I nodded. “Follow me.”
RELUCTANTLY, I LED Paulson through the tangled undergrowth of wiregrass and palmettos to the horrific scene. I pointed a finger at the canine’s corpse about twenty feet away. “There’s the dog over there.”
“Yes. I see it,” he said. “But where’s the body?”
“Behind us.”
I turned slowly, eyes half shut, not wanting to see it again.
“Where?” Paulson asked.
I cracked open a flinching eye. The corpse in the orange overalls was nowhere to be seen. My mouth fell open.
“It was right over there.” I pointed to a stand of pines.
“Are you sure whoever it is was dead? Maybe they got up and—”
I shook my head numbly. “No. They were dead all right.”
“Uh-huh. Well, Bobbie, I hate to say it, but you did just experience a head trauma. And I heard a rumor you saw a phantom shooter at the hospital. Maybe you should go talk to your doctor or something. You might be having hallucinations.”
My gut flopped. “I could have sworn it was real.”
Paulson put an arm around my shoulder. In other circumstances, I might have liked it. But at the moment, all I could see and smell around me was death. At least I knew then I wasn’t into necrophilia.
“You want me to drive you back to your shop?” Paulson asked.
“No. I’ll be okay.”
“Then I’ll follow you. To make sure you get back all right. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have put you through this so soon after your accident. You should get some rest.”
I sighed. “You’re right. Do me a favor, Paulson?”
“Sure.”
“Don’t tell anybody about this. The last thing I need is Earl finding out. He’ll be on the phone turning me over to some UFO network or something.”
“Okay. It’s just a dead dog. Mum’s the word. As long as you promise you’ll take it easy. And go see a doctor.”
I crossed my fingers behind my back. “I promise.”
Right. Like I’m gonna spill my guts to a shrink and end up in the looney bin like poor Aunt Clara. No thanks.
Chapter Nineteen
THE SUN WAS DIPPING below the tree line when I pulled the Mustang onto the crumbling asphalt parking lot in front of the mechanic shop. In the runoff ditch between the road and weedy yard, Earl was squatting in the grass, hopping around on his heels like a giant frog in a black wig and overalls.
Any other time, the scene would’ve provided me sadistic, comic relief. Tonight, it was just relief, pure and simple.
I blew out a big breath, hoping some of the lingering horror would exit with it. I slapped on a trembling smirk and climbed out of the Mustang.
“Someone finally turn you into a toad?” I half-heartedly yelled at my cousin.
He stood up. His face bore an odd mixture of trepidation and indignation.
“Near ’bouts.” He nodded toward the garage and glanced up at the second story. “That weirdo up there. He passed out in his soup blabbering something about a rubber octopus.”
My trembling smirk collapsed. “What? He must be in worse shape than I thought.”
Earl shot me an I-told-you-so look. “Sasquatch bite. I’m telling you.”
“Can it, Earl.”
Earl shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
I scowled. “I don’t get it, Earl. If Knickerbocker’s so bad off, how in the world did he manage to walk here this morning?”
“Shock, maybe? Or maybe he got one of them adrenaline surges. You know. Like them stories you hear about where some tiny little gal lifts up a Mack Truck to get her baby out from underneath it.”
I shook my head. “Earl, I’m not in the mood to hear any more of your stupid crap tonight.”
His face puckered. “It ain’t stupid crap. Look it up yourself. It’s on the Internet.”
“I would, if I could afford to get the cable hooked up again. But all the money we earn goes to pay your salary.” I shot him an angry scowl. “Just gimme the crickets and go on home.”
Earl scowled. “Happy to oblige.” His face softened. “Sure you don’t need any help with that guy upstairs?”
“No. I can manage. If he’s not better in the morning, I’ll call 9-1-1.”
“Alrighty then. Call me if you need me.” Earl opened his huge, meaty palm and offered up a couple of half-squashed crickets.
“Thanks,” I said as the bugs tumbled into my hand. I closed my fingers around them and felt the insects wriggle in my palm. They weren’t the only things on their last legs.
The sapphire ring on my hand was the only thing of value I hadn’t yet pawned to make ends meet. A gift from Grandma Selma, I hoped I wouldn’t have to part with it.
“Watch yourself, you hear?” Earl said as he walked away. He turned back and shot me a look he’d stolen from my father—an odd expression between worry and pity.
My fear evaporated into anger. “Don’t tell me you’re actually worried about me,” I said.
“Naw,” Earl said. “It’s him I’m a-feared for. I wouldn’t want to be left alone with you for all the money in China.” Earl brushed his hands off on the seat of his coveralls, turned his back to me, and headed toward Bessie.
“Yeah?” I called after him. “Well ... I hope Bigfoot gets you next.”
Earl spun around. “Ha! So you do believe that fella got bit by the Sasquatch!”
“I do not!”
“Well, don’t you worry about me, little Cuz. No dumb ol’ skunk ape’s gonna get me. Not in Bessie, he won’t. I’ll flatten him under my tires. Make him into a primate pancake.”
I scowled. “Sounds delicious.”
Chapter Twenty
AFTER LETTING MYSELF into Grandma Selma’s apartment, I crept down the hall and tapped lightly on the bedroom door. Knickerbocker didn’t answer. I peeked inside to find him sleeping soundlessly in bed. I tiptoed in and dropped the two mangled crickets into the terrarium. The lizard eyed them, then stared at me blankly.
“Sorry,” I whispered. “They’re a bit squished.”
Knickerbocker moaned. I whipped around, startled.
He was still asleep, so I snuck over for a closer look. His brow was sweaty. I touched his forehead. It felt feverish. He writhed in his sleep and mumbled something. I leaned in closer. He repeated the same two words over and over. They sounded like “rubber octopi.”
Geez. Earl hadn’t been kidding after all.
I was no doctor, but I was pretty sure a bump on the head shouldn’t cause a fever. I checked the mark on Knickerbocker’s shoulder. It was swollen and red. Had he really suffered some kind of animal bite? I thought about the padlocked room in the back of his RV. Had something—or someone—escaped from there and attacked him?
My mind flashed back to the dead dog in the woods.
That dog could have bit him! What if it had rabies? Oh my lord! The dog died of rabies, and now Knickerbocker’s turning into a human Cujo!
AFTER CALMING MYSELF with a couple of shots of gin, I rethought my earlier man-Cujo theory. I decided to check on Knickerbocker one more time before I called animal control. Whether he was a nut or a saint, I couldn’t tell. But one thing I knew for sure. Right now, that man needed my help.
I fetched a clean washcloth from the bathroom, ran some cool water over it, and wiped Knickerbocker’s brow, careful to avoid putting pressure on the knot on his forehead. The bump looked smaller. And I was surprised to see tiny stubs of hair growing back all over his head.
Knickerbocker wasn’t bald, after all. Just shaved. Like me.
No wonder he wore that dumb fedora.
Then I noticed something that made my spine shiver. Faint, circular marks dotted his entire scalp. About the size of quarters, they reminded me of tentacle marks.
Rubber octopi.
Good grief! Is Knickerbocker a scuba diver? Has he been attacked by a giant squid? What the hell is going on here?
He moaned again. I felt his forehead. The poor gu
y was burning up. I’d have to wait until morning to get any answers out of him.
I rinsed the washcloth and placed it, clean and cool, against his forehead, covering his eyes. Then I took a moment to study the odd stranger before me.
Knickerbocker was lean and muscular. Not a workout body—more of a wiry, forgets-to-eat kind of physique. He was around six feet tall. Unremarkable in looks, save for the cheesy moustache and tentacle marks. He didn’t have any tattoos that I could see, so he probably hadn’t done any jail time.
I doused a paper towel with alcohol and dabbed at the angry red circle of broken skin between his neck and left shoulder. He was definitely unconscious. If he’d been awake, he’d have reacted to the sting.
As I leaned closer, I could smell the muskiness of him—a kind of nervous perspiration mixed with honest sweat. I wondered how long it had been since he’d bathed. His clothes could do with a wash. So could mine, for that matter.
I left the alcohol-soaked paper towel on his wound and reached down to unbutton his pants to throw them in the laundry. As I touched the metal button on the fly of his black jeans, a surge of electricity tingled throughout my body.
Unlike the other jolts I’d experienced of late, this one wasn’t entirely unpleasant. I sat up in surprise.
I know it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a man in his skivvies, but am I really that pathetic?
I set my jaw to clinical nurse mode and finished undoing the button of his jeans. I began to unzip his fly, but my fingers froze. In the exact spot previously covered by his pants button was what appeared to be a second navel.
I sucked in a breath.
Two bellybuttons? Who is this guy?
I blinked in disbelief.
No, no, no! That doesn’t make any sense.
I looked again. It was still there.
Scar tissue. From an operation. Or a gunshot wound. It had to be.
I reached out to touch it ... to put my finger in the hole ....
Knickerbocker groaned. I jumped about three inches. I quickly re-buttoned his jeans and covered him up with the sheet.
Should I call 9-1-1? Detective Paulson? The FBI? The Mutual UFO Network, for crying out loud?
I looked over at the terrarium.
I need to think this through. If he was a criminal, would he be traveling with a pet lizard? And what kind of psycho would trust me and Earl with all his cash?
There was only one thing I knew for sure. Knickerbocker was a paying customer. Didn’t I owe it to him to at least give him the opportunity to explain himself?
I snorted out a jaded laugh.
That’s rich, Bobbie. You owe it to him. You owe a lot of people, but this guy isn’t one of them.
The cold, hard truth of it was, the guy had money. And I was in dire straits. Knickerbocker himself might not have been a godsend, but his cash sure was. Besides, there was no need to make any hasty decisions just yet.
I refilled his water glass, set out a couple of Tylenol tablets, and turned off the lamp by his bedside. Then I tiptoed over to my apartment and got the afghan my Grandma Selma had knitted for me right before she died. I made myself a nest on the living room couch and lay there, wide-eyed for ten minutes or so, thinking about phantom shooters and ripped-faced corpses and psycho killers with twin navels.
A sudden flash of lightning turned the long, flowy curtains into floating spirits of the undead. Distant thunder rumbled through the darkness like gravelly voices from the grave.
Sometimes I really hated my stupid imagination.
I got up and dragged a dining room chair up to the bedroom door where Knickerbocker was sleeping. I wedged it tight against the doorknob and went back to the couch.
As Grandma Selma always said, “Better safe than sorghum.”
She always was one to mix her metaphors.
Chapter Twenty-One
BRANCHES TORE AT MY face as I fled through the woods. Something was after me. Stalking me. Something big. Something evil.
Its pounding footsteps grew louder. It was gaining on me! I didn’t dare look back. I might trip and fall.
But I simply had to see ....
I turned my head.
In an instant, I felt myself falling.
My palms hit the dirt. I tumbled headfirst onto the moist ground. As I skittered across a thick blanket of pine needles, their pointy ends stabbed my flesh like tiny daggers. Then I slammed into a pine tree.
The rough bark gouged my skin like a cheese grater. But there was no time to assess my wounds. I pushed myself up and turned around.
Two glowing red eyes leered at me from the darkness.
A guttural growl reverberated through the thick air. The creature lunged at me, jaws snapping.
Hot spittle splatted against my forehead. I smelled the heat, the foulness of its breath, as its long, yellow claws ripped into the side of my head, tearing out my left eye. It fell to the ground and rolled into a hole a few feet away.
Oddly, I could only see through my detached eye. From its vantage in the dirt, I made out a hairy, man-like beast wearing a black fedora.
Its bear-like claws ripped into my throat. I tried to scream, but my larynx was already shredded. My howl fluttered out like a low, staccato moan.
Suddenly, the beast froze as if a director had yelled, “Cut!” It looked at me, confused.
“Wait a minute,” it said to my detached eye. “Smelled the heat?”
I woke with a start, half-paralyzed with sleep. My heart thumped in my chest like a grounded boat motor. I turned my head a fraction of an inch and yelped in pain. My neck had gotten wedged against the armrest of the couch, and was now stiff as an roller-derby hairdo.
I sat up and rubbed it, making a mental note to never eat Vienna sausages after ten p.m. again. I heaved a sigh, then hauled myself off the couch to check on Knickerbocker.
I un-stuck the chair from under the bedroom doorknob and cracked the door open for a peek. He was still in bed, asleep. The clock radio on the nightstand read 6:18 am.
Good.
After checking on Knickerbocker around midnight, he’d settled down and slept peacefully through the rest of the night.
I started to go, but noticed fresh blood on his lip. A vague memory flashed across my mind. I’d thought it had been another one of my crazy, meat-byproduct-induced dreams.
Maybe not ....
I’d been changing the washcloth on Knickerbocker’s forehead when it happened. He’d grabbed my arm and pulled me to him. He’d kissed me hard on the mouth. The force had reopened his split lip. I’d been caught so off guard that it’d been over with before I could protest.
Afterward, Knickerbocker had slumped back into a fitful slumber. I’d snuck out of the room and wedged the chair under the doorknob again.
Had that all been a dream? Another odd delusion?
His bloody lip said otherwise. So did the smear of blood I discovered on my chin when I looked in the bureau mirror. I was washing it away when my phone rang. I ran down the hall to catch it before it woke up Knickerbocker.
“Hello?” I whispered into my cellphone.
“You’re still alive. Thank God!” It was Beth-Ann.
“Uh ... is there a reason I shouldn’t be? Look, I haven’t had any coffee yet and—”
“I Google-searched Knickerbocker,” she said. “Obviously, you didn’t.”
“No. Why would I?”
“I thought you wanted to be a detective.”
“Private Investigator,” I said sourly. “And unlike you, I believe in a person’s right to privacy.”
I didn’t see any reason to mention to Beth-Ann that my cable had been cut off months ago. Or that I had a smartphone that was way smarter than me. I mean, who could see anything on that tiny screen anyway?
“So I guess you don’t want to hear what I found out, then,” she teased.
I nearly choked on a wayward yawn. “I didn’t say that.”
“Get this, Bobbie. There’s no such guy as William Knicke
rbocker. At least, nobody alive in the US.”
She suddenly had my full attention. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Just some guy who invented some lightbulb thing back in the Dark Ages. He died, like, a million years ago.”
I suddenly understood why Beth-Ann had failed both high school history and math. “You could’ve gotten the spelling wrong,” I said, trying to assuage the niggling sense of unease creeping up my spine.
“I guess. But I doubt it.”
“Listen. Thanks for the info, but I gotta go. I need coffee.” What I really needed was a weapon, in case Knickerbocker was a psycho from planet Kill’emall.
“Okay. But be careful, Bobbie.”
“I will.” I hung up and sprinted out of my grandma’s apartment and into my own. I got a pot of coffee brewing and called Earl. He answered on the sixth ring.
“What?” he growled.
“I was just wondering when you’re coming in.” I didn’t want to tell him I was scared. In our family thesaurus, vulnerability was synonymous with weakness.
“It’s Sunday, dingdong,” Earl groused. “My day off. Parts won’t be here till tomorrow anyway. What’s your problem?”
I’ve got a twin-naveled space-alien, psycho-killer hiding out in my grandma’s bed like the big, bald wolf.
“Nothing, Earl. Have a nice day.” I clicked off the phone, made two cups of coffee, then went down to the service bay and retrieved Knickerbocker’s Glock from the RV’s glove compartment.
It was time for Mr. William Knickerbocker to come clean.
Chapter Twenty-Two
KNICKERBOCKER, IF THAT was his real name, wasn’t in bed when I pried the chair free again and opened the bedroom door. He was in the shower. I could hear the water running, and I could see his black jeans laid out on the bed.
Right next to his wallet.
I set the coffee cups on the nightstand and patted my right hip pocket to reassure myself the Glock was still there. Then I did something totally against my nature.
Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3 Page 8