We’d all gathered back inside the RV, where I was busy seesawing between kicking myself for being such a fool, and celebrating that I’d escaped the fate of becoming a space alien’s exotic, mail-order bride.
“Yes, network marketing,” Grayson said, handing Garth the robe Earl had been given. “Take a look for yourself. It’s one of those pyramid schemes. I’m sure of it.”
Garth’s crusty eyes widened. “KFC? I didn’t know they were into—”
“Read the small print,” I said.
Garth pushed his dark nerd frames up on his nose. “Kristie’s Frickin’ Crullers?”
“Yes,” Grayson said. “Sorry to disappoint you, Operative Garth. But from what I saw, it appears the ‘aliens’ are actually a group of hapless recruits taking part in team-building exercises for a new line of donut shops.”
“But the white robe,” Garth said.
“Yeah,” I said sourly. “Not exactly the world’s most thoroughly thought through marketing strategy. They’ll show every chocolate smear and greasy fingerprint stain.”
“I kinda like stains,” Earl said. “Reminds me a what I ate. You know, like a scrapbook, only of meals.”
Garth glanced at Earl, then leaned over and whispered to me. “What did they do to him?”
I sighed and whispered back. “Nothing. Unfortunately, that’s Earl in normal mode.”
“But that haircut,” Garth said. “Did he undergo some kind of horrible initiation?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Self-inflicted.”
Earl frowned and ran a hand through his uneven bangs. “What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Everything,” I said. “I told you to quit going to that weird guy hanging around the old FotoHut in the IGA parking lot.”
Earl pouted. “But Bubba’s the only one who still cuts hair for catfish.”
Garth blanched. “Are you saying a human did that to him?”
“Ahem,” Grayson cleared his throat. “If I could interrupt this little beauty consultation for a moment, I’d like to get back to the issue at hand.”
“Donuts?” Earl asked.
Grayson’s scholarly expression skipped a beat. “No. I’m referring to the fact that we’re back to square one in explaining what’s happened to Jimmy and Wade.”
“Wade Parker?” Garth asked.
“Maybe,” I said. “If he’s the cousin of a waitress named Thelma at Juanita’s Casa del Tacos.”
“Yeah. That’s him,” Garth said. “That’s the friend Jimmy went fishing with. The one he told me he was looking for—right before he started acting all weird himself.”
“Like a murderer, you mean?” Grayson asked.
“No!” Garth frowned and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Are you sure those robed guys weren’t aliens? What about that weird message Jimmy left? You know, ‘Christ. It’s Frickin’ Krull’?”
Grayson pursed his lips. “As you recall, the message was garbled. I’m afraid we may have misinterpreted Jimmy saying, ‘Kristie’s Frickin’ Crullers.’”
“You think?” I said sourly.
“But what about the portal?” Garth argued, sounding vaguely disappointed. “And the alien ship you spotted?”
My ears flushed with heat. I glanced over at Grayson, wondering how he was going to explain this one.
Grayson cleared his throat. “Ahem. Well, Operative Garth, after further examination of the scene ...”
In other words, as the three of us scrambled through the woods back toward the monster truck...
“...it became apparent that the phenomenon we interpreted as an intergalactic portal ...”
...the glowing ring of reddish-orange light we saw in the woods...
“...may have actually been the view of a distant illumination source as partially obstructed by a structure of man-made origin.”
...was debunked when Earl banged his head on something that rang like a gong. We’d turned around and were surprised to see the distant glow of the robed guys’ bonfire outlining the silhouette of an abandoned propane tank like a glowing orange ring.
“So ... there wasn’t any spaceship?” Garth asked.
“Nope. Just a rusty ol’ gas tank,” Earl said.
“But the hieroglyphics you mentioned,” Garth argued.
“Graffiti,” I said.
“Yep.” Earl snickered. “Somebody done wrote, ‘Eat a wiener,’ on it.”
Grayson cleared his throat again. “I believe the correct phrase was, ‘Eat my wiener.’”
Garth’s face collapsed. “But your Medusa-headed monster,” he said, turning to me.
I winced. “Turns out, it was the exposed root ball of a pine tree. And the Conehead was just one of those robed guys.”
Garth stared at us for a moment, mouth agape, red nose dripping.
I turned to Grayson and shook my head. “Poor guy. How could we have gotten this sooo wrong?”
Grayson shrugged. “Actually, what happened here is a rather common occurrence. Eyewitness reports are notoriously unreliable, Drex. Especially under duress. I think what we have here is a case of weapon focus.”
My nose crinkled. “Weapon focus?”
“Yes. It’s a psychological phenomenon in which a witness focuses in on one feature, such as a weapon, causing all other details to become blurred. In your case, Drex, it was obviously your typical hyper-emotional reactivity that caused your memory distortions.”
Earl laughed. “So what you’re sayin’, Mr, G., is that the thought of them fellers in robes bein’ aliens scared ol’ Bobbie outta her gourd.”
“Less eloquent than I would have put it, but yes,” Grayson said.
I glared at Earl. “So, then what’s your excuse, jerk-wad?”
Earl’s head tilted sideways. “For seeing Coneheads, you mean?”
“No,” I grumbled. “For being out of your gourd!”
I turned to Grayson. “You saw aliens, too. Admit it!”
Grayson shrugged. “Like I said. The stress of disturbing situations can make one highly confident of one’s visual accuracy, despite facts to the contrary. In actuality, Drex, there is no ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ reality. There is only the one we decide to either accept or agree on.”
“Yeah, right, Mr. Mumbo-Jumbo,” I hissed.
I walked over and grabbed a bag of candy from the kitchen counter. “So, what are we gonna do now with fifty pounds of Reese’s Pieces, Einstein?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
With the threat of alien probes removed from the equation and a bottle of Boone’s Farm implanted in my gut, I crashed into bed and slept like a baby. But, unfortunately, my respite from reality wasn’t to last.
As it turned out, our troubles were just getting started.
At the break of dawn, I was woken by the sound of someone banging frantically on the side door of the RV.
“Geez. What now?”
I sat up. The throbbing in my head made me wince. I glanced at my phone. It was a few minutes before six a.m.
“Awesome.”
I climbed out of bed, leaving Grayson sleeping like a log, and stumbled into the main room of the cabin.
The knock sounded again. I took a covert peek between the blinds. Garth was standing outside the window, his nose and buck teeth glowing in the moonlight like a deranged Rudolph nightmare. I was beginning to think it was the Boone’s Farm when he spotted me and began to wave frantically.
“What’s wrong?” I groused, yanking open the door.
“Pandora!” he yelled. “Someone broke in and wrecked my place!”
I pictured the inside of the brothers’ nasty, hoarder trailer jam-packed with crap. “How can you tell?”
Garth squinted and pushed his glasses up on his nose. “They left the refrigerator door open.”
Seriously?
“Could Jimmy have done it?” I asked, contemplating slamming the door in his mullet-topped face.
“No. He’s too energy conscious.”
A pain shot through my throbbing
head. “How about Tooth?”
“No,” Garth insisted, shaking his head. “The beer’s still in there.”
I let that gem of knowledge ping around in my sleepy brain for a moment, then offered one more possible solution. “Raccoons?”
“Not possible. We sealed the roof vent up tight last time that happened.”
“Uh-huh,” I grunted.
“Pandora, I think the intruder has to be of human or semi-human origin. This kind of damage generally requires opposable thumbs.”
He waggled his thumbs at me. I glanced skyward.
Why is this happening to me?
“Can you come take a look?” he asked.
I blew out a sigh. “Okay. Give me a minute to wake Grayson.”
I shut the door, turned around, and slammed straight into something hard and dark. I looked up to see Grayson’s green eyes staring down at me in the dim light.
“Go back to bed,” he said. “I’ll take it from here.”
“You heard all that?” I asked.
But he didn’t answer.
Instead, like a ninja in black, Grayson opened the door and disappeared with Garth into the moonlit junkyard.
Chapter Thirty
By the time the guys returned, I’d showered, dressed, and slurped down two cups of coffee. In other words, I had attained a conversation-capable level of consciousness.
“So, what did you two find out?” I asked, pouring Grayson and Garth cups of coffee as they scooted into the banquette. “Let me guess. Did Bigfoot do it?”
“Not unless he plays the bongos,” Grayson said.
“What?” I said, nearly spilling the coffee I was handing the men.
“Nothing’s missing except for some food,” Garth said. “And my set of bongos.”
“Oh.” I pivoted back to the kitchen counter to collect the third cup I’d poured for my cousin. “Wait. Where’s Earl?”
Garth and Grayson locked eyes, then glanced up at me.
“We haven’t see him,” Grayson said. “I better go check the truck.”
EARL USUALLY SLEPT in the front seat of Bessie. But the big, black monster truck, was empty. Splayed out on the bench seat was Earl’s Superman sleeping bag—and most of the clothes he’d had on last night.
It was as if he’d been beamed up from inside his bedroll.
“This doesn’t look good,” Grayson said.
I winced. “I know. But he’s had that Superman bag since he was a kid.”
“No. I meant this.” Grayson reached into the truck and pulled out an empty bag of Reese’s Pieces.
“So? I’m not following you,” I said.
Grayson reached in and pulled out two more empty candy bags. “How about now?”
WE FOUND EARL HALF naked, sprawled out in a ditch behind Garth’s doublewide like ET after a bongo rave.
His belly was swollen like a toad’s. His face was red and feverish. And Earl’s arms and legs were covered with minor scratches, as if he’d fought off a pack of rabid gerbils.
It took all three of us to get him up out of the ditch and into the RV. We were all huffing and puffing as we laid him out on the broke-back sofa adjacent to the banquette.
“What happened to him?” Garth asked. “You think he has rabies or something?”
“I don’t know,” Grayson said.
“What about yellow fever?” Garth asked.
Grayson’s eyes widened.
I gasped. “You don’t really think it’s yellow fever, do you?”
“No,” Grayson said, his eyes darting around the RV. “I just remembered the yellow oscilloscope. We need to return it. Where is it?”
“How should I know?” I grumbled. “And who cares about that right now? We need—”
“Y ... you lost it?” Garth stammered. “Holy Gorn clubs! We’ve got to find it! And fast!”
Grayson chewed his bottom lip. “It must’ve fallen out of my pocket last night.”
My nose crinkled. “What’s the big deal, guys?”
“We’re supposed to have it back by noon,” Garth said, his voice rising with panic.
“So?” I glanced down at my cousin. “What about Earl?”
Grayson shook his head. “I’m afraid Garth’s right. Finding the oscilloscope takes priority.”
“Why?” I demanded.
Grayson’s green eyes locked on mine. “You obviously haven’t met Sherman’s mother.”
My mouth fell open “Seriously?”
“I think he’s fine for now,” Grayson said, laying a hand on Earl’s forehead. “His fever’s gone. It’s most likely he just OD’d on sugar.”
Grayson turned to me. “Drex, I want you to come with me to search for the scope. Garth, you stay here and keep an eye on Earl. Make sure he drinks plenty of water—and don’t let him have any more Reese’s Pieces.”
Garth pushed his glasses up on his red nose. “I’m on it, Mr. Gray.”
“Ugh. Fine,” I grumbled, grabbing my purse. I knew there was no point in arguing with Grayson when he was in “mission mode.” I grabbed the keys from his hand. “This had better not take long. And I’m driving.”
“I agree to your terms,” Grayson said, making me blanch.
“Uh ... good,” I said. “Then let’s get this over with.”
I tramped out of the RV and over to Earl’s truck. I stepped up on the running board and flung open the door, then pushed the Superman sleeping bag over toward the middle of the bench seat.
As Grayson and I heaved ourselves inside, I noticed a piece of paper laid up on the dashboard. I grabbed it and read the odd words scrawled on it with a thick, black marker.
“Stay Away,” I said.
“Sorry,” Grayson said. “I didn’t have a chance to shower this morning.”
“No.” I handed him the note. “That’s what this note says. What’s that supposed to mean?”
Grayson read the two-word message and rubbed his chin. “Hmm. It’s possible that your cousin’s been deemed unsuitable, based on the recruiting standards of the Kristie’s Frickin’ Cruller organization.”
I grimaced. “Geez. You think they ran his credit?”
“Uncertain,” Grayson said. “But this development certainly thickens the plot.”
“How so?”
“Whoever wrote this warning obviously knows who Earl is—and where he’s staying.”
Grayson turned and locked eyes with me. “It appears, Drex, that things have just gotten personal.”
Chapter Thirty-One
In the stark light of day, the swampy trail in the woods that had led us to believe in portals and space aliens now appeared mundane—and our intergalactic theories embarrassingly preposterous.
As I stared at the graffiti-covered propane tank and the washed-out root ball of a pine tree beside it, I shook my head in amazement at my mind’s silly machinations.
Spaceships and aliens. What the hell had I been thinking?
“Hurry up,” I called to Grayson. “I want to get back and check on Earl.”
He was a few paces behind me, rifling through the palmettos and weeds along the trail, searching for the lost oscilloscope.
“Just one more place to look,” Grayson said as he reached the top of the ridge where I stood. Then he hiked past me toward the clearing where the bonfire had been last night.
I stomped sullenly after him to the edge of the clearing.
“I think we were over there,” I said, spotting a trail of trampled plants in the thicket surrounding the clearing. I headed down it, with Grayson following a few yards behind me. Or so I thought ...
“Ah, there it is!” I heard him say.
I whipped back around. Grayson was in the clearing near the fire pit. I tromped back toward him.
“I just looked over there,” I called out. “How’d I miss it?”
As I approached, Grayson bent down and grabbed up the yellow gizmo. “Intriguing.”
“Yeah. It’s truly fascinating that you found it,” I said. “Now let’s g
et the hell out of here!”
“No,” Grayson said. “I meant this.”
He shoved the o-scope at my face. The needle was jumping like a kangaroo in a bouncy house.
My lip snarled. “What does that mean?”
Grayson grinned. “It means that just because something looks like it could be a portal doesn’t mean it isn’t.”
Oh, crap.
Grayson slipped his backpack from his shoulders and handed it to me.
“Here,” he said. “Hold my gear.”
AFTER FIFTEEN MINUTES of swatting mosquitos and watching Grayson fiddle with his equipment like a mad scientist, I was jonesing for a Tootsie Pop and a can of Off!
“Are you almost done?” I asked, watching him aim the o-scope at some contraption he’d set up on a tripod. He’d positioned the tripod in the center of the black circle where the bonfire had raged last night.
“You know, Grayson, for someone measuring the speed of light, you sure do move slow.”
“Precision is critical,” he said, his eyes never leaving the device. “Ah. There.”
I perked up. “You’re done?”
“Yes.” Grayson studied the o-scope. “Interesting. The device recorded a discrepancy of six percent.”
“That’s impressive,” I said, trying to sound like I knew what the hell was going on. “What exactly does that mean?”
Grayson glanced up at me. “It means that from where you currently stand, time appears to be moving slower than from where I stand.”
I certainly couldn’t argue with that.
“Great,” I said. “So, can we go now?”
Grayson looked back down at the o-scope and shook his head. A dimple formed a divot in his cheek.
“This discrepancy in the speed of light is impressive,” he said. “It indeed opens up the theoretical possibility for unexplained phenomena.”
Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6) Page 13
