Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Box Set

by Margaret Lashley

  “Amen,” Stanley and I muttered.

  “If Bertie’s the bad guy, we’ll shut him down. Amen?” Grayson crooned.

  “Amen!” Rocko and Earl roared.

  “Amen,” Stanley and I said.

  Grayson shot Rocko a determined, tight-jawed stare. “No man should have to do another’s bidding, brother.”

  Rocko nodded his tear-stained face. “Yes, sir.”

  Grayson leaned in across the table. “Now, listen closely, everyone, and do exactly as I say ....”

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “YOU ALL IN, BROTHER?” Grayson asked Stanley, as Rocko loaded me and my wheelchair into the back of his rainbow Bertie van.

  “I gotta go see the voodoo priestess first,” Stanley said, chewing his lip. “Bertie’s some bad juju. I’m gonna need a spirit animal or something for backup.”

  “Good idea,” Grayson said. “Best to cover all the bases. This is the Bible Belt, after all, and a lot of people around here know how to use it.”

  I cringed.

  Worst mixed-metaphor ever.

  I sighed and resigned myself to my fate. I was half-bald, and half-heartedly on a half-baked mission with a pile of half-wits, headed for a showdown with Bertie and his half-assed toupee.

  What more could a girl ask for?

  After loading me into the back, Rocko and Grayson climbed into the front of the van. Grayson turned to face me from the passenger seat. “You got the EFD?”

  I patted the electromagnetic field detector duct-taped to my waist underneath my shirt. “Tucked and ready.”

  “Got your vest?”

  I winced. “Bullet proof vest? I didn’t think—”

  “No. Wool,” Grayson said. “It’s supposed to get cold tonight.”

  “Oh. Yes, Dad.”

  “Good. You know the plan?”

  “I know it.” I squirmed in my wheelchair and pulled out the Tootsie Pop I’d stashed in a side pocket. I pointed it at Grayson like a toy gun. “You can count on me, Sarge.”

  “Wow,” Rocko said. He turned the ignition and the van shuddered to life. “Sounds like we’re preparing for war.”

  “In a way, we are,” Grayson said. “You said it yourself, Rocko, ‘Cults are bad.’ We can’t let this go unchallenged.”

  “Right.” Rocko backed the van out of the parking lot of Topless Tacos. I could tell by the reflection of his face in the rearview mirror that Grayson’s Kool-Aid was kicking in, big-time.

  I waved to Earl and Stanley, who were sitting in Bessie, ready and waiting to tail us to the revival tent.

  “Did you know that most major foreign wars were fought over religious intolerance?” Grayson asked Rocko.

  “No, sir,” Rocko said, pulling out into traffic.

  Grayson patted him on the shoulder. “That’s what makes America so great, brother. We don’t fight over theological differences. We fight over socioeconomic ones. Economics is our religion.”

  “Huh?” Rocko grunted.

  I let out a jaded laugh. “If that’s true, then why do so many people go to church, Grayson?”

  Grayson shrugged. “To live longer, of course.”

  I plucked the sucker from my mouth. “Are you saying you believe in eternal life?”

  Grayson turned his head to face me again. “Studies show that regular church attendance increases life expectancy. Frequent attendees live an average of 83 years. Non-attendees about 75.”

  I frowned. “Maybe. But they spend all those extra years in church, so it’s a wash.”

  A dimple formed in Grayson’s cheek. “Fair enough. Now ditch the Tootsie Pop, cadet, and get ready to rumble.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  THE INSIDE OF BERTIE’S revival tent was a fire-hazard waiting to happen. Packed to capacity, people had squeezed into every folding chair in the place, then lined the fabric walls two- and three-people deep.

  The electric buzz of the pulsing crowd was palpable. And, for the first time, I began to think Grayson’s theory about Bertie being a psychic vampire might actually be plausible. If Bertie really could feed off the energy of others, tonight would be an all-he-could-eat buffet.

  With Bertie’s van-man Rocko with us, we were quickly ushered up to the front row. I have to say, it was cool getting the red carpet treatment. But the envious stares we garnered as Rocko parted the sea of humanity in the tent made me seriously question some folks’ charitable intentions.

  Once we reached the front row, Grayson parked me at the end of a long line of other folks in wheelchairs. The swell of anticipation was contagious. I even felt my own pulse quicken as I watched people shift nervously in their seats, putting on or pulling off the jackets and hats they’d worn to fend off the chill of the cold front that had blown in that afternoon.

  Above the constant, murmuring hum of the throng behind me, a belch blasted out. I craned my neck around to give the impossible ingrate some side-eye. It was Earl, grinning at me like the cat who ate the canary carbonara.

  “Just making a joyful noise unto the Lord, Cuz,” he said.

  “Earl, you’re such a cretin!” I shouted.

  As the words left my lips, the tent grew silent as a grave.

  My last word, “cretin,” echoed through the sudden hush like the call of an angry cricket. I shrunk back into my wheelchair, mortified.

  I had no idea my voice sounded that shrill when I screamed!

  Like a mortified turtle, I slowly stuck my head up and glanced around. The room was still silent. But nobody was paying any attention to me. All eyes were on the stage directly in the front me. I turned to look, too.

  A man was walking across the raised wooden platform. He stopped at the microphone set up center-stage. He tapped it three times, sending staccato sound bites blasting through the tent.

  “Brothers and sisters, are you ready for a miracle?” he yelled.

  “Yes!” the crowd roared back like thunder. Then the chanting started. “Bertie! Bertie! Bertie!”

  A moment later, Bertie stepped out onto the stage in a suit I’d seen somewhere before.

  On Colonel Sanders.

  The hordes went wild.

  Bertie smiled, raised his right hand, and pranced around the stage like a rock star. Then, in a move that made my jaw drop, he did a reverse moon-walk, stepped up to the mic, and put his hands together.

  The room went so quiet you could hear a pinhead drop.

  “Lettuce pray,” Bertie said, and bowed his head.

  Grayson whispered in my ear. “Ready for your close up, cadet?”

  I swallowed against the rising bile in my gut. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  TEN MINUTES LATER, a sing-along with Bertie had whipped the crowd into a hypnotic frenzy. Bertie was playing to the believers, pointing here and there yelling, “Be healed!”

  Suddenly, a plus-sized woman in a small-sized tank top and rainbow-striped leggings stood up and yelled, “Halleluiah!” She plowed down the aisle of believers behind us, then ran toward the stage.

  Right as she passed by Grayson and me, she doubled over, as if some invisible force had punched her in the gut. She convulsed, babbled incoherently, and fell to the floor in front of me, writhing and rolling around like she was trying to put out a fire.

  “Bertie’s got her in his energy-sucking grasp!” Grayson said. “We’ve got to do something!”

  Before I could stop him, Grayson scooted around the back of my wheelchair and knelt by the woman’s side. He looked up at me. “Hurry, Call nine—”

  I kicked him in the buttock. “Shh! Leave her be. She’s just fallen out in the spirit.”

  The woman grunted and kicked out wildly. Grayson jerked to standing, his face scarlet. He lowered his eyes and scurried back to his position behind my chair.

  “Shouldn’t somebody at least cover her up?” he whispered into my ear. “Her spirit isn’t the only thing that’s fallen out.”

  I didn’t want to look.

  My spirit was willing, but my flesh was weak. I
got an eyeful that will haunt me until I reach the Pearly Gates.

  I shivered with disgust, then looked up and saw something even more horrifying.

  Up on stage, a line of people was forming to be healed by Bertie. The person at the very front of the que was as big as a bear—and his name was Earl Shankles.

  I closed my eyes, willing this all to be a nightmare I’d wake up from soon.

  “What’s he doing up there?” Grayson asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. “As far as I can tell, Earl’s gone rogue.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  THE CROWD WAS SWAYING to the beat of I’m a Believer. Earl was inching his way toward Bertie, who was standing center-stage. Earl’s eyes appeared glazed over, as if he were hypnotized, or in some kind of trance. But then again, they often did ....

  “Come, brother,” Bertie coaxed.

  Earl took a few more zombie-like steps, the stopped two feet in front of Bertie.

  “What’s your name, brother?” Bertie asked.

  “E ... Earl.”

  “And what brings you to seek a miracle tonight?”

  “I’m not here for me,” Earl said.

  The crowd oohed and aahed.

  “What faith from this kind and generous spirit!” Bertie said, offering a giant grin to the hordes. He turned back to Earl. “Pray, son, then who are you here for?”

  “Sally,” Earl said.

  Bertie’s face fell like an anvil off a cliff.

  “You!” he squealed, scrambling away from Earl. “Security!” he shrieked. “Get him! It’s that freak with the two-headed turtle!”

  Two burly biker-men rushed the stage and grabbed Earl by the arms. I could tell by the bad forearm tattoo that one of the men was Rocko.

  I started to get up. Grayson’s hands pressed down on my shoulders. “Don’t blow your cover,” he said. “Earl will be all right.”

  I stared up at the stage, helpless to do anything.

  “But Bertie, you’re Sally’s only hope!” Earl yelled as they hauled him away.

  Grayson’s hand squeezed my shoulder. “Time for Plan B,” he whispered in my ear, then shoved me forward so fast I nearly fell out of the wheelchair.

  “I bear testament to Bertie’s powers!” Grayson yelled.

  Bertie’s panicked eyes landed on us. Seeds of recognition set in. He pulled himself together and straightened his bolero tie. “Brothers!” he cried out. “So good to see you again! Come up here where everyone can see you!”

  As Grayson wheeled me up the disability ramp toward the stage, Bertie told the throng of believers our backstory.

  “Brothers and sisters,” he said, “these two came to see me yesterday, on a mission to restore this poor soul to health.”

  The crowd murmured acknowledgements. Grayson wheeled me up to Bertie. He laid his clammy hand on my shoulder.

  “Mind you, this poor crippled man didn’t ask to be healed of lameness. You see, until yesterday, he was also blind, weren’t you?” Bertie squeezed my shoulder. Hard.

  “Yes!” I chirped. “I was blind, but now I see!”

  The hordes erupted in cheers.

  “Okay, calm down,” Bertie said. “Now I’m going to lay hands on this man and he’s going to walk!”

  A second round of applause and yelling broke out.

  Under the cover of the cacophony of cheers, Bertie leaned over, slapped his froggy palm on my forehead and said, “I don’t know what your game is, but I know you’re with that two-headed turtle freak. If you really can walk, I suggest you do it when I tell you to, or you’re gonna need that wheelchair for real.”

  Bertie raised up, grinned, and waved at the crowd. “Be healed, brother! Get up and walk!”

  I stood up. The crowd went wild.

  “Walk!” Bertie said.

  For the first time in my life, I was a believer. Stage fright was real. My mind was scrambled. My legs wobbled so badly I could hardly take a step. Half paralyzed with fear, a sudden thought made me nearly collapse back into the wheelchair.

  Is it stage fright, or is Bertie sapping my psychic energy?

  “Excellent,” Bertie said in a tone that sent a shiver down my spine. “Take him to the recovery room.”

  A biker dude pushed me back into the wheelchair. I landed with a thud, then craned my neck around, trying to see Grayson.

  I spotted him in a dark corner of the stage. Two security guards had him pinned down. I turned back to face the crowd. I zeroed in on a guy taking money from the collection plate. His face seemed familiar, but my mind was too scrambled to recall his name.

  “Help,” I said, half-heartedly. Knowing help was nowhere nearby.

  “Make sure he doesn’t get away,” Bertie whispered to the bodyguard as he wheeled me away.

  I had a bad feeling about this. And, even worse, I had a bad taste in my mouth.

  Again.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  I WAS BLIND. AGAIN.

  But this time, I couldn’t tell if I was having another spell of lost eyesight, or if it was because wherever I was being held against my will was as black as pitch.

  It was cold, too. Like, meat-locker cold.

  I shivered and felt the telltale tug of the ropes binding my wrists and ankles to the wheelchair. The goon who’d tied me up had warned me to keep quiet or he’d gag me, too. I’d obeyed. What other choice did I have?

  After he secured my arms and legs to the chair, he’d put a hand over my eyes and rolled me down a passageway behind the stage. I heard the click of a door handle, then movement as he’d drug me backward into a cold, dark room. He’d spun my chair around so my back was to the door, then removed his hand from over my eyes.

  “Don’t make a sound,” he’d demanded before he shut the door. As it closed, it clanged heavy and metallic.

  Maybe it was a meat locker.

  A sudden thought sent shivers down my spine.

  Cripes! Maybe this is where they store the bodies!

  Blind and alone, I fought against the rising panic in my throat. The goon hadn’t gagged or blindfolded me. Was that a good sign or a bad sign? I strained my eyes open as wide as they would go. I still couldn’t see squat. To top it off, my mouth tasted like Lincoln had come to life from a roll of pennies and taken a dump on my tongue—just like the other two times I’d gone blind.

  I have to get out of here!

  I tried scooting with my torso, hoping it would move the wheelchair. But it wouldn’t budge. My mind swirled with panic. Were bodies hanging on hooks all around me, empty husks sucked dry of life-giving energy by Bertie and his believers?

  I didn’t want to wait around to find out.

  “Help!” I yelled into the darkness.

  “Help me!” Someone cried out from across the room.

  “Oh my God!” I said. “They got you, too?”

  “Yes! Save me!”

  “Who’s doing this to us?” I asked.

  “Brother Bertie!”

  My gut flopped. “Crap! I knew it!” I called back. I squirmed against the ropes binding me to the wheelchair.

  “Help!”

  “I’m trying, but I’m tied up!”

  The rancid, metallic taste in my mouth intensified. I wanted to spit, but was worried it’d end up all over me. I didn’t want to die like that.

  Suddenly, I heard the door crack open behind me, then footsteps. Someone was approaching—to kill me?

  “Who’s there?” I squeaked.

  “Bertie!” the other hostage called out.

  “Shut up!” a man’s voice yelled behind my back. A hand of unknown origin clamped onto my shoulder. If it had been Grayson, I would’ve felt the electricity of his touch. It if had been Earl, I’d have smelled his Frito breath.

  A clammy hand landed on my forehead.

  No doubt about it. It was dirty Bertie himself.

  My mind scrambled. Had Bertie turned on the lights when he came in, and I was blind again? Or was he operating in the dark, hoping I
wouldn’t recognize him?

  “What do you want with me?” I asked.

  “The question is, what do you want with me?”

  Suddenly, hands were all over me, patting me down. One hand stopped on the EFD gizmo taped to my side. The other hand stopped on my right boob.

  I heard Bertie gasp. “Brother, when did you become a sister?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said.

  “What’s this thing?” he asked, ripping off the EFD taped to my side. “Is this some kind of remote control recording device?”

  “No,” I said.

  “A bomb?” The pitch in his voice rose. “Are you trying to blow me up?”

  “No!” I pleaded into the dark. “I ... I just wanted to record your electromagnetic field disturbance.”

  “My what?”

  “Your psychic energy fluctuations, okay?”

  “Really?” he said. “How does this thing work?”

  “The monitor detects electromagnetic changes,” I offered hopefully.

  “Is this the monitor?”

  “I ... I don’t know. I can’t see. I’m having one of my blind spells again.”

  “So ... you haven’t ... seen anything?” he asked.

  “Uh ... no.”

  Bertie grabbed the wheelchair, spun me around and began shoving me forward.

  “Are you going to kill me now?” I squealed.

  “Kill you?” Bertie asked.

  “Yes.” I blinked back tears. Suddenly, the gray outline of the room came into view.

  “Hell, no,” Bertie said. “Just don’t sue me, okay? I didn’t know you had boobs!”

  I glanced down at my lap. The EFD monitor lay between my knees, where he’d tossed it. The indicator was all the way past the red zone.

  “Help me!” the voice called out to my left.

  “Shut up!” Bertie shouted.

  I hazarded a sideways glance and caught sight of a shiny, white, coffin-looking thing.

  What the hell?

  “You’re ... you’re going to let me go?” I stuttered.

  “What?” Bertie said. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I? I thought you were some kook out to discredit me.”