Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3

by Margaret Lashley

  “Copper. Toxins. Radioactivity.”

  Radioactivity?

  “Okay, Grayson. Suppose you’re right. What if they did bury Mothman monsters in there? How could they have gotten out of the mound?”

  “Any number of ways. Through excavations. Earthquakes. Coal mining. Injection of industrial waste. Any of those could have unsettled the soil and created an escape pathway. Look.”

  I glanced at the computer screen. The giant earthen heap comprising Grave Creek Mound was dotted with huge trees that appeared to be a hundred years old or better.

  “These trees growing on the mound could’ve disturbed a protective talisman or penetrated a protective barrier,” Grayson said. “Even time itself could’ve done the deed. It’s had a couple of thousand years to crack it.”

  I shrugged. “I guess.”

  Grayson punched a few keys on his computer. A map of the town of Moundsville, West Virginia appeared. “Huh. Take a look at this.”

  “What?”

  “Look what’s just a few blocks away from the burial mound.”

  I glanced at the map. “The Roller Derby?”

  “No.”

  “Dairy Queen?”

  “No. The West Virginia State Penitentiary.”

  “Aha! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you, Grayson. About how Mothman got here, I mean.”

  “What? You think Mandy gave Mothman a lift on her way home to Point Paradise?”

  “Well ... not exactly. Maybe Mandy got involved with a conman in Moundsville. Or maybe he spotted her in town and marked her as a target. It’s the last place she’s been seen in weeks.”

  “Hmm,” Grayson said, rubbing his chin.

  “I mean, it’s plausible, isn’t it?” I asked. “Maybe a criminal type followed Mandy back here to Point Paradise. You said yourself that everything’s interrelated.”

  Grayson’s lip twitched. “Sure. But why would Mothman need a ride when he can fly?”

  I groaned. “Not Mothman. A convict.”

  Grayson shot me a why don’t you believe look.

  “Okay,” I said. “For the sake of argument, let’s say it’s Mothman. You said Mothman liked to chase cars. Maybe he followed her car here. Or maybe he likes to chase women, too, and the combo was irresistible.”

  Grayson appeared to be mulling over my idea. “Well, it’s the best theory we’ve got to work with right now. Speaking of work, will you give my partner offer a serious think?”

  I smiled. “Yes. I will.”

  “Good. No pressure or anything, but I’m considering leaving in the morning, so I’ll need an answer then. With the Feds around, I don’t want to tangle you up in anything you don’t want to be part of. I can continue my investigation alone from the RV, no worries.”

  I let out a bitter laugh. “That’s rich. I’m already tangled up in this, Grayson. And what about the wiretap contraption you left at Vanderhoff’s? You going to take that with you, too?”

  “No. I bought the tele-bug on the black market. No one can trace it back to me. Besides, she won’t be getting any more calls.”

  My internal alarm began clanging again. I hadn’t mentioned Vanderhoff’s death to Grayson. “How do you know?”

  “Because I—”

  The phone rang. Grayson clammed up mid-confession. Somehow, he knew Vanderhoff was dead without me telling him. Had he killed her after all? I grabbed the phone like it was the governor offering a stay of execution.

  “Hello?”

  “Bobbie, it’s Paulson.”

  “Hi—”

  “Listen very carefully,” he whispered. “I’m trapped in my office out at Alto Lake. I didn’t want to tell you, but two convicts escaped from Starke Prison ten days ago. Two FBI agents came out to help me apprehend them, but something in the woods out here killed them.” His voice cracked. “Bobbie, whatever it is, it’s after me now! I need help—”

  The line went dead.

  I looked at Grayson. “Paulson’s in trouble. The nearest help is all the way in Gainesville. I gotta go.”

  Grayson stood. “Not without me.”

  I shook my head. “No. You need to stay here.”

  “Not happening.”

  Whoever or whatever was after Paulson, I knew it wasn’t Grayson. He had an airtight alibi. He was standing right beside me, pointing his Glock in my ribs.

  Chapter Fifty-Four

  I WAS DRIVING MY FATHER’S Mustang like a hostage on a desperate, life-or-death mission.

  Mainly because I was.

  Grayson was in the passenger seat beside me, his Glock pointed at my vital organs.

  “What are you doing?” I hissed at him. “You ask me to be your partner, then you pull a gun on me? Are you working undercover? FBI? CIA? MIB?”

  I was too afraid to say what I really thought. It might set Grayson off enough to pull the trigger. Was he a deranged physicist? A throat-ripping serial killer? A crazy UFO chaser? An alien with two navels? A real-life Dr. Jekyll, Mr. Hyde?

  Or maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe he was telling the truth.

  “No offense, but I just didn’t have time to argue with you,” Grayson said. “Is this the fastest this thing will go?”

  I stomped the gas pedal. “Vanderhoff’s throat was ripped out. Did you do it?”

  “No.”

  I eyed him angrily. “But you practically confessed. You said she wouldn’t be getting any more calls. You knew she was dead!”

  Grayson eyed the road ahead. “I didn’t know she was dead. And I didn’t know her throat had been ripped out.”

  “Then how did you know she wouldn’t get any more calls? Wait. You made all those weird calls, didn’t you?”

  “Geez! No, I didn’t make those calls, Drex. I know because when I tried to test the battery on the tele-bug, it told me her phone line had been disconnected.”

  “Oh.” My gut flopped. I slunk back in my seat, more confused than ever. Grayson stared straight ahead, unnerving me. At this point, I had nothing left to lose. I went for broke.

  “How do I know you’re not the killer, Grayson?” I asked. “How can I be sure you’re not some kind of monster trying to save yourself?”

  Grayson turned and looked me in the eye. He shook his head softly and said, “Aren’t we all, Drex?”

  We drove along in the fading daylight until the darkness and tension were both thick enough to cut with a hacksaw. I blew through Waldo without another word to Grayson. Only when I pulled onto the road leading to Paulson’s office cabin by Lake Alto Preserve did Grayson break the silence between us.

  “Listen, Drex. I didn’t mean to scare you. But I wasn’t going to let you come out here alone, and I knew you’d put up a fight. We would’ve wasted time pissing and moaning at each other while this Mothman creature ripped Paulson’s throat out.”

  “Fine,” I said, and got out of the car. I was too angry and scared to say anything more. Grayson had a point. Still, lots of serial killers came across as rational people, didn’t they?

  As Grayson and I approached the driveway to Paulson’s cabin, we saw a gray sedan blocking the dirt road.

  “I had a feeling,” Grayson said. “Good thing you’ve got a gun.”

  What? How did he know about my Glock?

  “Had a feeling about what?” I asked.

  “Things not being what they seem. They rarely are. Is that Paulson’s car?”

  “No.”

  “Then he’s got company.”

  “Mothman?” I asked.

  Grayson shook his head. “No. Most likely the FBI. Like I said before, Mothman prefers to fly.”

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  GRAYSON CAUTIOUSLY climbed out of the Mustang, his Glock firmly in his grasp. He waved it slightly, motioning for me to follow his lead.

  We skirted past the gray sedan and stalked, hunch-backed, the twenty yards to Paulson’s cabin. Our only cover was the darkness of a crescent moon. As we approached the front door, the yellowish light on the front porch flickered.


  The shower-scene music from Psycho jarred through my head.

  “What’s the plan?” I asked, hoping it didn’t include me getting killed.

  “We’ll have to play it by ear,” Grayson whispered. “Keep your voice down.”

  He pulled me next to him, our backs against the outside wall of the cabin. Then he leaned over, reached out, and turned the knob on the front door. He waited a beat, then pushed it open with a kick of his heel.

  After about thirty seconds of listening to crickets, Grayson took a cautious peek inside. He waved me in.

  Paulson’s place was a sty. It was literally covered in spider webs, pizza boxes, and crushed beer cans.

  “Geez,” I whispered. “This guy’s a pig.”

  “Help,” a weak voice called out from behind a ratty sofa. It didn’t sound like Paulson.

  I gripped my Glock and inched over until I saw a pair of legs. Nice dress pants and Gucci loafers. Definitely not Paulson. Not on a cop’s salary.

  I whipped around the sofa and pointed my Glock at the guy. “Who are you?” I demanded with a harsh whisper. “What’s going on here?”

  A second later, Grayson was at my side.

  “FBI,” the man gurgled. Only then did I see the blood oozing out from beneath his jacket. “Agent Johnson. Officer ... down ... Terry Paulson ....” He hacked up blood.

  “We’ll find him,” I said. “I know what he looks like.”

  “She ... she.” Johnson fumbled for his jacket pocket, then lost consciousness.

  I reached inside his jacket and pulled out a photo of a red-headed woman in a police uniform. “Terry Paulson’s a woman?”

  “Was a woman,” Grayson said.

  “I like redheads,” Paulson’s voice sounded behind us. “So sue me.”

  I jerked my head around. Paulson was standing with a semi-automatic weapon trained on Grayson.

  My life flashed before my eyes. It didn’t take long. I took a deep breath and went to my happy place. For a split second, Grandma Selma’s sweet face replaced Paulson’s angry one.

  “Drop your guns,” Paulson demanded.

  “Do it,” Grayson said.

  I followed his lead, and bent down and laid my Glock on the floor beside his. As we started to rise, the blast of a gunshot sounded. I nearly fell to my knees. Then I realized it had come from outside the cabin.

  Another blast sounded. The dim, yellow porch light shattered.

  The room blinked out to black.

  I dove behind the couch and crouched beside the fallen FBI agent. In the darkness, someone grabbed my hand and yanked it.

  Hard.

  I hoped it wasn’t Paulson.

  Whoever it was, he had the strength of a bear. I couldn’t get free.

  He pulled me across the room and we stumbled out the cabin door. In the faint starlight, I saw it was Grayson. Relief flooded through me. I finally knew who the good guy was.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” I whispered.

  “You read my mind,” Grayson quipped. “I knew you were talented, but really ....”

  I punched his arm and giggled from sheer, scared-witless hysteria.

  A twig snapped behind us. A shot ricocheted off a pine tree, showering us with splinters. Grayson grabbed my arm again, and we took off running for the car.

  We were about thirty feet from the Mustang when another car’s headlights came on, illuminated our backs and the road ahead of us.

  “He’s gotten to his car first,” Grayson yelled. “We’ve got to get out of here fast.”

  “Who’s driving?” I panted, out of breath.

  “I call shotgun,” Grayson answered, climbing into the passenger seat. “Get in, Drex, and drive like hell!”

  I cranked the engine. When it caught on the first try, I wanted to kiss the dashboard. I slammed the Mustang into first and sideswiped the parked sedan as I made a wild attempt to turn it around on the narrow dirt road.

  While I shifted and lurched, Grayson grabbed my phone and tried to call 9-1-1. There was no signal.

  “I need to report that injured FBI agent,” he said.

  I shifted into reverse and made the last point on a ten-point turn. “Try again when we get nearer to Waldo. They’ve got better reception there.”

  “Right. But you may have to slow down when we find a signal. I’ll need a minute to make the call.”

  I bit my lip and nodded, shifting into second gear. “I’ll try to get some distance between us.”

  I stomped the gas pedal to the floor.

  The tires spun dirt like a buzz-saw through soft pine all the way until we hit the pavement of US 301. I took the turn on two wheels. Soon, the blinking, pink-and-green neon sign of the Tropix Inn motel came into view. “Check your signal strength,” I said, and let my foot off the gas.

  “Three bars,” he said, and punched 9-1-1. “FBI agent down at the Alto Park Preserve,” he shouted into the phone. “Send an ambulance, quick.”

  “Could you repeat that, sir?” I heard the operator say. I looked in the rearview mirror. Paulson’s headlights were barreling toward us.

  “FBI agent. Shot. Alto Park Preserve,” Grayson repeated as he flailed his arm at me to get going.

  I hit the gas, but not soon enough. Paulson’s blue Toyota slammed into the back of the Mustang with a sickening crunch.

  I got a close-up look at the steering wheel, but avoided slamming my face into it. With my phone in his hand, Grayson didn’t have time to brace for impact. He groaned as his already cracked clavicle hit the dashboard.

  “You okay?” I asked as I stomped the gas.

  “Yes. Cut the lights.”

  I did as instructed, and blew through the rest of Waldo in the dark, steering half blind.

  As the forest and swamp retook both sides of the road, so did the darkness. Using the dim light of Paulson’s headlights behind us and gut instinct, I managed to jerk the steering wheel sharply to the right and onto Obsidian Road.

  I looked back. “Crap! Paulson’s still behind us.”

  I’d hoped Paulson would miss the poorly marked turn, but the Mustang’s back bumper had come loose and was dragging on the road, spewing a shower of sparks like a homing beacon for him to follow.

  We were about three miles from Point Paradise when the Mustang coughed and skipped a beat. The tank was on empty.

  I glanced in the rearview mirror. Paulson was about thirty yards away and gaining on us. I swore I could see his eyes glowing red behind the windshield like two evil reflectors.

  The Mustang’s engine sputtered and died.

  “Crap!” I screamed as we began to roll silently along in the darkness. “We’re out of gas!”

  Grayson shot a glance in the side view mirror. “Oh, shit. Brace yourself—”

  Paulson rammed the back of us again. The rear of the Mustang tilted up like a bucking bronco.

  I tried to keep the car on the road, but with no power steering, the wheel locked down tight. The muscle car jackknifed, then rammed into the metal guardrail of the small bridge over Wimbly Creek.

  Paulson’s Toyota buzzed by us. Twenty yards past, his brakes squealed. His taillights flared.

  He was coming back for us.

  “We’ve gotta run for it!” I said.

  “Excellent idea,” Grayson said.

  As I reached to unlock my seatbelt, a brilliant beam of white light shot out of the woods about eight feet off the ground. It honed in on us, blinding us as we sat in the Mustang.

  I shook my head and squinted against the piercing glare.

  Saved by alien abduction? Never saw that one coming.

  I watched, dumbfounded, as the blazing white light split into two beams that bore down on us like huge, twin lasers. Unable to move my legs, I hazarded a glance down the road at Paulson. To my surprise, he’d turned his car around again and was hightailing it out of here.

  Lucky him, I thought as his taillights flashed, then grew fainter against the powerful white lights engulfing and ov
erpowering Grayson and me.

  “What kind of aliens are they?” I asked Grayson. My sphincter puckered involuntarily in anticipation of being probed ....

  “What in blue blazes are you two doing out here?” Earl’s voice thundered from somewhere behind the twin laser beams.

  The roof-mounted strobe lights on Bessie went out. In between the dark spots cratering my retinas, Earl and his gigantic black monster truck slowly came into view.

  I never thought I’d be that glad to see my annoying cousin.

  “You won’t believe this,” Grayson began.

  I poked an elbow in his ribs to silence him. “We had a little car trouble, Earl,” I said. “Give us a tow back home.”

  Earl gave the Mustang a once-over and whistled long and low. “Geez Louise. Looks like you backed over the Loch Ness Monster, Bobbie.”

  “Women drivers,” Grayson said, leaving me with nothing to do but slap on a sheepish smile and save my payback for another day.

  “Lemme hook her up. Good thing I was out coon hunting tonight.” Earl climbed back in the truck, shifted gears, and began turning Bessie around.

  While Earl hooked up the tow on the Mustang, I climbed into Bessie’s cab beside Grayson and whispered, “Do me a favor. Keep quiet about this whole Mothman business. Earl already thinks I’m an idiot, and I just don’t feel like getting into it with him tonight. We’ll tell him everything tomorrow. Okay?”

  “Tell who what?” Earl’s head poked in the driver’s side window. “Wait a minute.” He shot us a sly grin. “Are y’all engaged?”

  Grayson nearly snorted. “Well, it’s a funny story ....”

  “No!” I yelled. “We’re not engaged. Are we ready to go?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Party pooper.” Earl got in, hit the gas, and pulled the Mustang out of the ditch. As we hobbled down the road dragging it behind us, I did my best to ignore Earl as he grilled us about our honeymoon plans.

  We were about half a mile from home and an inch from me punching Earl in the face when we spotted taillights in the ditch off to the right side of the road.

  “Look at that,” Earl said, slowing Bessie to a crawl. “Another careless driver. Must be something in the air tonight.”