“Doing what?” Grayson asked.
“I drive that van over there.”
The man pointed to a white panel van. The back end was covered in bumper stickers. The side of the van was sported an oversized mural of Bertie dressed in white, holding his hands up below a rainbow. “I pick up people and take ’em to and from the revivals.”
“Nice gig,” Grayson said. “And a nice rig, too.” He held out his hand. “I’m Grayson.”
“Rocko,” the man said.
I bit my lip.
Rocko. Of course your name’s Rocko.
“Nice to meet you,” Grayson said. “Bertie looks darn good for a centenarian.”
Earl leaned over and tapped Grayson on the arm. “Mr. G,” he whispered, “Bertie’s a Baptist.”
“What’s the secret to his exceptional longevity?” Grayson asked Rocko, turning his back to Earl.
“Faith,” Rocko said. “And daily flossing.”
“Makes sense,” Grayson said, nodding in agreement. “Flossing’s included as one of the critical factors in the Living to 100 Life Expectancy Calculator.”
Rocko smiled, revealing a nice set of pearly whites. “That’s exactly right.” He tipped his head to Grayson. “Nice to meet a fellow believer, brother. See you at the revival tonight?”
Grayson grinned. “Sure thing. We wouldn’t miss it for the world, Rocko.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
I WAS BACK IN MY WHEELCHAIR, and the three of us were back on the road, speeding down US 19 toward Banner Hill and my date with a potpie dinner.
Fun times.
“I can’t believe Bertie’s gonna be a hundred in two days,” Earl said, then glanced back at me from the passenger seat. “Bobbie, you got more wrinkles than Bertie does.”
I bumped the wheelchair against the narrow passage leading to the driver’s cab. “Shut up, Earl. At least my wig looks real.”
Earl chewed a toothpick and grinned. “Yeah, you keep on livin’ that dream, Cuz.”
“Grayson, what do you think Bertie’s secret is?” I asked, ignoring Earl.
“Well, it isn’t bathing in the blood of virgins,” he replied. “Elizabeth Baffrey proved that ineffective back in the 16th century.”
“Of course,” I said, hoping that agreeing with Grayson would prevent him from elaborating. “So what else could keep Bertie looking so young?”
Grayson adjusted the rearview mirror and locked eyes with my reflection. “I believe Bertie maintains his vitality by sucking the life from his hosts.”
My nose crinkled. “What?”
“You know,” Earl said. “Like that old lady back in Point Paradise who’s always trying to get you to host a Tupperware party.”
I looked around for a flyswatter to whack Earl.
“I believe there may be more to Bertie than meets the eye,” Grayson said.
I sneered. “Like what? You think he’s hiding a tin-foil hat underneath that awful toupee?”
“No.” Grayson pursed his lips. “I’m serious. There’s definitely something in this faith-healing gig for Bertie. And it’s not money. Otherwise, like you said, he’d have a better toupee.”
“I heard that,” Earl said.
While I scrounged around in my purse for a Tootsie Pop, Grayson steered off the exit ramp. He stopped at a red light and stared absently out the windshield. “I have to say, Bertie and his followers’ interest in good dental hygiene is intriguing.”
My lip hooked skyward. “Earth to Grayson. What the hell are you talking about now?”
“Good teeth,” he said. “Eternal youth. Regeneration by taking the life forces of others.” Grayson pulled a small electronic device out of his breast pocket. “Results from this indicate definite signs of abnormal behavior.”
I pulled the blue sucker from my mouth. “A TV remote? What’s your addiction to The X-Files got to do with this?”
“Nothing.” Grayson shot me a glance in the rearview mirror, then readjusted it and steered the RV through the intersection. “I suspect Bertie could be a psychic vampire.”
“You mean that feller can read what your blood’s thinkin’?” Earl asked.
Where’s a damned flyswatter when you need one?
“Not exactly,” Grayson said, not missing a beat. “Accounts of psychic vampires have been recorded throughout time. They appear in the religious and occult texts of numerous cultures.”
“Really?” Earl asked.
“Yes. The term psychic vampire denotes any person thought to be feeding off the life forces of others, leaving them feeling exhausted or drained of energy.”
I glared at Earl. “I thought the term for that was relatives.”
“This is no joking matter,” Grayson said. “If I’m right about this, we need to act fast.”
“Act fast?” I asked. “Why?”
Grayson pulled up to the street in front of Banner Hill and shoved the transmission into park. He turned back to face me, his green eyes deadly serious. “Because, in less than two days, we could be facing a psychic vampire apocalypse.”
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“VAMPIRE APOCALYPSE?” I asked, nearly choking on my Tootsie Pop. “What are you talking about?”
Grayson cut the ignition and the old RV sputtered out on the street in front of Banner Hill. “We could be looking at a killer vampire cult that’s about to go mainstream.”
“That sounds bad,” Earl said.
“Very bad.” Grayson waved the TV remote gismo at me. “See this?”
“Yes. I’m not blind.” Then I added sheepishly, “At least, not right now.”
“What is that, Mr. G? Some kind a vampire zapper?” Earl asked.
“No. A vampire detector,” Grayson said.
I sighed.
I’m already in a leotard and a wheelchair. What the hell. I’ll bite.
“How does it work?” I asked.
“Good question, cadet.” Grayson turned the device until a I could see a little window-like gauge on its face. It looked a bit like a miniature bathroom scale.
“This is an electromagnetic field detector,” he said. “We all emit our own electromagnetism.”
“You mean like Magneto Man?” Earl asked.
Grayson’s eyes made a ninety-degree orbit around their sockets, then stopped. “Well, actually, yes.” He jabbed a finger at the small window in the device. “This gauge here detects fluctuations in electromagnetic fields.”
“And that detects vampires how?” I asked.
“Not just any kind of vampires,” Grayson said. “Psychic vampires. Electromagnetic field detectors like this one have provided undeniable proof of psychic vampires affecting the electromagnetic fields of their victims while feeding off their energy.”
My brow furrowed. “Really?”
“Really. In fact, I detected electromagnetic anomalies when Bertie laid his hands on you. It could explain what Melvin said about the missing vets being gone for a few hours, then coming back looking drained. And it’s a bit too coincidental that those veterans started disappearing the exact same week Bertie and the BERPS rolled into town.”
I chewed my lip. “Okay. But this energy feeding isn’t fatal, is it?”
“No.”
“Then how do you account for the fact that four vets have gone missing?”
“Maybe old Bertie sucked their batteries dry,” Earl said.
I whacked him in the bicep. “Get real.”
“Earl may have a point,” Grayson said. “Being older and possibly rendered fragile from combat, it’s likely Larry, Harry and Charlie were already in a weakened state. Perhaps Bertie devoured too much of their energy and they died unexpectedly.”
“That’s impossible,” I said.
“Is not,” Earl argued. “If Bertie’s got Magneto Man’s powers, he can make the ocean start swirlin’ up. Zapping a few old coots would be child’s play.”
“Magnetokinesis,” Grayson said, rubbing his chin. “Interesting idea. Electromagnetic pulses have been
known to cause blackouts, and even silence crickets.”
If one will silence this conversation, come on, electromagnetic pulse ....
“Listen,” I said, “Say Bertie is capable of all that mumbo jumbo. How did our wheelchair-bound victims manage to get from Banner hill to Bertie’s BERPS tent?”
A horn beeped. I glanced out the windshield.
A white van emblazoned with Bertie’s smiling, graven image pulled into the parking spot in front of the RV. Rocko got out and waved a tattooed arm at us. Then he opened the side door, activated a lift, and lowered an old man in a wheelchair down to the ground.
The old man was the missing Melvin Haplets.
What do you know. Two mysteries solved with one old stoner.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
THE THREE OF US STARED out the windshield as Rocko pushed Melvin in his wheelchair toward the entrance to Banner Hill.
“Well, that solves the mystery of how the vets got to Bertie,” I said. “And where Melvin Haplets disappeared to, as well.”
“Interesting,” Grayson said. “I need to talk to Melvin.” He reached for the door handle.
“Hold on!” I said. “First, explain this business about a killer vampire apocalypse, and why do you think it’s going to happen in two days.”
“Bad timing,” Grayson said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “We can talk to Melvin in a few minutes.”
“No,” Grayson said. “I meant that’s why I think there’s going to be another apocalyptic event similar to the one that happened in the late 1800s.”
I frowned. “Don’t tell me tuberculosis is making a comeback.”
Grayson shrugged. “Okay, I won’t. But do you know what the difference is between a cult and a mainstream religion?”
“Uh ....”
“About a hundred years.”
My eyebrow ticked up involuntarily. “What?”
“Ten little decades,” Grayson said.
Earl scratched his head. “I thought you said a hundred years.”
Grayson closed his eyes for a moment, then laid the electromagnetic field detector on the dashboard and turned to face me. “Think about it, Drex. Back in its early days, Christianity was considered a cult by the Jews and Romans. Jesus was worshipped, feared, and misunderstood by millions—as were all prophets in their early days.”
Earl appeared stunned to silence by the news. I prayed Grayson would keep talking.
“Go on,” I said.
“After Christianity went mainstream, Protestants, Quakers and Baptists were considered cults by early Christians. Actually, come to think of it, some people still consider Southern Baptists a cult, what with the snake handling and whatnot.”
“Snake handlin’ is real,” Earl said. “I seen it myself.”
“I’m not saying it isn’t real, Earl,” Grayson said. “What I’m saying is it hasn’t been accepted by the mainstream. Not yet, anyway.”
“Oh.” Earl’s brow furrowed. “What about that Jim Jones dude, and that Wacko guy? Were they religions or cults, Mr. G?”
“Excellent question.” Grayson nodded like a pleased professor. “That’s exactly the point I’m trying to make. We call those cults, because they didn’t last.”
I sneered. “Yeah. I guess it’s hard to keep the ball rolling when you advocate mass suicide.”
“Exactly,” Grayson said. “They didn’t survive long enough to become anything but a cult.”
Earl’s brow furrowed. “So, you’re sayin’ any old crazy thing can be a religion if it sticks around long enough?”
“Well, that’s just it. If it’s too crazy, it won’t. Time has a way of uncovering the flaws in an idea, Earl. Anything too weird will eventually self-destruct. But if an idea can hold water long enough, then it has a chance of gaining a foothold ... of going mainstream.”
“So, basically, what you’re saying is religion is whatever belief passes the test of time?” I asked.
Grayson shrugged. “More or less.”
I shook my head. “I’m not buying that.”
“Think about it, Drex. Every religion was a cult when it first began.”
I frowned. “Maybe a long time ago.”
“What do you consider a long time?” Grayson asked. “Less than two hundred years ago, a guy named Joe Smith said an angel named Moroni told him to dig up some gold tablets buried in a hill near his house in New York. Smith translated them into the book of Mormon—and now it’s a mainstream religion with over twelve million followers.”
I scowled. “Are you mocking religion?”
Grayson looked aghast. “Not at all. I’m just saying that everybody’s got to start somewhere.”
“So how long we talkin’ about, Mr. G, before a cult turns religious?”
“Another excellent question, grasshopper. It’s been said that if an idea can outlast its founder for a few generations or so, then it tends to get a green light by society. But even then, if it’s too out there, believers have to whittle off some of the crazier edges to survive. You can’t get a job at Walmart if you go around wearing a beard and a flowing white robe.”
I smirked. “You sure about that?”
Grayson’s cheek dimpled. “Okay. I’ll concede the point.”
“Wait,” I said. “You still haven’t explained why you think there’s going to be an apocalypse in two days.”
“The hundred year mark,” Grayson said. “Bertie’s about to turn a century old.”
“So?”
“If history repeats itself, that means he’s got at least three generations of believers. His ‘teachings’ could be about to become the next mainstream religion.”
“So?”
Grayson blew out an exasperated sigh. “What if Bertie’s ‘teachings’ aren’t about saving people, but harvesting their energy instead? What if he’s a master of magneto-kinesis, and is teaching his disciples how to drain bodies’ electromagnetic systems until they’re dead?”
Earl gasped. “Ol’ Magneto Man harnessed up the Earth’s electromagnetic field and used it to get mountains to tumble down. He beat the tar out of a whole army of folks.”
“That’s absurd!” I said. “It was just a comic book!”
Grayson stared me down. “If ye had but the faith of a mustard seed, you could move mountains.”
My mouth fell open. Could Grayson actually be right?
“Rocko said they were planning some kind of celebration for Bertie’s birthday on Monday,” Grayson went on. “It could be to announce the launch of a whole army of psychic vampires who’ve been trained as natural executioners.”
“But ... but ....” I stuttered.
“Exactly,” Grayson said. “No one believes they’re capable of such a thing. It’s genius, really. They’ve been free to travel from town to town, recruiting members and harvesting just enough lives to stay off the radar screen. It’s the perfect crime.”
“And them bastards get the added bonus of no wrinkles,” Earl said.
I couldn’t wrap my head around it. “Why in the world would Bertie choose New Port Richey to kick off his cult of doom?”
Grayson shot me a know-it-all smile. “You may not be aware of this, but New Port Richey has been the hub for many a high-stakes political campaign. Why, Ronald Reagan himself spoke at Southgate Shopping Center when he campaigned for the presidency in 1976. George W. Bush stood on his soapbox at the community college during his bid in 2000, and came back for more in 2004, making Sims Park one of his re-election campaign stops. Dan Quayle, Joe Biden and even Sara Palin followed in his footsteps, making stops at Sims Park on their marches toward the White House.
I shook my head in disbelief. “Grayson, even if what you say is true, and Bertie’s ready to announce to the world he’s got a psychic vampire army, how in the world could we ever hope to stop them?”
Grayson grabbed me by the shoulders. “By feeding them junk food, Drex.”
“What?”
“Listen closely and follow along. Psy
chic vampires feed off the life energy of others, right?”
“Uh ... okay.”
“Let’s assume they must take in the vital life forces of others or they’ll grow weak and die.”
“I’m with ya,” Earl said.
Grayson nodded. “Good. So, according to reports, the best victims for psychic vampires are those who are compassionate, empathetic and generous.”
I rolled my eyes. “All right.”
Grayson looked me square in the eye. “That could explain why you weren’t affected by Bertie.”
I sat up in my wheelchair. “Excuse me?”
“If we’re going to expose these psychic energy suckers, we’re going to need to trap them with a nice, juicy victim,” Grayson said. “A real happy-go-lucky sap.”
If Earl had had a tail, it would’ve been wagging. “Sounds like a Jim Dandy plan to me, Mr. G.,” he said. “Where we gonna find us one of those?”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“HOW WAS THE POTPIE?” Stanley asked, popping his head into my room at Banner Hill.
“All I can say is, good thing I brought a pile of these.” I pulled a Tootsie Pop out of my purse.
Stanley laughed. “Those’ll rot your teeth out, you know.”
I nodded toward the glass of blue water by my nightstand. “Tell it to the dentures.”
“Uh, that’s why I stopped by. I just wanted to give you a heads up that the tooth fairy is about to make a house call. Better hide the contraband.”
“What?”
Stanley glanced down the hallway, then back at me. “Lose the lollipop, pronto. And get your fake teeth into the glass.”
“Oh. Right.” I scrounged in my purse and pulled out the plastic vampire choppers.
“Here he comes,” Stanley said. He wrapped his lips over his teeth and shot me a gummy-looking smile.
The door opened wider. The same guy with the clipboard from yesterday walked in. I plopped the choppers into the glass and mimicked Stanley’s toothless grin.
“Good work, Georgie,” clipboard man said. “You’re fitting in here nicely.” He waved a bandaged hand at me. “Not everybody does.” He shot Stanley a warning glance. “Watch out for Melvin across the hall. He’s a biter.”
Moth Busters, Dr. Prepper, Oral Robbers: Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures 1, 2 & 3 Page 56