Even so, Garth was no dummy. The first time we’d met, he’d managed to weasel a hundred bucks out of Grayson for pictures of Lester Jenkins, a UFO nut who’d allegedly been turned into man-pudding.
In contrast, Jimmy Wells, Garth’s brother, was the quintessential all-American boy. Handsome. Athletic. Clean-cut. And a rookie policeman. When he’d caught me and Grayson entering a taped-off crime scene, Jimmy had arrested us on the spot—at gunpoint. He’d cuffed us and read us our rights, doing everything exactly by the book.
But Jimmy had proved to be as naïve as he was straight-laced. Grayson and I’d quickly turned the tables on him. And later, Jimmy had gone off the deep-end, believing some pretty wild things based on some pretty sketchy evidence.
The odd-couple brothers lived together in a so-called “survivalist” compound that appeared, ironically, as if it had been ground zero for a recent apocalypse. Given the massive quantities of junk filling both their premises and their minds, any number of improbable things could’ve happened to the pair—from botulism to blowing themselves to smithereens.
If they were both dead, I wondered what would happen to their massive guard dog, Tooth. I pictured the huge, black hound and shook my head. It wasn’t likely another prepper would adopt him.
Although Tooth appeared as intimidating as one of the hounds of Hell, the poor pooch was all bark and no bite. In fact, when visitors came, Garth had to put Tooth in a cage—not to keep the dog from attacking, but so he wouldn’t pee all over the floor from sheer fright. Not that it would matter. Their place would make a pig cry for his sty.
“Not much longer,” Grayson said, interrupting my thoughts. He turned off the main road. “We should be there in a few minutes.”
“Right.” I unhooked my seatbelt and climbed out of the passenger seat.
“Where you going?” he asked.
“I gotta pee.”
“We’re almost there. Can’t you wait?”
“And use their bathroom? Are you kidding?”
“You’re right,” Grayson said. “Good thinking. We wouldn’t want to disturb any evidence.”
“Yeah.” I smirked. “My thought process exactly.”
AS I SCURRIED BACK to the passenger seat, Grayson turned onto a narrow, asphalt lane. I recognized it as one bisecting the rural suburb Jimmy and Garth called home.
The brothers’ compound was one of a dozen or so prepper-type properties that dotted the otherwise undeveloped stretch of native palmetto-and-pine woodlands. Most of these rural homesteads featured modest single- or doublewide trailers situated on four or five acres. All were tucked safely behind chain-link security fences that probably cost more than their aluminum-clad homes.
As we drew near the brothers’ property, I rolled down the passenger window and stuck my head out for a better view.
At first glance, everything seemed in order at the Wells’ country establishment. The algae-covered double-wide trailer was still standing where it always had—partially hidden by trees, overgrown bushes, and an assortment of rusty household appliances. Next to the trailer sat a satellite dish so huge I suspected it probably once belonged to a TV station.
“Anything seem out of place?” Grayson asked, eyeing the compound himself.
My nose crinkled. “If it were, how could we tell?”
“By that,” Grayson said, and nodded toward the front gate.
To the left of the dirt driveway, a metal flagpole displayed a black flag flying at half-mast, sagging sadly in the anemic breeze.
It took me a few seconds to make out the neon-green form flowing from its dark background. It was a skull and crossbones—only the skull was elongated, and its empty eye sockets were double the normal size.
I grimaced. “Don’t tell me E.T. died, too.”
Ignoring me, Grayson maneuvered the RV up to the gate. It was the only entry point in the eight-foot-tall, chain-link fence surrounding the compound. He rolled down the window and reached out to mash a button on the intercom mounted on a thick, metal post.
There was no response.
“That’s odd. Garth usually answers right away,” I said.
“Hmm,” Grayson grunted, and mashed the intercom button again.
From somewhere inside the compound, I thought I heard the faint sound of a dog barking.
Tooth!
I chewed my bottom lip. “What do we do now?”
Grayson locked eyes with me. “The only logical thing left to do.”
I grimaced. “Call the cops?”
“Crash the gate.”
“But—”
Grayson shifted the RV into reverse.
I grabbed his arm. “Wait! Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” he said, jerking his arm free. “Garth’s in trouble. It’s our duty to come to his aid.”
“Who goes there?” a raspy voice crackled over the intercom. It sounded like the ghost of Garth.
Grayson scrambled to mash the intercom button again. “Gray here. Pandora, too.”
“Mister Gray!” the voice hacked. “Thank God you came!”
Chapter Six
When Garth opened the front door to his trailer, it became clear to me that the impending apocalypse he’d been prepping for had finally come to pass. Not only did he sound like his own ghost, he looked the part as well.
“Come in,” he croaked, waving us inside with a pale, boney hand.
He shuffled a few hobbling steps backward to let us enter, then blinked at us through crusty, bloodshot eyes magnified three times their size by the thick lenses of his Poindexter-brand glasses.
Garth’s normally frizzy blond mullet was a tan-colored oil slick. His sweatpants and T-shirt appeared to have come straight from the laundry hamper—and I didn’t mean the clean one. Worst yet, he looked like he’d aged fifty years since I last saw him.
I cringed. My breath suddenly froze inside my lungs—not from the temperature, but from fear. I glanced around his hoarder hovel, images of The Andromeda Strain dancing inside my head.
Where’s a damned hazmat suit when you need one?
Grayson seemed to be thinking the same thing. He took a step back and asked, “What’s going on here? Biological warfare?”
“No,” Garth said, then proceeded to have a coughing fit. “I think it’s just a bad cold. Maybe the flu. Can’t hold anything down. But never mind about me. It’s Jimmy I’m worried about.”
Garth hacked up a lung like a seasoned chain-smoker, making me double down on my wish for a hazmat suit. “Ginger tea?” Garth asked, then coughed again into a tissue.
I glanced around at the kitchen. It was obvious the two brothers lived alone without adult supervision. I hadn’t seen a place so beyond repair since the Times did that full-color spread on Chernobyl.
“Uh, no thanks,” I said. I clasped my hands together to avoid touching anything.
“How about a donut, then?” Garth proffered an oil-stained bag. Through the smudged cellophane window, deep-fried clumps of dough languished greasily.
I smiled, and shook my head.
Not a chance on this Earth.
“We just ate,” Grayson lied. “But I’ll take some coffee if you have it.”
Garth coughed into his hand. “Coming right up.”
I shot Grayson a horrified stare.
“I’ll do it,” Grayson said, getting the message. “Sit down, Operative Garth. Save your strength and tell us what’s going on.”
Garth’s shoulders slumped with relief. He flopped onto the sofa like a dirty dishrag.
I sat in a chair on the opposite side of the room. On the coffee table between us, amid empty tissue boxes and heaps of soiled Kleenex, I noticed a framed photograph. It was Garth standing next to some short, bald guy in a wizard hat. The old man looked like a garden dwarf, complete with bushy white eyebrows, a beard, and gold-rimmed glasses.
I nodded toward the picture. “Who’s the gnome?”
Garth blanched as if I’d slapped him. “That’s not a gnome. That�
��s my Svengali.”
I picked up the photo and studied the guy’s face. His eyes seemed to twinkle like jolly old St. Nick’s. “Is this Gandhi?”
“No,” Garth croaked. “But close. They both believed in truth and non-violence.”
I glanced up at Garth, losing my patience. “Okay. So, who’s the old dude?”
He blew his nose and almost smiled. “Pandora, you’re looking at a picture of Randall James Hamilton Zwinge.”
My nose crinkled. “Who?”
“What?” Grayson yelled from the kitchen. He sprinted into the living room and nearly knocked me over as he grabbed the photo from my hand. He stared down at picture, then up at Garth.
“You met The Amazing Randi?” Grayson asked.
Garth nodded. “Well, yeah. He’s actually my uncle, twice removed. Jimmy was named after him. So was I.”
My nose crinkled. “I thought your name was Gary.”
“That’s my middle name. My first name is Randall.”
I winced. “My condolences.”
Garth nodded sadly. “So you heard about him passing, then.”
“Oh.” I sat up straighter. “Well, yes. And I’m also sorry you got named Randall.”
He shrugged. “Could’ve been worse.”
“How?”
“Ask my cousin, Zwinge.”
I grimaced, then shifted uncomfortably. “Uh ... I heard Randi died of natural causes.”
“Yeah,” Garth said. “He didn’t have any choice in the matter.” He turned to Grayson and winked a bloodshot eye. “As you know, he didn’t believe in unnatural ones.”
He and Grayson grinned at each other, then laughed like a pair of nerdy hyenas.
Seriously?
“Sorry to break up the fun,” I said. “But what’s going on with your brother Jimmy?”
Garth’s grin evaporated. “That’s just it. I can’t say for sure.”
Garth coughed again. I covered my mouth with my hand. “Does he have the same plague you do?”
“No,” Garth said, shaking his head vehemently. “Jimmy’s not sick. I mean, not the way I am. He’s just been...I dunno...acting weird lately.”
“Weird like what?” Grayson asked. “We need specifics.”
Garth shrugged. “I dunno. He’s been acting all sneaky.”
“Sneaky?” I asked. “We drove all this way because Jimmy’s acting sneaky?”
“Something’s wrong with him, I know it!” Garth said. “He’s been making secret phone calls. Sneaking out at night. Stuff like that.”
I smirked. “Maybe he’s got a girlfriend.”
Garth’s greasy eyebrows rose an inch. It was obvious the idea had never occurred to him.
“Maybe you’re right, Pandora,” Garth said. “But, I mean, who would go out with him?”
I drew a mental image of Jimmy. He was a slim, well-built young man with all his facial features in the right place. For rural Florida, he was a hunk.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Lots of women are suckers for a man in uniform.”
“Maybe,” Garth coughed. “But I think it’s something else.”
“You told us over the radio a friend of his disappeared,” Grayson said.
“You think Jimmy killed his friend and is trying to cover it up?” I blurted.
“What?” Garth gasped. “No! I think he’s joined some secret club or something. Maybe even a cult.”
I nearly blanched. Uptight, by-the-book Jimmy in a toga, dancing and chanting in some kind of cult? No way!
On the one hand, it didn’t make sense. But then again, Jimmy teetered on the edge of two worlds. By day, he was a rookie cop. By night, he shared a prepper compound with a known conspiracy nutter. That was a pretty huge seesaw to ride—both socially and professionally.
Then I remembered that during our last investigation, Garth’s loose lips about our alien abduction theories had gotten back to the police station where Jimmy worked. The poor guy had gone from golden child to laughingstock in under sixty seconds.
“A cult?” Grayson asked. “Why do you think that?”
“Because he’s not the same person anymore,” Garth said.
“What do you mean?” Grayson asked. “Has he experienced a sudden personality change?”
Garth winced. “Sort of.”
“Hmm,” Grayson said. “Perhaps Pandora’s right. Murder suspects often exhibit—”
“He didn’t do it!” Garth yelled. “I know my brother!” He shrunk back in his seat. “Sorry, Mr. Gray. No disrespect, but I know something’s wrong with him. I don’t know how else to explain it.”
“We’re trying to help,” I said. “What other evidence do you have?”
“Only this.” Garth picked up a remote and clicked on the TV monitor. “Here. Take a look at this surveillance footage.”
The TV set pinged on. Fuzzy, black-and-white static filled the screen. A few seconds later, the pixelated snow cleared and the wide derriere of a pudgy, shaggy-haired guy hoisting himself into a battered old pickup came into view.
“Isn’t that Jimmy’s old truck?” Grayson asked.
Garth sniffed. “Yeah.”
“Who’s the fat guy? A thief?” I asked.
“No,” Garth croaked. “That’s Jimmy.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”
Jimmy’s once square jawline had gone round and jowly. His dimpled chin had duplicated itself. In the months since I’d seen him, Garth’s brother had to have packed on forty pounds, minimum.
“Intriguing,” Grayson said. “What do you think he’s gotten involved with?”
I sneered. “It certainly ain’t Weight Watchers.”
“He won’t tell me,” Garth said. “Jimmy only said that he’d found a ‘life-changing opportunity.’”
Yeah. To get diabetes...
“Play the video again,” Grayson said.
Garth fumbled with the remote and reset the video. “He hasn’t come home for days. I need you two to find him. Figure out what he’s up to.”
“I’d say about two-fifty,” Grayson said.
I elbowed my partner, then turned to Garth. “Why don’t you just contact his friends on the force?”
Garth blanched. “And get Jimmy fired? They already think he’s a flake, thanks to me.” He shook his head. “No. I need your help. Jimmy blew up like that practically overnight.”
Grayson studied the video. “If that’s true, there’s definitely something abnormal going on. Any ideas where Jimmy’s been going or doing?”
Garth sighed. “None. I asked him a couple of times. All he would say was he was ‘Going out.’ I’ve been too sick to tail him.”
My nose crinkled. “How are we supposed to find him without any clues?”
“I did a thing,” Garth said.
My upper lip hooked skyward. “What?”
Garth sat up a little straighter. A determined look formed on his face. “I LoJacked his ass.”
“Indeed,” Grayson said, his eyebrow arching. “I thought LoJack was only available to members of law enforcement.”
Garth slumped back into the couch. “Busted, Mr. Gray. But I did tag him, sort of.”
“How?” Grayson asked.
“The last time Jimmy came home, I slipped my cellphone into his gym bag.”
“Why?” I asked.
“You know, so I could track the GPS signal.”
“Good thinking,” Grayson said.
“So what’s with all that ‘LoJacked his ass’ business?” I asked.
Garth shrugged. “I dunno. It guess it just sounded a lot cooler.”
“Understandable,” Grayson said. “So, were you able to track your brother?”
“Yes and no.” Garth sneezed. “That was the last time I saw him. Wherever he’s been going, it’s in the boondocks. The signal skips out after he passes Turkey Creek Road.”
“Hmm,” Grayson grunted. “That gives us a good point to start. Anything else you can tell us?”
Garth grimaced.
“Well, maybe. A couple of days ago, Jimmy left a message on the land line.” Garth blinked up at us blankly.
“Well, let’s hear it,” I grumbled impatiently.
Garth frowned. “Christ. It’s Frickin’ Krull.”
I blanched. “I didn’t think I was that crabby.”
Garth’s bloodshot eyes widened. “No. Not you, Miss Pandora. That’s what Jimmy said. ‘Christ. It’s Frickin’ Krull.’”
My mouth fell open. I glanced over at Grayson.
“Krull?” Grayson said. “Are you absolutely positive?”
“Yeah.” Garth honked at the snot building up in his nostrils.
“Hmm.” Grayson rubbed his chin. “I don’t recall Krull being mentioned in my cryptid research or in ancient mythology.”
“Me either,” Garth said. “The only thing I could find on it was a Star Wars knock-off movie called Krull made back in 1983.”
“What’s it about?” I asked.
Garth sighed. “It’s one of those interplanetary, swashbuckling schmaltz fests.”
I smirked. “How many times did you watch it?”
Garth winced. “Eighteen.”
“So, who was Krull?” Grayson asked.
Garth shook his head. “That’s just it. Krull was nobody.”
Grayson’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean, nobody?”
Garth pushed his black glasses up on his puffy red nose. “In the movie, Krull wasn’t a person. Krull was a planet.”
I glanced over at the TV. The video was freeze-framed on Jimmy’s fat butt bending over the bench seat of his truck. “Well, that makes perfect sense, given the fact that Jimmy’s ass is the size of an asteroid.”
“Please, guys,” Garth said. “You gotta help me—and quick. I think something big is about to go down, and soon.”
“What makes you believe that?” Grayson asked.
“Because I’ve never seen Jimmy with a sword before.”
I nearly swallowed my tonsils. “A sword?”
“Yeah,” Garth sniffed. “It got delivered two days ago. He unpacked it and took it with him. I haven’t seen him since.”
I shook my head. “How is any of this possible?”
Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6) Page 4
