Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  “WHERE TO NOW, DETECTIVE Drex?” Grayson joked as we drove back toward Point Paradise.

  “Well, I need to stop by the A&P.”

  “Let me guess. To check if Mothman’s flitting around Woolworth’s? Get it?”

  “Ugh. Unfortunately, yes, I get it. And no. I need groceries. I’m out of coffee, milk, and pretty much everything else. I didn’t think you’d want to go.”

  “Sure. Why not? But before we do that, I’ve got another idea.”

  “What?”

  “Seeing as how we’ve got a stakeout coming up tonight, I thought we might work on your P.I. training some more.”

  “Okay. How?”

  “I think it’s high time you learned how to shoot a gun.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. I know a place we can fire off a few rounds. Why don’t we swing by the garage and get your gun?”

  “No need.” Grayson patted his side. “I’ve got my trusty Glock right here.”

  “You’ve had it on you the whole time?”

  “Of course. Never leave home without it. Don’t worry. I’ve got a concealed carry license.”

  That wasn’t exactly what I was concerned about. I’d been driving around with an armed stranger.

  Whether Grayson was a friend or a fiend, the jury inside my brain was still in hot deliberation. If I was going to unload rounds with this guy, I needed to let someone else know, in case the guy turned out to be Dahmer and I turned out to be his next Happy Meal.

  “Sure,” I said. “Just going to check in with Earl. See if he needs anything.”

  I pulled the Mustang over and punched Earl on speed dial. I pasted on a smile and tried to sound casual. “Hey. I’m going with Grayson to do some target shooting. You need anything at the A&P?”

  “Target shooting?” Earl laughed. “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays? I thought it was ‘Netflix and chill.’”

  “Earl, we’re going to test-fire his Glock. That’s all.”

  “Here I am, gunning an engine, and you’re gunning to get laid.”

  “Earl, you’re fired.”

  I hung up the phone and looked over at Grayson. “Did you hear any of that?”

  “Not a word. But since someone’s expecting a ‘happy ending,’ I think it’s only proper to buy you lunch first. What else has Waldo got to offer besides El Molino’s?”

  “Why?”

  Grayson thumped his chest lightly with his fist. “I haven’t quite fully recovered from last night’s tacos yet.”

  FROM A PICNIC TABLE outside a small roadside attraction known as Randy’s Rib Shack, I watched Grayson lick barbeque sauce off his fingers. Suddenly, I had a ghastly vision of it being blood instead of tomato sauce.

  “How do you like Randy’s special recipe?” I asked, trying to tame my willies.

  “Not bad. Why aren’t you eating?”

  “I kind of lost my appetite.”

  “Is it me?” Grayson waggled his saucy fingers and grinned at me like a deranged demon. “Still think I might be after your lucky charms?”

  “No.” I smirked. “I’ve seen inside Randy’s kitchen.”

  Grayson stopped mid-bite, grimaced, and set the pork rib back down on his plate.

  I laughed. “You know, you keep mentioning this Mothman creature. What’s the deal with that?”

  Grayson wiped his fingers on a paper napkin. “It’s supposed to be a true story. Like I said before, I’m here investigating reports of a red-eyed creature. Granted, that could be any number of cryptids—Bigfoot, the Boggy Creek Monster, even a wayward chupacabra. But since I’ve hooked up with you, I’m leaning more toward Mothman.”

  “Why?”

  Grayson shrugged. “Sightings of a red-eyed, flying creature. Strange lights in the sky. And now, thanks to you and Vanderhoff, I know people are getting the same kind of weird phone calls the folks did back in the 1960s in Point Pleasant.”

  My nose crinkled at the prospect of a monster lurking nearby. “Did they ever catch this Mothman guy?”

  “No. And after the tragedy, reported sightings of him dwindled to nothing.”

  I swallowed my spit. “Tragedy?”

  Grayson shot me an incredulous look. “The Silver Bridge collapse. You never heard of it? The bridge spanning the Ohio River. It collapsed on December 15, 1967. It was full of rush-hour traffic. Forty-six people died.”

  “And they blamed that on Mothman?”

  “Not exactly. They thought Mothman was some kind of omen. A sign. Haven’t you ever heard of The Mothman Prophecies?”

  “That movie with Richard Gere?”

  “Yes. But also the book. It was a New York Times bestseller. It gives a sort of blow-by-blow diary of what happened in the town of Point Pleasant from 1966 to ‘67. The year of the Garuda.”

  Grayson picked up a little paper cup of barbeque sauce and downed it like a shot.

  I grimaced. “Garuda?”

  “That’s what John Keel, the author of the book called it. The Garuda’s a bird-like creature from Hindu and Buddhist mythology. People in Point Pleasant reported sightings of it all over the place. To some, it looked like a winged man. Others thought it was a giant bird. Some even thought it was a monster—a demon with bat wings. But they all agreed on two things. It had glowing red eyes, and it could fly.”

  A chill went down my spine. Maybe that was what I’d seen on the roof of the Stop & Shoppe the other night. “Did it kill people?”

  “No. None that got reported, anyway. But it did seem to have a penchant for chasing people around and scaring the daylights out of them. Its favorite M.O. was to buzz by people in their cars. But it never actually caught anybody. Not that I know of, anyway. So it’s hard to say what would’ve happened if it had.”

  I crinkled my nose. “Well, I don’t want to be the first one to find out.”

  Grayson arched an eyebrow. “No?”

  “So what exactly do you hope to achieve with this investigation of yours?”

  “I’m hoping to find hard evidence to substantiate the creature’s existence.”

  “Oh. Like what? A feather?”

  “I don’t think Mothman has feathers. Maybe a talon. Hair sample. Blood. I’d like to catch it, actually. But at this point, I’d even settle for scat.”

  I grimaced. “Moth poop? Who’d want that?”

  “You’d be surprised. Lots of people think there’s power in cryptic relics.”

  “Power for what?”

  “For good or evil. Buddhists think the Garuda might hold the key to levitation and enlightenment. Others, well, who knows? Maybe they think it can turn them into Batman.”

  My eyebrows inched closer together. “So you really think this thing’s real? That it’s still alive?”

  “I hope so. But nobody knows. After the bridge collapse, sightings of the creature pretty much disappeared from West Virginia. The reports around Waldo are the first in over fifty years.”

  My mind returned to my wallet. Maybe he’d pay me for my sighting story. “Are you offering any kind of ... reward?”

  Grayson threw his sticky hands up. “Whoa. I answered your questions. Now it’s your turn to answer one of mine.”

  I sighed. “Okay. What do you want to know?”

  “Are you dating Paulson?”

  I nearly choked on my iced tea. “That’s none of your business,” I hacked.

  “I know. But he seemed a bit ... hmm ... overzealous yesterday at El Molino’s.”

  “He’s being protective. You are a stranger in town, after all.”

  Grayson shot me a perplexed look. “We’re all strangers where we aren’t known.”

  Okaay ....

  “Speaking of Paulson, I still need to stop by his office,” I said. “I promised him a report on Vanderhoff, but he didn’t answer his phone this morning. Are you done eating?”

  Grayson nodded. “Almost.” He picked up the salt shaker, shook a generous portion of salt into
his palm, and licked it.

  What a weirdo.

  “His office is here in Waldo,” I said, pretending not to notice. “We might as well get it over with while we’re here.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “ACCORDING TO THE ADDRESS, Paulson’s office is a few miles on the other side of town,” I said as we cruised down US 301 through the tiny, crumbling heart of Waldo.

  “This place looked a lot better in the dark last night,” Grayson said. “Oh. I take that back. I didn’t see the big white horsey before.”

  He pointed to the sign for the Waldo Farmer’s & Flea Market. Atop it stood a life-sized replica of a white horse. The stallion’s jaunty expression seemed too dignified for the hodge-podge collection of nondescript buildings that made up Waldo Antiques Village.

  “Let’s stop,” Grayson said. “I wonder what other curiosities they might have.”

  “They’re closed on Mondays,” I said, relieved for the excuse. “Besides, there’s nothing there but junk disguised as antiques. After fifteen years in the business, I know the difference.”

  “I’ll take your word on that.”

  Grayson watched the tiny town click by, its buildings standing not much more than a sidewalk’s breadth away from the steaming asphalt of US 301.

  “They like to stick close to the road here,” he commented.

  “Yeah. When they widened it to four lanes, they didn’t leave the town much breathing room.”

  As we hit the center of Waldo, we passed City Hall, a white, boxy little structure no bigger than a coffee shop. Then, in quick succession, we passed the Waldo barber shop, Dixieland Music RV park, a junky place selling cypress-wood souvenirs, an Amtrak station, the Tropix Inn motel, and a clot of dilapidated, corrugated-metal buildings tacked together with rusty nails and faded hopes.

  As the scenery on both sides of the road was reclaimed by pinewoods and swamp, Grayson asked, “That’s it? Where’s Paulson’s office?”

  “He said it was out near Alto Lake Preserve. As you could see from your deluxe tour of Waldo, downtown office space is at a premium. Oh. There it is.”

  I shifted into second and took a left onto Alto Road. About a hundred yards up the rutted dirt lane, we came to a mailbox. A red clay driveway maybe twenty yards long led to a rustic wooden cabin tucked in among overgrown hedges.

  “That must be it,” I said.

  The plain, metal mailbox next to the road had no name on it. It was mounted on an L-shaped post. A wooden, hand-painted sign hung below the mailbox. It read, “One nation under God.”

  That may have been so, but this place looked as godforsaken as any I’d ever seen.

  “The place looks abandoned,” Grayson said.

  “Get used to it,” I said. “Half the county looks that way. I don’t see a car. He must be out on patrol.”

  “What kind of car does he drive?”

  I frowned. “I dunno. A blue one?”

  Grayson shook his head. “Blue? That’s all you’ve got?”

  “I don’t pay much attention to that kind of thing. Today’s cars all look alike to me.”

  “Drex, if you’re going to be a P.I., you need to acquaint yourself with makes and models. You’re going to spend half your time either tailing vehicles or trying to spot them. That’s how people get around nowadays. You know, since that whole horse and buggy thing went by the wayside.”

  I blew out a breath. This whole P.I. thing was sounding like more work than I’d imagined it would be. My cellphone buzzed, saving me from having to come up with a snarky comeback. I looked at the display and groaned.

  “You gonna get that?” Grayson asked.

  “No. It’s the hospital again. They keep calling. I don’t know how I’m going to pay the bill.”

  “Huh.” Grayson shot me a devious grin. “I’ve got just the thing to take your mind off thoughts of impending poverty.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s do something fun.”

  I frowned. “Like what?”

  Grayson waggled his bushy eyebrows at me. “Let’s go shoot something.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  WITH NO OFFICER PAULSON to be found, we left the cabin in Alto Pine Reserve and drove back through Waldo. I turned onto Obsidian Road, then, a mile later, onto an unmarked dirt road. A quarter mile in, we reached the unofficial target-shooting spot known to gun-toting locals as Bullet Point.

  I shifted into second and slowed down until I saw the fence posts. “That’s it,” I said, and shifted into park.

  Grayson pulled out his Glock. A tinge of panic surged through me. If Grayson shot me, would Earl even bother to come find me? And if he did, would the vultures beat him to my remains?

  I eyed Grayson’s gun and forced a smile. “It won’t take long to go through that clip.”

  Grayson reached under the seat and pulled out a carton of ammo. “Good thing I brought more.”

  My eyes met my wig-line. “When did you put those under there?”

  Grayson grinned. “When you weren’t looking, obviously. Do you know you have a tendency to close your eyes when you’re nervous?”

  “Arggh!”

  I flung open the car door and stomped over to the fence. Amongst the heap of battered tin cans and broken beer bottles, I found a few cans that weren’t completely shot through with bullet holes. I set them up on fence posts and marched back over to Grayson.

  “You go first,” I said.

  “No. Ladies first,” he insisted. “Here, let me show you how to hold the gun.”

  “I know how!” I said.

  “Sorry,” Grayson said, handing me the gun. “Judging by your performance in my bedroom yesterday, I thought I could give you some pointers.”

  My mouth ached to deliver a devastating comeback, but I had nothing. Instead, I took my stance. Grayson sidled in close behind me, his chest nearly touching my back. As I inserted the earplugs he gave me, his arms encircled my shoulders.

  My back arched from the electric twinge of his body heat.

  I steadied myself. His forearms paralleled mine. His hands enveloped my fingers. As I held the polymer grip of the Glock in my hands, I could smell the musky maleness of him envelop me. I trembled.

  “Hold your arms steady,” he whispered.

  I set my jaw. “You mean like this?”

  I fired off five rounds in rapid succession. Five rusty Green Giant vegetable cans went flying off in all directions.

  Grayson let go of me and stepped back. “Whoa!”

  “Beginner’s luck,” I quipped, and headed over to the fence to reset the cans.

  Grayson followed a step behind me. He picked up a freshly shot can. “Not bad,” he said, holding it out for me to see. “But you’re a little off center.”

  “Look closer,” I said. “I was aiming for the giant’s face.”

  Grayson examined the bullet hole above the Green Giant’s neck. His mouth dropped open. “How’d you learn to shoot like that?”

  “You forget. I was a boy until I was eleven. I got pretty good with a Daisy BB gun.” I smirked. “I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I can shoot out a baby doll’s eye at a hundred paces.”

  Grayson whistled. “With one hand tied behind your back, I bet.”

  I grinned. “Should we set them up for you?”

  Grayson nodded. “Sure.”

  Smug wallowed all over my face as I handed Grayson the Glock. I bent over and reached down for a can.

  My heart nearly fell into my throat.

  Staring back at me from the weeds was the raw, empty eye socket of a bloody skull.

  I shot to standing. My brain went haywire. My ears throbbed with a strange, underwater-pulsing sound.

  Something warm trickled down my leg.

  Blood?

  “You okay?” Grayson asked.

  His voice sounded mere inches away. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.

  OMG! That psycho’s gone and stabbed me! He’s lured me out here to .... Holy crap! Thi
s is Grayson’s freaking killing field!

  I screamed, ditched the green bean can, and made a mad scramble for the Mustang.

  Grayson’s footsteps crunched behind me. I could tell he was gaining on me.

  Dear God! Will he rip my throat out, like he did the others?

  Am I really going to die in this crappy hellhole of a place after all?

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “DREX!” GRAYSON’S VOICE shouted out behind me. “Wait!”

  I’d just flung myself into the Mustang, and was trying to get the key in the ignition. But my hands were shaking like I had ahold of a jackhammer.

  Please, key! Please! Get in the freaking ignition!

  I looked up. Grayson was ten feet from the car, his green eyes looked wild.

  “What are you doing?” he yelled.

  I jabbed the keys at the ignition hole. “Stay away from me!”

  Grayson stopped in his tracks. “What’s going on?”

  The key slipped into the ignition. I turned it. The Mustang roared to life.

  “I saw it. I know what you did!”

  “What I did? What did I do?”

  “The skull!” I screamed as I shifted into first.

  Grayson blanched. “Skull? Where?”

  “You know where!”

  “What? Wait! Drex! You think I killed someone?” He took another step toward the car.

  “Don’t come any closer!” I shouted, and gunned the engine. The Mustang lurched forward, then stalled.

  Damned air filter!

  Grayson came a step closer and pulled out his Glock. My heart nearly stopped.

  “Let me talk to you,” he yelled. “Look, I’m dropping the weapon.”

  Suddenly, the gun fired, shooting out my left front tire.

  I screamed and turned the ignition again. It caught. I slammed the Mustang into first and gently pressed the gas. The car moved forward a foot.

  “Wait!” Grayson yelled.

  But I didn’t wait. What for? To get my brains blown out?

  I shifted into second and mashed the pedal to the floor. Clouds of orange dust billowed up behind my squealing tires as the muscle car took off, fishtailing down the dirt road.