee pounding. If the gator had discovered him, he knew he wasn’t going to make it out alive. He moved as slowly as he could, careful not to make anything bigger than a ripple in the water.
As his back bumped up against a larger tree trunk, the water beside the kayak exploded and a narrow, jagged mouth slammed into the orange plastic. Troy decided that silence wasn’t his major concern. He pulled himself up to stand, wobbly on top of the tree roots. At least up here, he could move a little faster.
He turned and played a game of “the water is lava” across the bare feet of the mangrove trees, hopping and jumping as best he could. He looked over his shoulder at the thrashing sound and in a moment he would never forget for as long as he lived, he locked eyes with the alligator.
Lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll's eyes. When it comes at you, it doesn't seem to be livin', Troy thought.
The alligator paused for a split second, perhaps assessing the new creature in front of him. And then he lunged. Troy ran. Somehow, his feet found solid purchase all the way across the swamp to the highway. He burst out onto the road and ran north, ignoring the pain in his legs, without looking back.
He was sure he heard the alligator grunting and snapping at his heels all the way to Woody’s.
28
The Big Reveal
Chad Harrison aka Cap Wayfarer always enjoyed eating at local establishments and turning down the requests for pictures and autographs he received. He once grabbed a photographer’s ridiculously overpriced Hasselblad camera and tossed it into the lobster tank at the Islamorada Fish Company. As a matter of actual fact though, such requests and intrusions were becoming less and less frequent since it had been over eleven years since any of his books had rated into the top one hundred bestsellers on any mainstream list. And being recognized wasn’t what it was in the eighties. His file photo at Knoxnews.com was a picture his second girlfriend—or was it third—had taken of him sitting in his prized Sun Dolphin Aruba 10 Foot Sit-In Kayak. The color— Opulent Orange had cost an extra two-hundred and fifty bucks—almost as much as the sticker price on the thing.
Tonight, he’d brought his current girlfriend out to eat. Thankfully, she was too young, and perhaps too stupid, to know anything about fine dining, so he’d brought her to one of the tourist traps along the highway. It was reasonable and usually the service was okay, but Chad was particularly upset that no one, not even the vacationers sitting at the table down by the pier, recognized him. He sighed as he perused the menu of fried and tossed and breaded bottom-feeding fish offerings.
“Oooh,” his girlfriend said, flipping her platinum blonde bangs to the side, “I’m gonna get the grouper basket.”
She said it in a way that made him think she considered it to be a specialty, a prized dish, an award winning entrée. He pursed his lips and hid the fact that he was repulsed by the plebianistic offerings on the twenty-two page menu.
And that’s when the ding alerted him to a new email on his phone. He was thankful for the interruption to their riveting conversation. He stood and put his phone to his ear.
“Sorry, doll,” he mouthed, holding his hand over the speaker portion of the iPhone, “Gotta take this.”
She nodded dutifully, batting her eyelashes over wide eyes in response to how important her boyfriend was and flashing don’t-you-wish-you-were-me glances at all the people who just happened to look her way—at this particular moment, there weren’t any, but she saved the special look for another day.
“Should I order for you?” she cal
led as he walked away.
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” he said and pushed through the front door.
The email was from the paper. It read like a generic notice, but it was only sent (via non-bcc’d-email addresses) to him, Dori Handler, and Rex Kiser—the three editorial writers on staff.
He mumbled aloud as he read the email.
Something, something, something. The McGlashen group that acquired Blight House Inc., publishers of Knoxnews.com, WaveRunners, and Tropical Thriller Press is filing for bankruptcy. Staff writers are still employed for now, but to keep delivering quality journalism and reporting, some downsizing must occur.
Your current pay period will end at midnight tonight and any and all unpublished articles that you have delivered to the editor will remain property of Keysnews.com.
“Holy crap,” he said aloud to the nearly deserted parking lot. “They fired me with an email.”
He immediately dialed the editor and though it was after hours, he knew Ed was still in the office pumping out mind-numbing pieces about the service workers upcoming basketball game or the pie-eating contest at Mary’s Bakery and Pasties down on Marathon. Naturally, his call went to voicemail. After punching zero until he reached the appropriate mailbox, he screamed the most vile curse words he could think of to the recording and then in a fit of rage, turned and flung his phone as hard as he could. It hit the large red sign bearing the restaurant’s name—ROBBIE’S. It shattered into at least four big plastic pieces and thousands of other microscopic glass bits—all of which splashed down into the Tarpon feeding station down on the dock. The fish woke and began a soon-to-be-disappointed frenzy attacking the shell of Chad’s phone as it drifted down into the black, murky water.
With his heart pounding and his breath coming in ragged staccato, he realized that had been a very bad idea. He was about to take his walk of shame back into the touristy waterfront eatery when he overheard voices. Without making it obvious, he inclined his head toward a white Jeep sitting in the handicap spot next to the front door.
An oddly dressed man was crying into his hands as a woman sat in the passenger’s seat consoling him. The roof was off, so as Chad got closer, he could hear more and more of their conversation.
“...and that’s why I can’t go to the police about the kayak. Stupid, orange piece of … it’s a vessel of death. That’s what it is.”
Chad’s pulse raced. Sweat beaded on his forehead as adrenaline pulsed into his veins. He felt like he did when he was on the trail of a hot scoop or uncovering a political scandal involving sex and drugs and dirty money. He stole one quick look at the thieving passengers for identification purposes and felt sure he would be able to identify the woman … actually, she looked strangely familiar, but didn’t all the bimbos from Miami. The man never lifted his head from his hands as he sobbed, but Chad figured it wouldn’t matter if he could get the damnable Sheriff of Islamorada down here fast enough.
He ducked into the restaurant, leaned over the host stand, and grabbed the reservation and to-go order telephone he knew was stashed there. He startled the girl at the stand, who had been leaning back, smacking her gum, and tapping her phone furiously—perhaps connecting rows of candy, or promising some kind of late-night sweets for her boyfriend. She yelped and slapped the back of his hand, making him drop the receiver.
“This is official police business, honey,” he snapped. “So, why don’t you take your sexting somewhere else while I take care of this.”
Her face darkened and if her jaw hadn’t dropped open, he might’ve suspected that she’d swallowed her gum. As it was, he could see it floating around her back teeth, bobbing up and down with the pulsing of her angry tongue. She stormed off, stomping her flip-flops as hard as she could on the sandy, pine floor. Chad grabbed the phone again and dialed 9-1-1. When he heard the line connect, he didn’t wait for the sheriff or whoever was manning the phones tonight to answer.
“They’re here. I’m at Robbie’s down by seventy-seven. I’ve got eyes on them and I’ll keep them contained until you get here.”
He heard a groan on the other end of the line. Sheriff Paul Puckett said, “Christ, Chad. Is that you? What in the Sam Hill are you talking about?”
There was a pause and Chad could almost hear the man looking up at the schoolhouse clock perched on the wall above the door.
“Sheriff,” he snapped. “I know you have an important game of solitaire to get through, or perhaps a second reading of the latest edition of Guns and Ammo, but this is actual, important police business. I just overheard a couple parked in front of Robbie’s discussing an orange kayak—my orange kayak.”
The line disconnected. He stared into the receiver and banged it against the well-worn host stand. A piece of wood splintered and went flying off the top edge. Chad slammed the phone down and swiveled to return to his table. He almost bumped into a man’s chest—a chest as wide as his leather sectional sofa imported from Italy. The man, dressed in a skin-tight black t-shirt, had biceps that pulsed with ropey veins circling them in steroidal anger. Tucked behind him, hands jammed defiantly on her hips, was the hostess still smacking her gum.
“That’s the guy, right there.” She pointed a furious finger at him and her earrings jingled as her head bobbed back and forth.
As the man’s beach-ball-sized hand covered Chad’s face and dragged him toward the front door, he was thankful that at least he would be outside where he could keep an eye on the kayak thieves. He skidded to a stop only three feet from the front of the white Jeep they were sitting in. Picking bits of gravel out of his skin, he could almost hear them talking again over the ringing in his ears.
29
Nobody Home
Gary lifted his head off his steering wheel long enough to see the bouncer—a cute young football player from FIU named Mike—throwing another drunk out of the restaurant. The poor drunk tourist wearing a faded powder blue polo, torn khaki shorts, and one leather sandal bounced across the sidewalk and scraped into the gravel lot in front of them. Gary wondered if he’d wake up there in the morning and wonder how in the hell he’d gotten there.
He wiped his nose and turned to Cinnamon. She was a good girl, sweet and kind—too sweet and kind for the drama he was dragging her into.
“You know what?” he said. “I’m actually okay, now that I think about it.”
“You’re okay?” Cinnamon asked with a huff. “Your boyfriend is dead and you’re … okay?”
Her eyes filled with tears. Gary wasn’t sure what that was all about, but he shrugged and took a deep breath.
“I mean,” he said, “there isn’t much I can do. The kayak is gone, Dani’s gone, Ma—”
He stopped short. He had told Cinnamon about Dani, but hadn’t said anything about Matty. She didn’t need to know anything about that. He decided not to mention it.
“I guess you’re right,” she said, her tears escaping her eyes and trailing down her cheeks making small, hot tracks of mascara. “My boyfriend—well, my guy friend anyway—is gone, too.”
“Really?” Gary asked, happy to change the subject. “What happened?”
“Well, he’s missing,” she said wiping her eyes. “He might’ve just run off. He’s done that before. But usually he tells me when he’s going to be gone. I think … I think something … bad has happened.”
Gary shivered. “Worse than being eaten by an alligator?”
She nodded her head. “Maybe. I work for some pretty shady characters down at—”
She was interrupted by the sound of Gary’s cell phone blaring out It’s Raining Men. Sorry, he mouthed and pulled it out of his pocket. He groaned at the screen, tapped the button to decline the call.
“That’s the review calling about Dani. The owner of the Bourbon Street place on Duval is asking where his star singer is and I don’t know what to tell him. I mean, he’s been calling non-stop.”
“Surely, they’ve got someone else who can do it.” Cinnamon said, matter-of-factly.
> “Honey, I don’t think you know how good Dani really was,” Gary started, but then began to sob uncontrollably before he could add to his sentiment.
“Hey, hey,” she said, running a hand over his back to calm him down, “It’s going to be okay. We’ll figure this thing out. I’m not sure what happens next, but—”
“I’m going to jail,” Gary jerked his head up. “That’s what’s next.”
“That is absolutely not true. You haven’t done anything wrong and …”
Her words trailed off as she saw a look of horror spread across Gary’s face. He wasn’t looking at her, he was staring out the front windshield. She turned and was startled to see the drunk guy standing up, looking at them over the hood of the Jeep.
“Gary,” she whispered, trying not to move her lips, “let’s get out of here, please.”
He jammed the gear shift backward, and stomped the accelerator to the floor. Gravel and rock flew out from the tires as the wheels fought for purchase. A spray of debris shot out and rained all over the drunk. Bruises and welts and scrapes began to appear immediately as the man raised his hands to block the barrage of rocky hail flying at him. As they tore out on the highway, the night wind rushing through their hair, they could hear him screaming in the parking lot far behind them.
“What do you mean, you ain’t heard from your man?” Dante Caparelli growled into the family phone. The long, evil silence on the other end of the line told him he’d overstepped.
For a second, he considered hanging up, or maybe even apologizing for his gaffe. But no. This was his son and the family was supposed to be sending a professional to take care of it.
“Are you tellin’ me that a two-bit, serial killer with a stupid hat and a drinking problem managed to outsmart the guy?”
Gator Wave Page 14
