by Tim Dorsey
“My lips are sealed,” said Nigel. “We’ll only air the footage we shot in Cassadaga.”
“Like hell you will.”
“But you even said you wanted us to show it.”
“No, I didn’t. Why are you speaking such nonsense?”
“Because I heard you,” said the producer. “Back at the cabin, remember?”
“The number one rule in life is when people point out that you lied, just flatly deny it. Of course The Daily Show will run clips of you saying it, but nobody’s paying attention. Don’t you follow elections in this country?”
Chapter 19
The Next Day
Another sunny morning in Miami.
Nothing out of place. Drivers sipping coffee, pedestrians reading newspapers, drifters with rolling Samsonite. People on cell phones reported credit-card issues. Some checked their wrists to see how many steps they had taken.
A decade-old Hyundai sat at a red light with a dripping brake drum and a bumper sticker from the driver’s alma mater: Go Terrible Swedes (Bethany College, Lindsborg, Kansas). The employee badge clipped to his pocket said Dagwood Foote, named for some great-great-grand-uncle, but he preferred Darren. His mind wandered without attention, as did the traffic around him: His namesake relative was said to have perished a hero in Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders. Were the Swedish even aware of the nickname? His family lied more than most. Maybe the first Dagwood actually died in a tragic stevedore accident in Spokane, leaving behind a modest collection of vice-presidential autographs. What was the deal with Norway? He decided that life was immeasurably complex and required another bumper sticker about his son making straight B’s. He took a bite of a Hot Pocket.
The radio was tuned to a Spanish news station for the English: Someone was found at sea. Someone else wasn’t. Raúl Castro is still a jerk. Don’t buy ranch salad dressing dated February 17 or else.
The driver leaned forward as a Marilyn Monroe drag queen sprinted through the crosswalk—“Get away from me!”—followed closely by a JFK look-alike—“But I love you! . . .”
The red light turned green. The Hyundai had just started to move when it was cut off by a flying-V formation of Mercedes sedans.
Tires screeched to a stop. Hands seized through the driver’s window.
“Excuse me,” said Foote. “I’m having breakfast.”
A sausage Hot Pocket flew as a coat was thrown over his head. Another man shoved him in the backseat of the getaway vehicle and fired gunshots in the air to intimidate bystanders, who weren’t interested anyway because the same thing was happening for unrelated reasons at the other intersections.
Elsewhere
Mid-morning settled over the sleepy wooded settlement. Residents with gardening gloves pulled weeds from the yards of pastel cottages, and guests sipped sweetened tea on the veranda of the old Cassadaga Hotel. A silver Corvette arrived at a pink house with a silk flag. The TV could be heard from the street.
“Looks like Coleman is still awake,” said Serge. “That’s a good sign.”
“I don’t know if it was the best idea to leave your friend guarding my ex,” said Trish. “He was unconscious on my rug most of the time I saw him.”
“Coleman may be a fool, but he’s also fool-proof.” Serge walked up the steps with her key. “My knots were so intricate that the two of them together couldn’t untie Gil.”
They opened the front door, and Serge’s face drooped. A human form lay sprawled again on the Tibetan carpet, gun still in hand. The hostage had managed to tediously inch his chair across the parlor until its back rested against an antique writing desk. Then the ex-husband had blindly worked his fingertips into various drawers and nooks until he felt a knife, which he was now using to saw through the ropes around his wrists.
“Thanks a lot, Coleman.” Serge walked over and glared disapprovingly at the captive. “You’re not being safety-conscious. Haven’t you ever heard to cut away from yourself?” He reached for the blade. “Let me take that before you hurt yourself.”
Coleman arose from the dead. “Hey, Serge, when did you get back?”
“Apparently just in time.” Serge dragged the whimpering hostage and his chair back to the center of the room. “I thought you already took a nap.”
“Just resting my eyelids,” said Coleman, gesturing with the gun. “But the rest of the time I kept him covered just like you asked.”
Bang.
Ker-sploosh.
Serge shrieked. “My Eight Ball!”
“Sorry.”
Serge snatched the pistol away. “What’s wrong with you?”
“It just went off like the other times.” He lay back on the floor. “Closing my eyes again.”
Serge turned to the ex. “You’re a neutral party. Who’s in the right here? Am I crazy?”
“Serge.” Trish tapped him on the shoulder. “I hate to mention it, but we have a situation here. I’m starting to get really scared. What if the police—?”
Serge wrapped his arms around her in a gentle embrace. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Just go in the bedroom and catch up on sleep. When you wake up, all this aggravation will be a fading memory.”
“I thought you needed cover of darkness,”
“Plans have accelerated due to last night’s events. Plus, it fits nicely into my new master plan. Go take a nap.”
“But you’re . . . I mean, you wouldn’t, uh . . .”
“Kill him?” said Serge. “Oh, no, no, no, no. But I have terrific powers of persuasion. I’ll make him an offer he can’t refuse.”
It was almost as if she had been holding her breath ever since her ex arrived. Now a huge exhale of relief. “Thanks, I owe you big-time.”
“No, you don’t.”
She padded down the hallway in exhaustion and was practically out before she hit the mattress.
“Now then . . .” Serge grinned at the ex. “It’s just you and me. What can we possibly do for fun? I got it!”
Serge disappeared behind him, and the captive’s neck jerked back and forth. Then he felt his whole body tipping backward as the chair was dragged toward the rear door.
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
North Florida
Two ghostly-white fingers carefully parted dusty blinds. A bloodshot eyeball slowly rotated.
Outside on the highway, occasional vehicles drove by at relaxed intervals. Otherwise, still air.
It was an empty stretch of U.S. 98 running through the Panhandle somewhere below Tallahassee, and it was getting late into the afternoon. A warm orange light traced the tops of the pines across the road. The trees were about all there was, except for the motel with the eyeball in the window. It was at least a mile of thick woods east or west to the next nearest anything, which was a Primitive Baptist church or an abandoned grain elevator, depending on the direction. The motel was a single-story row of rooms that was built with a hometown bank loan and the post-war optimism of a roustabout oil hand from Lubbock named Earl, who erected a sign with a giant cowboy that said Rancho Deluxe. The parking lot was always full back before the interstate came through. Now the motel office was cluttered with the crayons and toys of a deferential family from India. There was only one car in the lot. Earl was buried nearby.
The eyeball backed away from the window and the blinds snapped shut. Trembling hands opened a childproof bottle for another tranquilizer. A cameraman balled himself up in the corner and wept.
“What are we going to do?” asked Günter. “There’s video of us burying the body!”
“I don’t know.” Nigel popped the pill. “But I can’t take this anymore. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. I haven’t shaved. We haven’t set foot outside this room.”
“They’ll think we murdered him!” said Günter. “They have the death penalty in this country!”
“You don’t need to remind me. It’s all I can think about.” The eye went to the window again. “My chest won’t stop pounding, like the cops are going to break in any minute.”
> “We have to get that video back!” said Günter. “As long as it’s out there, we’ll be looking over our shoulders the rest of our lives!”
“I know, I know, but how?” Nigel rubbed his wino whiskers. “It’s impossible to track that Serge guy down, plus he may have already made copies of the tape. I don’t want to leave this room.”
Günter began crying again, then Nigel.
The tears trickled off. “Okay, we have to get ourselves together,” said the producer. “We’re big deals, after all. We don’t need to be cowering . . .” Sniffle. “. . . We need a plan. We need to take action!” He plugged his cell phone into the charger.
“That’s taking action?”
“It’s a start.” Sniffle. “The main thing is getting organized. When was the last time we bathed? . . .”
They took turns in the shower.
Nigel toweled off his hair. “That’s better. We’re taking control now. We’re thinking straight.”
“So what’s the plan to get the tape back?” asked Günter.
Nigel stood in thought, his brain flipping through mental note cards. He finally shook his head. “I can’t come up with anything that will work. What about you?”
“Maybe if we— . . . or we could— . . .” Eyes began welling again. “It’s impossible. Unless we . . .”
“Unless we what?”
“The hillbillies. They’ll know where he is.”
“Except we don’t know where they are,” said Nigel. “We’ll never find that cabin, and even if we do, I want to go back there even less than I want to leave this room.”
Günter collapsed on the bed. “We’re doomed!”
“Hold everything,” said Nigel. “I think I’ve got it.”
“Got what?”
“The whole time we’ve been approaching this from the wrong angle.” He picked up an electric razor. “We’ll never get the tape back. So what?”
“So we go to death row.”
“Don’t you see? It’s exquisitely simple,” said Nigel. “What does the tape show?”
“Us burying a body.”
“No, it shows us burying something. Who’s to say it’s even human?”
“The police will discover that when they dig him up.”
“Exactly. So we have to make the tape irrelevant,” said Nigel.
“What does that mean?”
“We need to fix it so that when the authorities follow that video into the woods and start digging, they don’t find anything,” said Nigel. “All we need to do is go back and move the body. It solves everything.”
Günter’s eyes bulged. “No way! I’m not going anywhere near that forest!”
Another peek out the window. “It’ll be dark enough soon.”
“Especially at night!”
“It’s our only hope,” said Nigel. “I can’t do this alone.”
“Even if I agree to come, I don’t think I can function,” said Günter. “I’ll freeze up with nerves. It’s hard enough just getting my legs to cooperate in this room.”
“We’re going to have to stop for shovels anyway, so we’ll pick up some beer.”
“Might work,” said Günter. “It’s a long enough drive.”
The Groves
Afternoon sunlight streamed through a kitchen window. Butterflies circled outside. Squirrels dug for nuts. A hummingbird hovered with unseen wings at a decorative feeder.
Trish smiled at the view. Serge had been right. A good nap and now all the weight pressing down on her was evaporating.
The kitchen began to fill with the smell and sound of frying butter. A mixing bowl poured batter in the skillet. Trish began whistling a merry tune as she sliced Valencia oranges in half and twisted them on a hand-operated juicer.
Coleman plopped down in a seat at the table, his hair in anarchy.
“I’m making pancakes.” Trish flipped with a spatula. “Nothing like breakfast when it’s not breakfast time. Want any?”
Coleman had a distant stare like he was recovering from a stun gun. “I’m not quite here yet.” He began his own breakfast with Schlitz.
“By the way, have you seen Serge since I went to sleep?”
“Ask me again in a few minutes?”
“I wonder where he could be? . . .”
. . . Ten miles east, sunlight sparkled off bright green leaves. A hand snatched a Valencia orange off a tree.
Serge jammed a ninety-nine-cent plastic citrus sipper in the side of the fruit and began sucking as he squeezed. The deflated orange was cast aside and the sipper lovingly stowed in a Velcro pocket of his cargo shorts. “I never get tired of that.”
Then he picked up his shopping bags and ventured deeper into the isolated rows of orange trees until arriving at a preordained spot.
He stood alone and pinched his lower lip. “Did I get my coordinates wrong?” He looked down at the ground where there had been some kind of commotion in the dirt. “No, this is definitely where I left him.”
There were two irregular grooves in the soil. Serge followed them, pushing branches aside as he climbed into the next row, then the next. “There you are!”
On the ground, a man was tied to a tipped-over chair, frantically digging heels into the earth to push himself along. “Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
“Let me give you a hand.” Serge uprighted the chair. “Didn’t mean to be gone so long, but it was nuts rounding up all the supplies for my new Route 66 job.” He dropped the bags and sat on the ground in front of the chair. A large pictorial book opened in his lap. “This stuff is absolutely fascinating! And I thought I knew everything about crystals, even polycrystals like ice cubes, where individual components of the geometric structure don’t carry over to the next cell. Aren’t ice cubes insane? That crystal formation is why water expands when it freezes—the lifelong enigma is finally solved!”
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
“You’re right, I’m getting off track.” He flipped pages. “The hard-core crystal community believes their rocks vibrate at different energy levels to impart the virtues of joy, energy, creativity, wisdom, protection, sexual prowess . . . Nudge, nudge, wink, wink . . .”
Serge reached into the first shopping bag, removing various clear packets of stones that he arranged chromatically on the ground. “I’ve totally rededicated my life to the world of crystals. When I was in school, they told us neutrons and protons and electrons were as small as it gets. But now there are quarks, bosons, hadrons, gluons, which means I was seriously gypped!” He rummaged in the other bag, producing a pair of drinking glasses and bottles of spring water. “But here’s where all that science brings us to crystals. Most people think that only plants and animals are alive, and everything else isn’t. I mean, look at my car keys. Like crystals, they appear completely solid, but inside, all these subatomic particles are racing around like they’re late for something. So my keys are actually alive . . . Note to self: Don’t just throw them on the dresser anymore . . .”
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
Serge turned to a new chapter in his picture book. “Some devotees even swear by dropping large crystals into glasses of water, then drinking it or pouring the ‘essence’ on their skin. Absolutely true.” He turned the book around. “These women are doing it. What do you say we give it a try and find out if they’re onto something?”
Serge uncapped the bottles of water and filled their glasses.
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm! . . .”
“I get it,” said Serge. “You don’t completely trust me, just because I tied you up and pointed a gun in your face and dragged you into the kind of neglected orange grove that attracts search parties. The real reason I picked these rows of Valencia trees is that in the early days, the spiritualist camp held ‘grove services.’ A stranger told me . . . But don’t just take my word that I mean no harm. This here will put your mind at ease. See how all these bags of crystals are clearly marked and factory sealed?” He then stood and placed the book in the captive’s lap. “And if you’re stil
l worried, read this part on preparation of the magic potions. It explains that none of the crystals actually dissolve and end up in the liquid. The rocks just give off positive vibes, filling the water with ‘mystical information’ and ‘ancient memory.’ If you believe it, great, you’ll be a new man. If not, the worst-case scenario is you’re drinking spring water and bullshit.”
“Mmmmm! Mmmmm!”
“How about this to sweeten the deal?” said Serge. “If you drink it, I’ll set you free. I’ll even drink mine first.”
The hostage stopped struggling and looked up.
“You want to say something?”
Urgent nodding.
Serge ripped the duct tape off his mouth.
“Ow! . . . Will you really let me go? No tricks?”
Serge raised a pair of fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“Let me see the book again.”
Serge held it to his face. The captive read quickly down the page. “Okay, now let me see those bags.”
“Here you are.”
The captive read the labels and inspected the seals. “Hell yes, it’s a deal! I’ll drink as much as you want!”
“That’s the spirit.”
Serge prepared their respective cocktails, over and over, drinking his own and holding the others to his guest’s mouth. More concoctions were poured liberally over their skin.
Then they sat and waited.
Serge’s big toe began to vibrate, then his whole foot, his leg, his other leg . . . ripples of energy rushing up his chest. He hopped to his feet. “Hot damn! There really is something to this! I feel like dancing!”
Serge jitterbugged from one row of trees to the next, then did cartwheels and somersaults. “I’ve never felt so young and full of life!”