“You know what mealy worms taste like?” he asked as he flopped into the passenger seat.
I grimaced. “No. And I don’t want to know.”
“Suit yourself. But I find your lack of curiosity disconcerting.” He fished his laptop from the floorboard, powered it up, and kept his eyes glued to it all the way to the next town.
Smart choice, since it was pretty much like the last one.
Sadly, like so much of “new” Florida, the once-quaint town of Westley Chapel had bourgeoned into yet another soulless collection of strip malls, dollar stores, and chain restaurants that spread outward, like a fungal infection, from where its original heart had been cut in half by I-75.
Still, despite its lack of planning or originality, compared to my tiny home town, Westley Chapel sparkled as glam as a Vegas showgirl—complete with fancy traffic lights and a genuine KFC!
As we passed a drive-thru convenience store, I thought of big fat Artie plopped in his chair at the Stop & Shoppe back home in Point Paradise. A wave of nostalgia passed through me like gas from a bad bean burrito.
Being born and raised in Florida, I guess so-called progress would always be a mixed bag.
I set my jaw to sullen resignation and drove onward. A mile or two later, the terrain went feral. I breathed a sigh of relief. Ahead lay miles of flat, unbroken scrubland—a hodgepodge of oaks, pines, palmettos and tangled underbrush.
Now that felt like real Florida to me.
I GLANCED OVER AT GRAYSON. He was happily tapping away on his laptop. He’d barely glanced up as we passed through the tiny towns of Odessa and Seven Springs. I wondered what he was working on, but decided not to disturb him.
Eventually, we wound our way toward the gulf coast and the promised land known as Elfers.
“We’re here,” I said as we passed a small roadside placard announcing our arrival.
Grayson looked up. His face collapsed with disappointment. “This is it?”
“What were you expecting? A fairyland village?”
Grayson shot me an earnest look. “Is that so wrong, Drex?”
Uh...yeah.
“Ghosts of a bygone era,” Grayson said as we buzzed by a gray, wooden shack. “According to my Google search, Elfers is home to 13,612 residents and zero registered sex offenders.”
“Really?” I asked. “How many unregistered ones?”
Grayson grinned. “Good one. But I guess you can’t believe everything on the internet. It also says the median home sales price here is zero.”
I smirked. “So people either never leave, or they give away their homes and flee.”
“Perhaps. Or maybe elves never die, and therefore, never have to sell.”
“Huh?”
“Oh! Pull in over there,” Grayson said, and pointed across the street to a strip center called Elfers Square.
I shot him a look. “You serious?”
He shrugged. “We’re here. Might as well see what the Elfer buzz is all about. I created this survey, see?” He shoved his laptop screen at me.
Elfer buzz? Survey? Shoot me now.
I shook my head. But from the childlike excitement on Grayson’s face, I knew there was no point in trying to argue with the man. If I’d learned anything in my 37 years, it was that idiocy trumped reason every time.
I sighed, pulled into the strip center, and spent the next hour pissing and moaning like a spoiled brat while Grayson interviewed prospective Winn Dixie shoppers about their encounters with elves.
Yes, my life was just that fabulous.
Chapter Six
I WAS HIDING OUT BEHIND a stack of Winn-Dixie brand pork-n-beans, trying to distance myself from any affiliation with Grayson. I took another furtive peek around the tin cans. He was around ten feet away, standing by a barrel of cantaloupes.
Clad in black jeans, black shoes, a black shirt, black moustache and black fedora, Grayson looked like Mr. Peanut’s evil twin hawking a dubious, new product.
Planters’ dark-roasted nutcase.
Grayson glanced my way. I flinched.
He held up his little recorder for my perusal. The gleam in his eye made me question my own sanity.
Interviewing grocery shoppers about elves?
But then I got a look at the person he was talking to and felt relatively sane—comparatively speaking. The first victim in Grayson’s inane interview scheme was an elderly man wearing a straw hat and overalls, without the courtesy of an undershirt.
So that’s what happened to Tom Sawyer.
“I done lived here all my life,” the old man informed Grayson proudly. “But I ain’t never laid no eyes on no elf.” He scratched his armpit hair and explained to Grayson that, “Elves wouldn’t care nothin’ for this town no how, seeing as how short they is.”
“Can you elaborate?” Grayson asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” the old man said. “Is that some kind of dance?”
I nearly groaned out loud.
“Never mind,” Grayson said. “Just tell me more about the elves.”
“Well now,” the man said, “you see, a goodly portion of Elfers floods ever’ time the Anclote River swells up with rain.”
After a pause, Grayson prompted the man. “Yes?”
“Well, it’s purty obvious, ain’t it? Any elves livin’ in this here vicinity would’ve surely drownded by now.”
I shot Grayson a sideways smirk.
Sounds perfectly logical to me.
With the calm, cheerful attitude of a true professional, Grayson thanked the old redneck. He shook his hand, wished him a pleasant day, and proceeded to stick his recorder in the face of an elderly woman in a faded, flour-sack dress.
She blinked at him behind pink, cat-eye glasses wedged tightly onto her doughy, Cabbage-Patch-Kid face.
“How are you today, lovely lady?” Grayson asked.
“Fair to midl’in,” the old woman answered.
“May I have a moment of your time?”
“I guess. Long as it don’t cost nothin’.”
Grayson shot me a thumbs up.
I rolled my eyes and ducked back behind the stack of bean cans. After making a full orbit around their sockets, my eyes landed on a display of kosher dill pickles. I studied them for a moment, carefully considering which size jar—half-pint, pint, or quart—would do the most effective job of knocking Grayson unconscious.
I decided on quart-sized.
I picked up a jar, tested its weight in my hand, and glanced around the pork-n-beans at my dubious P.I. partner. He was still talking to the old woman.
“Madame,” he said, “I wonder if you might help me solve the mystery of Elfers’ moniker.”
The old woman squeezed a cantaloupe and eyed Grayson as if she suspected he might be missing a chromosome. I could totally relate.
“Now you listen here, sonny,” the woman said, wagging a crooked finger at him. “Elfers weren’t named after some nonsensical creature. It was named after my first cousin’s grandfather’s wife’s favorite uncle.”
“What?” Grayson leaned in closer. “Are you saying you’re related to elves?”
Good grief! The man must be some kind of idiot savant—minus the savant part.
“No!” the old lady hollered. Her puffy face turned nearly as pink as her glasses. “I ain’t no elf, you weirdo!” she yelled, and reared back and walloped Grayson in the chest with her giant vinyl purse.
The impact sent him reeling back into a stack of grapefruits.
“Now git!” she yelled as Grayson scrambled to regain his footing. “And shave that sorry old moustache of yours!”
If I hadn’t been doubled over in laughter, I’d have surely peed my pants. As I gasped for breath, a grocery clerk went whizzing by me in Grayson’s direction.
I instantly sobered up. Like a professional, I assessed the situation. Carefully and calmly, I returned the jar of pickles to the shelf.
Then, I bolted for the door like my wig was on fire.
I cleared the exit i
n under four seconds, then hauled ass for the RV. Grayson came flying out a few seconds later, looking as if he’d just robbed the place. He ran up to the driver’s side and grabbed for the door handle.
“Scoot over!” he yelled through the closed window.
I smiled and pressed the lock on the door. “No way.”
Grayson yanked the handle once, shot me a look, and scrambled for the passenger door.
I smirked as he climbed inside. I was in command of the driver’s seat and the keys. And even Grayson had to admit, possession was nine-tenths of the law.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” I said.
“Just shut up and drive.”
AN HOUR OR SO AFTER our hasty getaway from Elfers, I was still grinning from ear to ear. I’d bested Grayson. Again.
Even better, I hadn’t hit a lamppost peeling out of the strip mall parking lot. But best of all, I’d MacGyver’ed a new use for a quart-sized jar of dill pickles.
Yeah. All in all, I was feeling pretty good about myself.
But I should’ve known better than to gloat.
Like my Grandma Selma always said, “Crowing over victories can send the pendulum of life swinging back to wallop you upside the head.”
I wish I’d heeded Grandma’s words. Or, at the very least, learned how to duck.
Chapter Seven
WE WERE CRUISING ALONG US 19 just a few miles shy of New Port Richey when it happened.
One moment I was staring at a huge circus tent with a banner for the Baptist Evangelical Resurrection Path Seekers. The next thing I knew, I was staring into a dark, empty void.
In the blink of an eye, the windshield—and everything else—had gone pitch black.
My entire world had been swallowed up by darkness, as if someone had slapped duct tape over my eyes and covered my head with a sack.
I gasped.
I’m blind!
Then I remembered I was driving and nearly swallowed my tongue.
I’m driving blind!
A horn sounded to my left. I jerked the steering wheel and screamed, “Grayson!”
My fingers clamped down on the steering wheel. Somewhere to my left, another horn blared out a passing warning.
“I can’t see!” I screamed as brakes squealed to my left.
“What’d you say?” I heard Grayson ask to my right.
“I said I can’t see!”
“Wha?!”
Suddenly, a mild electric shock went up my arms as Grayson’s hands settled over mine on the steering wheel. His voice, calm and steady, whispered instructions into my ear.
“Listen carefully, Drex. Everything’s fine. Let up on your grip. I’ll steer from here on out.”
Panic scrambled my brain.
Should I trust my life to a man who believes in elves?
Elves!
“Are you sure?” I squeaked.
“Yes. Let up on the gas, Drex.”
Grayson’s words felt warm and comforting against my neck. I eased up a bit on the gas pedal.
“Good,” he whispered. “That’s it. I’ve got the wheel now. You can let go.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
Reluctantly, I surrendered my grip on the steering wheel. A moment later, I bounced blindly along to the staccato joggle of the RV as it ran over a dozen or so roadway reflectors.
Slowly but surely, our velocity was slowing. I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.
Suddenly, the RV bounced. Another horn blared from the darkness on my left.
I grabbed for the steering wheel and screamed, “Grayson!”
“Gently on the brake now,” he coaxed calmly. “Bring us to a stop. Easy does it.”
I stomped the brake with all my might. My chest collided with Grayson’s arms on the steering wheel.
“Ung,” he grunted. “It’s okay. We’re safe. Good job.”
He cut the ignition.
As the RV sputtered out, my body collapsed inward.
“Th ... thank you,” I stuttered.
“What happened?” Grayson asked.
“I ... I’m not sure,” I said, blinking wildly.
“Another vision?”
“No. Everything just went ... black.”
I felt Grayson’s hands gently cup my face. “Can you see me?”
“No.” Fresh panic shot through me.
“Ease up, Drex. Stop trying so hard.”
I blinked my wide-open, straining eyes. Nothing.
“Sit back,” he said soothingly. “Close your eyes. Breathe.”
I did as Grayson instructed, hanging onto his every word. His voice was the only familiar anchor I had left in the world.
Is this it for me? Has that stupid vestigial twin in my brain taken my sight for good? Crap! What am I going to do?
I was about to burst into tears when I felt Grayson’s hand on my shoulder.
“It’s a good thing you’re not German, Drex,” he said.
“What?” I whispered into the darkness. “Why?”
“Because then you’d be a not-see.”
I groaned. Then I swallowed hard. Then I laughed despite myself.
“Let’s just sit here for a while, cadet,” Grayson said, and took my hand.
I concentrated on the warm, mild current of his touch. Slowly, my racing pulse returned to normal. Black turned to dark gray, then to a bluish haze, as if I were looking through a Vaseline-smeared lens.
As my vision cleared further, the first thing I made out was Grayson’s blurry moustache in front of me.
I’d never seen anything so beautiful.
His face was inches from mine, watching my every move.
“You had a vision, didn’t you?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No. It was more like ... I dunno ... a flavor.”
His bushy eyebrows drew closer together. “A flavor?”
“Yeah. A ... taste.”
I made a sour face, then raked my teeth over my tongue. I rolled down the RV window and spit the foul taste from my mouth.
Grayson leaned forward in the passenger seat. “That’s a new one. What exactly do you think you ‘tasted’?”
“I’m not sure.” I grimaced from the lingering, unsavory film in my mouth. “I think it was ... the flavor of evil.”
Grayson’s left eyebrow arched. “Intriguing. And what, pray tell, does evil taste like?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Tingly. Metallic. Like sucking on an old battery.”
“Stick out your tongue,” Grayson said.
“Why?”
He leaned forward, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a baggie of what looked like Q-Tips in vials.
My nose crinkled. “What are you doing?”
“Collecting samples, of course. Now stick out your tongue.”
I blew out a breath. Grayson had gone from caring to clinical in two seconds flat. “Honest to God. I don’t get paid enough for this.”
Grayson stared at me, an incredulous look on his face. “You don’t think I’m going to miss the opportunity to gather empirical evidence on evil itself, do you? Think about it, Drex. If I can proffer actual physical evidence of the physiological changes brought about by ectoplasmic enc—”
“Just shut up and do it,” I said, and stuck out my tongue.
Chapter Eight
“I SUPPOSE WE CAN RULE out Viagra,” Grayson said. “How about pregnancy?”
I stared at him blankly as we switched places and he climbed into the driver’s seat of the battered old RV. “What are you talking about?”
“The cause of your temporary blindness,” he said. He turned and shot me a look. “What did you think I was talking about?”
“With you, there’s no telling,” I muttered, then studied the windshield. “But to answer your question, no, I’m not pregnant. And I didn’t take Viagra.”
“Any other drugs or chemical stimulants?” he asked, cranking the engine and pulling back onto the road.
I plucked a blue suc
ker out of my mouth. “Only if you count Tootsie Pops.”
“Sugar is a gateway drug. But as yet, it’s not been proven to directly induce blindness, as far as we’ve been told. Unless, of course, you count diabetic retinopathy.”
“No way,” I said, and I chewed my lip from concern. “What else do you think could’ve caused me to lose my sight?”
Grayson pursed his lips. “Ocular migraine, perhaps. Did you experience any numbness or tingling?”
“Only on my tongue.”
“Hmm.” Grayson drove on for a minute. The ugly urban sprawl better known as New Port Richey came into view. “Amaurosis Fugax.”
I glared at Grayson. “Did you just insult me?”
“What? No. Amaurosis Fugax is a sudden reduction in blood flow to the eyes.”
My brow furrowed. “You mean like a stroke?”
“Similar, but no. Not technically. Did you have any loss of feeling on one side? Any trouble speaking?”
“No. You were there, Grayson. You heard me yelling.”
“Right.” Grayson shot me a smirk. “How could I forget that?”
“Har har har.”
“Okay, okay.” Grayson pulled up to a red light. “So, no stroke. Let’s go back to the bad taste in your mouth. Could you describe it in more detail?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. Like I said before. Tingly. Bitter. Metallic. Like a mouthful of old pennies.”
“Pennies.” Grayson lolled the word around on his tongue. “Exposure to mercury or lead could cause that, but it seems unlikely.”
“Why?”
Grayson studied me for a moment. “Because I’d probably have experienced the same exposure.”
I frowned. “Maybe you did. Maybe you’re about to go blind, too.” I looked down at the steering wheel.
Grayson smirked. “Nice try, but you’re not driving again.”
The light turned green. Grayson stomped the gas. The g-force sent me slumping back into my chair.
“You brush your teeth regularly?” Grayson asked, shifting into second gear.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Poor oral hygiene could account for the bad taste. Interesting side factoid. Did you know that when you brush your teeth, it’s the only time you clean part of your skeletal system?”
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