Final Ride

by Nic Saint

“No, really. You can count on me. I won’t let those cute Corgis hurt you.”

  He gave me a playful nudge and I poked him right back. We were a great team, actually. The cop and the theme park security… whatever my job title was. Now if only he’d quit stalling and ask me out on a date, maybe we could change our Facebook status from ’It’s complicated’ to ‘In a relationship.’

  Chapter 24

  After dropping by Scott Davies’s house, we headed to the same suburban tract where Steve’s parents lived. Scott’s mother had told us her son should be out here, working his summer job same way he’d done for the past six weeks.

  It was hard to believe that a guy who raked in the dough by hawking illegally obtained tickets and vouchers would need a job, but I could see his point. He probably didn’t clue his folks in on this little ‘side venture’ he and Steve had set up, so this job was probably simply window dressing.

  We were cruising down the neighborhood, passing neat little house after neat little house, when we caught sight of a well-nourished teenager on one of those big riding lawnmowers. His ears were covered with tangerine earmuffs, and he was dressed in baggy shorts that showed his tighty-whities and a T-shirt that professed his love for Charlene. It even sported an iconic picture of Charlene, taken in her glory days. In the seventies this exact picture had graced dorm rooms and locker rooms and factory walls all over the country.

  “Damn, this kid is taunting us, isn’t he?” I said through gritted teeth.

  “Or maybe he’s just a big fan,” said Blane, pulling over.

  We sat observing the kid for a few minutes, figuring out what he was up to. It soon became clear Scott Davies wasn’t up to much of anything, apart from mowing the lawn and inadvertently flashing his underwear.

  “Let’s go introduce ourselves,” Blane suggested, and got out of the car.

  My fingers were itching to grab the guy by the tighty-whities and drag him off his lawnmower. I resisted the urge and decided to let Blane do the talking.

  We walked up the paved path that led to the front door and Blane waved at the kid to draw his attention. “Scott Davies!” he yelled over the noise of the lawnmower. “Police!”

  It could have been my imagination, but I had the distinct impression that Scott got a little white around the nostrils when he caught sight of the badge Blane was holding up. The next moment, he was racing off in the opposite direction from where we were standing, and as we watched in astonishment, he mowed down the foot-high privet hedge dividing this property from the next.

  “What the heck?” Blane said, stepping onto the lawn and in pursuit.

  I followed right behind.

  “Scott! Get back here!” Blane yelled, breaking into a run.

  Scott glanced over his shoulder, and when he saw we were homing in fast, he cranked up the speed on his mighty lawnmower and zoomed away.

  “’Damn, that thing is fast,” I said, scrambling to keep up with Blane, who was scrambling to keep up with the lawnmower.

  “Nothing runs like a Deere,” he said between two gasps.

  We were going full tilt now, but so was Scott. He’d already cut through three front yards, going through hedges like a knife through butter, and he wasn’t showing signs of slowing down. We reached a small park with a children’s playground, and he was racing towards it like a regular Godzilla.

  ”Scott Davies!” Blane hollered. “You’re making this harder than it needs to be, son!”

  But Scott wasn’t susceptible to reason. He glanced back again, his tangerine earmuffs still firmly in place, a look of determination on his fleshy face. A couple of kids, playing on a seesaw, saw him coming and wisely scrambled away.

  “Maybe you should fire a warning shot?” I suggested.

  “To stop a speeding lawnmower? The chief would have my badge. No, we’re going to outrun this thing and take him down the old-fashioned way.”

  The good news was that we were definitely gaining on him. The bad news was: how do you stop a runaway lawnmower? There wasn’t a single piece of advice in the security officer’s rulebook about just such a contingency.

  Fortunately for us it never came to that. Suddenly there was a loud crunching sound and a loud yell of anguish, and next thing we knew the lawnmower was dangerously listing to the right, then crashed down on its side, trapping the hapless driver underneath.

  When we reached Scott and his escape vehicle, we saw that the contraption had hit a sandbox, and Scott was pinned underneath. The lawnmower was whirring loudly, its wheels spinning, its blades chopping air.

  “Just shut that down already,” I said, and Blane pressed a few buttons before hitting the right one and cutting the engine.

  ”Get me out of here!” Scott cried, looking extremely uncomfortable. His earmuffs had dropped in the sandbox, and he was lying next to a plastic bucket and spade. A completely chewed up plastic toy truck had been spit out by the lawnmower’s innards, which explained the sudden crunching sound.

  The mighty mower bested by a yellow dump truck. What an ignoble fate.

  “Not so fast,” said Blane, crouching down next to the lawnmower bandit. “Is it true you and Steve Geyser set up a website to sell Charleneland tickets and vouchers?”

  “Yes! Yes, it’s true! Just get me out of here! I think I broke something!”

  “And is it also true that you and Steve had a huge fight the other night?” I asked, also crouching down.

  “Yes! But we made up yesterday. Steve realized he couldn’t do this without me. The guy knows zilch about building websites.”

  “So you didn’t sneak into Charleneland last night and replaced the bullets in Garrett Midway’s revolver?”

  He gave me a look of genuine bewilderment. “Huh?” he asked.

  “Did you or did you not sneak into Charleneland last night and load Garrett’s revolver with real bullets?” I insisted.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady! Why would I put bullets in that idiot Garrett’s gun? I don’t even know where he keeps it!”

  “Because that revolver was used to gun down Steve this morning—and end his life,” said Blane.

  The kid’s eyes went wide, and I could tell he wasn’t faking. Unless he was an Oscar-winning actor, which he clearly wasn’t. “End his life? You mean… Steve is dead?”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t know that,” I said.

  His lip was quivering dangerously, and before I knew it, he burst into big sobs. “Oh, God. Steve!” he cried. “Who’s going to get me my tickets now?!”

  “Oh, for crying out loud,” said Blane, disgusted.

  We both helped to put the lawnmower upright again and drag Scott from under it. He patted himself down to make sure he hadn’t broken any bones.

  Blane placed him under arrest, slapping a pair of handcuffs on him, and called for backup. When two uniformed officers had taken him away for questioning and processing down at the Sapsucker PD station house, we were left shaking our heads at so much youthful idiocy and callousness.

  “Kids, today,” Blane said, sounding like an old man.

  “At least we’ve got our next clue,” I said, and we both stared across the street. The moment we did, the woman who’d been watching us for the past fifteen minutes quickly retreated and drew the curtains.

  The next moment we were making a beeline for the house, leaving the lawnmower and the mess Scott Davies had made behind us.

  Chapter 25

  “Mrs. Foster!” I yelled when the woman refused to open the door. “I know you’re in there. Please open the door!”

  “This is the police, ma’am,” said Blane in his best policeman’s voice. “We’re not going away until you talk to us!”

  It took another couple of minutes, but finally the door was opened to a crack and two angry eyes stared out at us. “What’s this about?”

  “We would like to talk to your husband, Mrs. Foster. Is he home?”

  “No, he’s not,” she snapped. “And as far as I’m concerned, he’ll
never be home again!”

  She made to close the door again, but Blane had shoved his toe tip into the wedge. “Where can we find him, ma’am?”

  “What’s this about?” she repeated, giving Blane’s shoe a nasty look.

  “One of his students died this morning. We want to talk to him about his relationship with the boy.”

  This took her by surprise. “One of my husband’s students died?”

  ”Steve Geyser. He was shot and killed this morning,” I explained, hoping a little more information would make her open up to us.

  Instead, the name Steve Geyser seemed to steel her resolve to get us out of her face as soon as possible. She snapped, “I’ve got no business with that. So please leave me alone.”

  ”Where can we find your husband, Mrs. Foster?” Blane insisted, making it sound like we were going to be here all day if she didn’t give us what we wanted.

  She paused for a moment, then said, “He’s at his sister’s place. Twenty-six Beaumont Boulevard. Now please leave me alone!”

  She gave the door another jerk, and this time Blane allowed it to close.

  ”She did not look happy,” I said as we walked back to Blane’s car.

  “Is it just me or did this Steve kid have a lot more going on underneath the surface than a first glance indicates?”

  “It’s been one surprise after the other,” I admitted.

  First the girlfriend with her stunning revelation Steve was some kind of local Santa Claus, then the discovery of an underground circuit of Charleneland tickets and vouchers, and now this weird incident with Steve’s teacher’s wife. Things were getting curiouser and curiouser.

  Blane turned the car around, and soon we were cruising along downtown Sapsucker, on our way to Beaumont Boulevard, contrary to its name a small side street right in the heart of the shopping district. And as we were driving along, trying to find a place to park, suddenly I saw two familiar figures, seated behind the window of Delroy’s Deli, one of the finest eateries in town.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” I said, sitting up as if stung.

  Blane looked over. “What’s wrong?”

  He only had to follow where I was looking to figure that out.

  Behind Delroy’s Deli’s picture window, affording a nice view of Sapsucker’s Main Street—this one without saloons or shooting cowboys—sat our very own Leo Shearwood. He was sharing lunch with none other than Anaïs Phoenix, owner and proprietor of PhoenixWorld, Charleneland’s main competitor. Phoenix was Charlene’s personal nemesis, and only recently had tried to put us out of business by spreading a bunch of foul rumors in connection with a murder that had taken place on Charleneland grounds.

  “Leo and Phoenix,” said Blane, bug-eyed. “Who would have thunk?”

  My mind was abuzz with confusing thoughts, one standing out amongst them: was Leo responsible for the mess we were facing at Charleneland?

  Had he sabotaged our rollercoaster? Worse, was he working for Phoenix?

  And… had my very good friend Leo… killed Steve Geyser?

  Chapter 26

  Pirate Lair was even more crowded than usual today, mainly because for some nebulous reason a lot of the rides were closed for repairs. The PA system had been announcing which rides were open for business, but nevertheless a lot of visitors had gathered here in Scarlet Lagoon to watch the pirate show.

  Benny, Franklin and Martin were seated in the stands, soda in their left and a hot dog in their right hands.

  “Wow. This is so cool!” Benny said, shuffling excitedly. They had front-row seats to the one o’clock show, courtesy of some nice Charleneland lady who’d also comped their tickets and handed them an extra stack of vouchers. All because they’d been there when the Body Wrench had come crashing down.

  If Benny’s mom and dad were here, they’d be worried sick. Good thing the three friends had been allowed to visit Charleneland by themselves, or they’d have missed all of the fun!

  “Oh, man. I hope they sink that ship,” said Franklin. “Do you think they’ll sink that ship? They have to sink that ship.”

  “What ship?” asked Benny.

  “The pirate ship, of course!”

  “But I’m rooting for the pirates. Didn’t you see Pirates of the Caribbean? The Britishers are all dorks. They deserve to die.”

  “Not all Britishers are dorks. Keira Knightley is a Britisher. She’s not a dork. She’s nice. And pretty.”

  “Yeah, she’s the exception to the rule,” he admitted. “But Keira ain’t here, is she? And besides, she was a rebel, too. She sided with Captain Jack.”

  “I don’t know about that,” said Franklin doubtfully. “I never could figure whose side she was on. She switched sides all the time. Hard to keep track.”

  For the occasion he had donned one of those funny-looking British hats. With the gold trim and plumes on top. Benny was wearing his pirate hat. Just like Captain Jack. Martin was undecided. He didn’t care which side won or lost, as long as they got a great show.

  The stands were teeming with families with kids, all craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the pirates. So far they hadn’t shown their dirt-streaked faces yet, or rattled their sabers. Down below, in the lagoon, a pretty British schooner lay blinking in the afternoon sun, British sailors running up and down the deck, snazzily-dressed naval officers convening on the bridge.

  The noise of the crowd suddenly died down and a hush descended over the lagoon when the sharp sound of a bugle call rent the air. Showtime!

  “It’s starting!” Benny cried. He’d watched all the YouTube videos of this show. He took a long sip of his soda, his legs dangling excitedly.

  The captain of the British vessel had appeared on deck, and was directing a brass spyglass at the horizon. He was dressed in a seventeenth-century Royal Navy uniform: an embroidered blue coat with white facings, white breeches, and stockings. On his head, he wore his bicorn proudly. At least, that’s the name Martin had told Benny the funny-looking hat was called. Napoleon had worn one just like it. Pretty cool stuff!

  A second officer joined the captain on deck. Soon their voices reverberated over the speaker system, loud and clear enough for everyone in the stands to understand.

  “Rumor has it the pirates could strike any moment, Captain Bligh.”

  “Poppycock, Lieutenant Jones. We defeated every last pirate in these seas. There’s not a single ship left!”

  “There is one, sir. The Red Sparrow.”

  “That’s just a myth, Jones! The Red Sparrow doesn’t exist, and neither does its captain, the fiendish and very elusive Redbeard.”

  “He does, sir. He does exist. Rumor has it he’s sailing the high seas as we speak, plotting a course for Port Charles. He’s sworn an oath to sink the entire British fleet, starting with the HMS Scarborough!”

  The other man clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s what you get from mixing with riffraff, Jones. Old wives’ tales and a lot of scaremongering bilge. No one can take on the Scarborough or the Royal Navy. Take it from me. Never again will a pirate’s shadow fall across these waters. Ever!”

  Just at that moment, an officer hollered, “Captain! I think you should see this!”

  Chapter 27

  The captain walked up to the man. “Well? What is it, Smith? Speak up!”

  Smith pointed at some point in the middle distance. “There, sir. The water. It is red. And it is churning!”

  Benny uttered a whoop. “It’s Redbeard. He’s here!”

  The captain strode to the starboard side of the ship and stared in the direction indicated. ”Churning water? Why, that’s a shoal of fish, Smith!”

  “Awfully big fish, Captain.”

  The captain planted his hands on the ship railing. “Parrotfish, Smith. These waters are teeming with them. If you’re so keen, why don’t you catch us a few for dinner!” He let rip a haughty guffaw. Only this time it was cut off when right in the spot where the waters were churning red, suddenly a scarlet flag appeared, rising out o
f the lagoon waters.

  “Sir!” Smith cried.

  The scarlet flag sported the well-known skull and bones theme.

  “Redbeard!” yelled Jones.

  As if to corroborate his words, a ship rose out of the lagoon, popping up like a duck in a bathtub, breaking through the surface. It was the Red Sparrow.

  “It’s hydraulics,” Martin said, munching his hotdog. “The whole thing is operated on hydraulics. There’s some pretty complicated technology involved.”

  “Raise the alarm!” Captain Bligh hollered. “Men, take your positions!”

  “This is where it gets interesting,” said Benny. “This is where we get our money’s worth!”

  “We didn’t pay for these tickets,” Franklin pointed out.

  “It’s just an expression, doofus. Now watch. The battle is on!”

  And so it was. The pirate ship was suddenly filled with colorfully dressed pirates, all armed to the teeth with sabers and musketoons and blunderbusses. One man stood out. He sported a long, flowing red beard, an eyepatch, and the same hat the captain of the Britishers was wearing. Then he yelled, “Ahoy, me hearties!” He raised his saber, and then added, “Kill them! Kill them all!”

  The pirates, who’d been waiting for this, screamed at the top of their lungs, and soon were firing at the HMS Scarborough and swinging to the other ship.

  The two ships were so close that when the cannons started thundering, the pirates could see the whites of their British counterparts’ eyes. The air was filled with ‘arrs’ ‘yo-hos,’ pirates and Britishers fighting fiercely, while the booming of the cannons echoed through the Scarlet Lagoon, an acrid haze of gunpowder drifting up the stands and making everyone’s eyes water.

  The three boys sat watching the mighty battle with shining eyes, their jaws on the floor and the hotdogs and sodas in their hands all but forgotten.

  “Oh, man!” Benny cried. “This is even better than YouTube!”

  And then, as quickly as it had begun, the battle ended with a bang!