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

by Margaret Lashley

  Grayson laughed out loud, catching the attention of a man walking by Dreadmore’s Earthworm Emporium. Garth saw him and ducked behind Grayson.

  “Who you talking to, Gary?” the man in burlap asked.

  Gary, aka Garth, sighed and said snippily, “They’ve already been approved by security, Jake. Don’t bother—”

  “Who approved them?” Jake demanded, barging into our circle. “Wait. Don’t tell me,” he scoffed. “Your brother Jimmy, right? And why aren’t you in uniform?”

  Garth looked down at his jeans. “Burlap makes me itch.”

  Jake studied Grayson and me as if he were sizing us up for his freezer. He was thin, wiry, and had the hard, sinewy face of a man who ate only for survival. From the sound of his tone, he took no pleasure in people, either.

  “This is Jake,” Garth said, then blew out a breath. “He’s Rexel’s ARF partner. He specializes in wild renewables like—”

  “Lots of folks foolishly think they can rely on wild game,” Jake said, talking over Garth. “But animals like deer and hogs’ll be decimated within a year of the big one. Smart folks’ll be eatin’ rapid-producing animals. They’re the only truly sustainable meat.”

  “Rapid producing?” Grayson asked. “You mean reproducing? Like rabbits?”

  “Rabbits,” Jake hissed. “What a newb.” He scoffed again and shook his leathery head. “I’m talking field mice, man.”

  I nearly choked on my Tootsie Pop. “You’ve got to be joking.”

  “Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Jake said. “That sucker in your mouth? It has nearly the same calories as a field mouse. But candy’s all carbs. With field mice you get fats, proteins, and essential minerals.”

  Garth sneered. “Along with tapeworms, parasites, and salmonella.”

  Jake glared at Garth as if he were a Cossack. “That’s why you cook ‘em, genius. Mice taste a hell of a lot better than them worms you’re growin’.”

  “Says who?” Garth argued. “You’d have to eat like what—a couple dozen mice to get enough calories to last a single day?”

  “Seventeen,” Jake growled.

  Garth shook his head. “That’s a lot of rodent roulette with your gut, man. No thanks. I’ll take my chances with earthworms.”

  I swallowed hard. “If those are the only two options, I think I’ll take my chances with Tootsie Pops.”

  Jake stared at me in a way that made me wish my hips were smaller. “Gimme that,” he snorted, and grabbed the sucker from my mouth.

  “Hey! Watch it! You could’ve chipped my tooth!”

  “Who needs teeth when you’re dead?” Jake sneered. “You know this thing is lethal, right?”

  I pouted defensively. “The FDA hasn’t definitively linked red dye number—”

  “That ain’t what I mean.”

  Jake slapped the sticky head of the Tootsie Pop into his palm and closed his fist around it. The stick-end protruded between his knuckles. He shook his fist at me like an angry, homeless caveman. “See this here? Makes a pretty decent puncture weapon. Just aim for the soft tissue areas.”

  Grayson glanced at an imaginary watch on his wrist, then over at Garth. “Well, look at the time. Speaking of areas, could we find a private one to continue our conversation?”

  Garth’s face melted with relief. “Absolutely, Mr. Gray. You and Pandora follow me.”

  We left Jake and his deadly sucker-fist standing by the worm boxes and went back into the wooden shack full of aquariums. Officer Wells was inside, listening to the tape again. He hit a button on the recorder. The garbled buzz of the tape rewinding echoed like ghostly babble off the glass tanks lining the shed’s walls.

  “So what’s going on?” Garth asked.

  “We’ve got a tape we want you to hear,” Wells said. “I want you to listen carefully, little brother. This could be the end of the world as we know it.”

  Garth’s eyebrows met his mullet. “Good thing the spirulina’s almost ready. Let’s hear it, bro.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  OFFICER WELLS PURSED his lips and hit the play button on the tiny recorder. The eerie green glow of the aquariums provided the perfect backdrop to the otherworldly words emanating from the small device.

  “static ... don't know what to think. The metal casing is definitely extraterrestrial ... static ... the earth's atmosphere usually tears holes in a meteorite. This thing is smooth ... static ... cylindrical shape.”

  I glanced over at Garth. To my surprise, he didn’t seem very impressed.

  “Something’s happening ... static ... end of the thing is beginning to ... static. She’s moving ... static ... keep back, there! Keep back, I tell ... static ... it’s red hot, they’ll burn to a cinder! Keep back there. Keep those idiots back!”

  Garth started laughing. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  Wells jabbed a finger at the recorder, silencing it. “No! Why the hell would you say that?”

  Garth shrugged. “That’s War of Worlds, man. Orson Welles.”

  I shot a glance at Grayson. His index finger was pressed against his lips, and he was nodding as if he expected just such a logical explanation—or maybe even confirmation of something he’d suspected all along.

  As for Officer Wells, he seemed as stunned as I was.

  Wells stared at his brother. “Who?”

  Garth snorted. “Orson Welles, bro. That famous broadcaster dude? Did that big radio prank back in the ‘30s?”

  Wells’ face exploded into an undecipherable jumble of emotions. “But ... but ... that doesn’t make any sense! Jenkins recorded this over his ham radio. You can hear him breathing in the background. I thought ... I mean Jenkins thought ....”

  “That it was real?” Garth asked. He snickered. “You and Jenkins and a ton of other boobs.” Garth shot a look at my chest, then his eyes moved to my face. “No offence.”

  Wells’ brow furrowed. “But how is that possible? And why?” He shook his head. “Rexel ... could he have pranked Jenkins to get back at him for being rude on the radio?”

  “Perhaps,” Grayson said. He chewed his lip, then shifted his gaze to Garth. “But I’m thinking the culprit is more likely a Cassini bounce.”

  Garth’s eyes lit up. “Yeah. Of course, Mr. Gray!”

  As usual, I was at a loss. “What are you guys talking about now?”

  “I got this one,” Garth said, and turned to face me. “Long story short, in 2004, the Cassini spacecraft buzzed around Saturn. When it did, it recorded a human radio signal bouncing around the planet’s rings.”

  Grayson nodded. “Thus, the Cassini bounce.”

  “I still don’t get it,” Officer Wells said, saving me the trouble.

  “Don’t you see?” Garth said. “Radio signals never die. They just bounce around the solar system like pinballs. They’re called skywave transmissions.”

  I finally got it—sort of. “Okay, let me get this straight. You think Jenkins just happened to randomly pick up the original broadcast of War of the Worlds on his radio?” I shook my head. “That just seems so ... improbable.”

  Grayson nodded. “Yeah. You’d think so. But it happens.”

  Garth bobbed his mullet. “Mr. Gray’s right. In 2014, some guy named Palboya was testing his radio equipment and picked up the skywave transmission of the Hindenburg disaster. It was broadcast back in the 1930s, too.”

  Wells’ face was an unsolved puzzle. “The Hindenburg disaster?”

  Garth crinkled his nose. “Come on, bro. From history class? That Zeppelin that caught fire? You know. That reporter guy yelling, ‘Oh, the humanity!’”

  Oh, the humanity, indeed.

  “Ahem.” Grayson cleared his throat. “Well, I guess that solves our little alien invasion problem, men. Looks like our work here in Plant City is officially completed.”

  “Wait!” Garth said. He turned to his brother. “What about Rexel? Is he still missing?”

  “Yes,” Wells said.

  “So, don’t you see?” Ga
rth said. “You can’t leave yet, Mr. Gray.”

  Grayson shook his head. “People go missing all the—”

  “Yeah, I get that,” Garth interrupted. “But what about Jenkins’ body disappearing? I mean, how’d a dead guy get out a window? There’s gotta be something funky about that.”

  Jimmy Wells joined his brother’s campaign. “Gary’s right. This morning, I noticed something weird on one of Jenkins’ autopsy photos.” He took a picture from his front pocket and handed it to Grayson. “See those marks on Jenkins’ neck?”

  Grayson peered at the photo. “Where?”

  Wells pointed a finger at the picture. “The two triangular marks. Here.”

  Grayson squinted at the photo.

  “Here. Use these,” I said, and pulled my pink cheater glasses from my purse. I handed them to Grayson. He didn’t appear particularly grateful, but he put them on anyway.

  “Do they look like alien implants to you?” Wells asked.

  Grayson studied the photo. “More like something stomped on Jenkins with its cloven hoof.”

  Garth took a step back, his eyes as big as saucers. “You talking Satan, Mr. Gray?”

  Grayson glanced at me. His eyes danced with amusement. “Uh ... I’m afraid that would be a no.”

  I stifled a grin.

  “What then?” Wells asked. “You think Jenkins might’ve been attacked by a wild boar?”

  Grayson shrugged and bit his lip. “Maybe. Or a deer.” He turned to Wells. “Do deer attack people?”

  “Not usually,” Wells said. “Unless Jenkins covered himself in pheromones and a randy buck took a shine to him. But it’s not even rutting season.”

  “So, what could it be?” I asked.

  “Something outside the normal range of possibilities?” Garth asked hopefully. “Something paranormal?”

  “There is this one other possibility,” Grayson said, and rubbed his chin. “A half-goat, half-man with a mean urge to stomp.”

  “A chupacabra!” Garth blurted. “Oh! That would be so cool, man!”

  Grayson shook his head. “No. As fun as that would be, I don’t think so. No sucking injuries.”

  Garth’s face collapsed.

  “So, what made those weird marks then?” I asked.

  “I was just speculating,” Grayson said. “But now I’m thinking maybe it could be him.”

  “Who?” Wells asked.

  Grayson chewed his lip as we all waited anxiously for him to speak. Finally, he said one word.

  “Pan.”

  “Pan?” Garth, Wells, and I said in unison.

  “Yes. Pan.”

  “Who the hell is Pan?” Wells asked.

  “Oh. Sorry,” Grayson said. “Pan’s a mythical creature. A Greek legend. He has the legs and horns of a goat, but walks upright like a man. The horns would explain the marks on Jenkins’ face. And, well, because Pan is bipedal, that could explain how he was able to stomp Jenkins flat with his cloven-hooved feet.”

  Wells’ face sagged. “Now I’ve heard everything.”

  Garth nodded as he mulled over Grayson’s theory. “Interesting concept, Mr. Gray. But what would a Greek goat-man be doing down here in Florida?”

  Grayson shrugged. “The same as everyone else, I suppose. Just looking for a place to ride out his golden years.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “SORRY GRAYSON, BUT I don’t buy your Pan theory.”

  Grayson poured maple syrup over a steaming pile of blueberry flapjacks. “What? You don’t like panpipes?”

  “I love pancakes.”

  He shook his head. “For a P.I. trainee, you don’t listen worth a crap, Drex. I said panpipes. It’s a musical instrument. Pan invented it. Thus, panpipes.”

  “Okay, I get it,” I said sourly. “Panpipes. So what else did this Pan creature do?”

  “Well, legend has it he was the original Fred Astaire.”

  “Dancing? Let me guess. His favorite move was the stomp. And he liked to get his groove on with old white guys.”

  Grayson’s upper lip hooked into a snarl. “Please! I’m eating here.”

  “I meant that he liked to stomp on—. Wait. That bothers you? Aren’t you the guy who just ate a freaking earthworm, for crying out loud?”

  Grayson shrugged. “And your point is?”

  My eyes made a trip around the top of their sockets. “Okay, let’s put a pin in Pan for the moment.”

  Grayson winced. His forkful of pancakes paused midway to his mouth. He started to say something, but didn’t. Instead, he stuffed the pancakes into his mouth and mumbled, “Proceed.”

  “Jenkins didn’t mention anything about a goat man in his notebook,” I said. “But he did blather on and on about strange lights in the sky. And, of course, there’s always the possibility he got more than one of those Luke Skywalker things you were talking about.”

  Grayson’s head cocked to one side. He took a sip of coffee to wash down his pancakes. “Star Wars?”

  “Those bouncing radio signals—you know, off Saturn’s rings and all.”

  “Oh. Skywave transmissions.”

  “Yeah. Those thingamajigs. Well, what if that happened, but kind of in reverse?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What if aliens picked up one of our old transmissions, and thought they were under attack?”

  Grayson’s left eyebrow flew up. He chewed on the idea along with a bite of bacon. “Huh. We’ve been broadcasting radio signals into space for over a hundred years. I guess one of them is bound to be intercepted and misunderstood at some point.”

  I tapped a finger on the rim of my coffee cup. “But what I don’t get is, if that’s what happened, why would aliens hone in on Jenkins as their first point of contact? I mean, what could be so compelling about the ramblings of some drunk old coot in a falling-down shack?”

  Grayson’s eyebrows met above his furrowed brow. “Lots of people who’ve changed the world came from humble beginnings, Drex. In fact, I’m of the opinion that the creator of the universe actually prefers an underdog.”

  I shook my head. “Then why crush him like a cracker?”

  Grayson sighed and set down his coffee cup. “Good point. But wait a minute. As I recall, didn’t God like to smite folks now and again?”

  “Smite?”

  “Yeah. That’s what they called it when ....” Grayson’s face shifted. His green eyes twinkled. “Hey. Maybe that’s it.”

  “What’s it?”

  “What happened to Jenkins. Maybe that’s what smiting is. You know, getting pulverized into pudding. Huh. No wonder you don’t hear the term used much nowadays.”

  I fought a sneer and lost. “Yeah. I heard smiting went the way of verily and thee.” I shook my head. “Earth to Grayson. In case you haven’t noticed, God doesn’t make house calls anymore. Or should I say, cabin calls.”

  Grayson smirked. “Right. Not since he farmed all his smiting out to the Grays.”

  I laughed despite myself. “Come on, Grayson. If little green men are running all over the cosmos, why haven’t they tried to contact us? I mean, besides the smiting, of course.”

  Grayson locked eyes with me. “Who says they haven’t?”

  “Well ... duh! Only everybody. Except UFO nuts. Like you’re always saying, where’s the proof?”

  “Oh ye of little faith. The proof is everywhere, if your eyes and mind are open enough to see.”

  “You’re right, Jehoshaphat. My bad. I should’ve never let my subscription to the National Enquirer lapse.”

  Grayson snorted. “Okay, you want proof? How about this? When Nicola Tesla sent out his very first radio communication, he reported making contact with beings from outside our planet. Do you consider him a crackpot?”

  “No. But you have to admit, he was a tad eccentric.”

  Grayson nodded. “Fair enough. Here’s one. In 1977, a news broadcast in the UK was taken over by a being claiming to be Vrillon of the Ashtar Galactic Command.”

  “You’r
e making that up.”

  “Nope. All across the UK, TV sets went blank, and this weird, inhuman voice droned on for something like twenty minutes. Vrillon said he was part of an alien race making first contact with us, and that they came in peace.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  Grayson shrugged. “You can listen to it yourself on the internet. So far, no one’s been able to satisfactorily debunk it.”

  “I can. It was the Brits, for crying out loud.”

  Grayson eyed me. “Tough crowd today. Okay. How about this? In 1974, the Voyager—a good-old American space probe—was launched into the cosmos. Onboard, it carried a pictographic image of the human body and our DNA helix. Flash forward twenty-seven years to 2001. A crop circle in England bore the identical basic format as the Voyager pictograph, only the body shape and DNA helix had been altered to reflect alien anatomy and genetics.”

  I picked up my coffee mug. “This crop circle. Was it in wheat or barley? I’ve heard you should never trust barley.”

  Grayson sat back in his seat and sighed. “See? That’s the basic problem with humanity. Nobody wants to stick their neck out to believe. Everything’s a hoax, no matter how good the evidence.”

  He threw up his hands in mock despair. “I mean, gimme a break. Take that Patterson film of Bigfoot. What more do you want? Nobody’s willing to believe anything’s real until we kill it and parade its head around town on a stick. We’re still just dumb animals, Drex. Animals with cellphones and nothing worth saying.”

  An idea sparked in my brain. “Maybe that’s it, Grayson.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why alien life doesn’t bother trying to contact us anymore. Maybe we’re just too primitive. We’re simply not worth talking to. Either that, or our technology is too inferior. Think about it. To an advanced civilization, even our cellphones might seem like two tin cans and a string.”

  “Maybe,” Grayson conceded. “Or it could be that we’ve been forever shunned by the IWW for our bad manners.”

  My eyebrows inched closer together. “The IWW?”

  “Intergalactic Welcome Wagon.”