by Tim Dorsey
He dialed. No answer.
“They pulled the Doberman onto the dock,” said Coleman. “They’re pumping his chest . . . He’s spitting up! He’s alive!”
The SWAT team poured back down the stairs of the Dockside.
“Looks like the cops are leaving?” asked Coleman.
Serge watched the unit’s departure pattern with concern. “Unfortunately not. This is getting a little too authentic. And Catfish is late.”
“Thought you said it was a coincidence?”
“It is, but they could coincidentally net us while looking for their actual target.”
Serge jumped up. He put his hands in his pockets and hunched his shoulders as if to fight the wind. “Start walking. Fast. And keep your face down. If anyone drives by, don’t look at them, but don’t look away. And don’t run.”
Coleman got up. “What’s the matter?”
“Island’s too small.”
“For what?”
“A fugitive. They got more than enough guys for a house-to-house canvass and matrix search of every inch in between. Walk faster.”
“But, Serge, it sure looks like they’re leaving.”
“Except it’s an even dispersion. They’re heading for assigned pressure points.”
“What’s that mean?”
“In minutes, someone will be stationed at the end of every street—north, south, east and west—cutting up the island like a checkerboard.”
“Why?”
“To keep people confined within every block while the rest conduct the sweep. If anyone crosses a street, they’re nailed . . . Damn it, Catfish!”
Sure enough, barely after they safely passed each street, sentries arrived. Serge pulled up his collar and walked as briskly as he could without breaking into a trot. Marked and unmarked cars made rounds in concentric circles, spotlights on buildings and alleys. A yellow Cadillac and black Beemer crisscrossed in front of the L&M.
The sea mist from the crashing waves wasn’t confined to the wharf district. It atomized and floated inland like an eerie soup, combining with the fog to give each streetlamp a large globe of its own fuzzy, penumbra light.
Serge watched a convertible T-Bird pass the other way on a parallel street and blinked hard. “Can’t be . . .” Now he did break into a trot.
They reached the middle of Second Street again.
But the sentry was already there.
Mist thickened, just an ominous dark form three blocks away, standing on the road’s center line.
“Coleman, get against that building.”
Serge took up his own position in the middle of the road, facing the shadow.
“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
“Wild West time,” said Serge. “The sentry spotted us crossing the street, so I have to take him out before he can report our movements.”
“But you don’t hurt cops.”
“That’s right. I’ll just baffle him with disinformation until he realizes we’re just harmless tourists on the Fugitive Tour and not the derelicts they’re after.”
Serge began taking deliberate, individual steps forward, stopping between each. The form at the other end of the street advanced likewise. Serge took another step. Hands hung at the ready by his sides, fingers twitching.
The opposing form mirrored every stride, passing under one of the streetlamps and creating a silhouette. A tweed jacket and rumpled fedora.
“Holy Chesterfields,” said Serge. “It’s Mahoney!”
Just then, a screaming chorus of police sirens. Flashing lights. Party crashers.
No fewer than thirty squad cars not involved in the original dragnet sailed over the last bridge to Cedar Key. They raced across the street between Serge and Mahoney.
“Catfish! Yes!” Serge dashed back to Coleman and grabbed him by the shirt. “Our ‘Out’ has arrived. Run!”
They dashed past the old seafood packing house and down toward the bog.
A whisper in the darkness: “Serge? Is that you?”
“Stumpy?”
“Over here.”
Serge was able to keep his balance stutter-stepping down a wet bank of weeds, but Coleman chose to somersault.
Stumpy sloshed toward them in rubber boots. “Catfish filled me in. Are you crazy? . . .”
At that moment, on the other side of the island:
“You motherfuckers!”
Police in overwhelming force dragged a handcuffed, shirtless man from a small cottage. Not daintily. They threw him over the hood of the first prowler car, busting his nose.
A Crown Vic skidded up. White jumped out and ran to the police captain in charge. “What’s going on?”
“Cop killer from Jacksonville. Been looking for him eight years.”
Mahoney strolled over with a wooden matchstick bobbing between his teeth. “Is that James Donald Woodley?”
The captain nodded. “Aka Franklin Ignatius Turnville.”
“Shinola,” said Mahoney. “Been trying to clear that case forever.”
“Consider it cleared.”
“Mahoney,” said White. “Isn’t that the same guy you were after when you nearly caught Serge at that motel last year?”
Mahoney angrily whipped a matchstick to the ground.
White turned back to the captain. “How’d you find him?”
“Lucky tip.” The captain nodded across the road, where a uniform was interviewing a local cabdriver.
“What?” said Mahoney. “Some hack pegged his alias, bloodhounded him over here and dropped the dime?”
“No,” said the captain. “The driver told us Woodley was an afternoon fare, and after dropping him off, he just had this sensation that he’d seen his face before.”
“He knew the guy?” asked White.
The captain shook his head. “Said he remembered it from the newspapers.”
“Eight years ago?” said White. “Come on, nobody’s memory is that good . . . Mahoney, why are you smiling.”
“I recalled a joke. The punch line is, ‘Who shit in my tuba?’ ” Mahoney sauntered jauntily back to the car. As he passed the cabdriver: “Give my regards to Serge.”
Lowe stood next to White. “What a crazy day. A serial killer slips from a surefire quarantine zone, and then we solve a cop-killer cold case just a few blocks away.”
“Serge hasn’t escaped yet,” said White. “We’ve got the only road out of here blockaded in three places.”
“So where do you think he is?”
White looked down the fog-choked street. “Who knows?”
A hundred yards away:
“Duck,” said Stumpy.
Serge and Coleman squatted down as the clam boat drifted silently under a low bridge full of police cars.
“That was awesome!” said Coleman.
“Will you keep your voice down?” whispered Serge. “They’re right up there.”
Stumpy was up on the bow, quietly using a pole to push them across the bayou under the cloak of fog and mist. They reached more isolated waters, and he pull-started an Evinrude.
“Where to now?” asked Coleman.
“Flow with the tide.”
Serge and Coleman left the flashing police lights of Cedar Key behind and sailed off into the dark gulf.
Chapter Eleven
Back at the Eagle Club
The joint was abuzz with bulletins from across the island.
Locals continued streaming in with the latest rumors.
“They say he killed ten cops! . . .”
“Had a whole arsenal of machine guns and hand grenades! . . .”
“A sex dungeon just up the street . . .”
Others surrounded the Doberman, dripping wet, accepting free drinks and signing autographs.
The door opened again. Three state agents with mug shots of Serge and Coleman.
The room became suspiciously hushed.
“Nope, wasn’t in here.”
“Who are they, anyway?”
“I’d remember i
f he came by.”
Mahoney sneered. “You’ll never win an Academy Award.”
At the end of the bar sat a Miami attorney named Brad Meltzer. Legal paperwork spread in front of him. Two letters and a ripped-open envelope marked Confidential.
More than sloshed.
The person on the next stool: “Couldn’t help but notice . . .”
Brad turned. “What?”
“That case you’re working on. Seems very interesting.”
“You an attorney, too?”
“No, but I . . . work in the legal field. What are you drinking?”
“Scotch.”
“Bartender, best scotch for my new friend.”
Brad realized he shouldn’t have left the sensitive files open like that, and began shuffling them back in a folder. Except most went on the floor.
“I got them,” said his new drinking buddy, collecting pages from the ground.
Brad abruptly snatched them away.
The person stepped back. “Excuse the hell out of me for helping.”
“No, I’m sorry,” said the attorney, swaying off balance. “Client confidentiality. My mistake for leaving them out.”
Brad went to sit, and misjudged the stool. It scooted out, but he made a nice recovery smacking his chin on the edge of the bar.
“Are you okay?”
“I could use that scotch.”
Dewar’s arrived.
“Hope you don’t take offense,” said the new acquaintance. “But I noticed a name in your files. Serge Storms. He’s a friend. Seen him?”
Brad wasn’t that drunk. He did a double take. “Who did you say you were?”
“I didn’t. I’m looking for Serge, too.”
“Oh,” said Brad, nodding. “I get it. You read more of the file than I thought. You want to pump me for information so you can get some of the money from the map. Get lost!”
“Don’t be a tool. I knew who you were before I came in here. You think I chose this seat by accident?”
Brad tried to focus his double vision. “Really, who are you?”
“Someone who’s not after your precious money.” A lie. “In fact I’m here to give you money.”
“Bullshit.”
To Brad’s surprise, a brown envelope slid across the bar. He peeked inside.
“That’s a thousand to help me locate Serge.”
“A bribe?”
“Call it a retainer.” The unknown guest got up. “There’ll be another envelope five times as thick after you lead me to him.”
“But how will I find you?” asked Brad.
“I’ll find you.”
Gulf of Mexico
A full moon had just set, leaving a sky of stars most people will never see.
The reason was the coastline. A clam boat hugged it with precision. The pilot knew every rocky shoal. No light pollution from this part of the shore.
Because it wasn’t exactly a shore. More like a limbo between land and sea. Mangrove estuaries, marsh grass, mudflats and countless tributaries that left real estate spongy for miles, impossible to develop. The unspoiled Nature Coast from Pasco to the Panhandle.
The type of low-draft boat wasn’t meant for open water, but the evening was calm, and there were extenuating circumstances.
“Gee, Serge. It sure is creepy out here.”
“What are you, the Beaver? And get rid of that joint. We’re running blackout.”
“How about I hold it down here?”
“That’s the gas tank!”
Serge swatted his hand, and a tiny red ash sizzled out in the black water.
Coleman leaned over the side, trying to reach.
Stumpy swung the till and leaned the other way to compensate. “Serge, your friend’s throwing off our keel.”
Serge grabbed the back of his belt. “Get back in here.”
Coleman excavated a beer from his teddy sack. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“A cruise to nowhere.”
“Look, if you don’t want to tell me.”
“No, that’s really what it’s call— . . . just wait and see.”
The vessel tacked southeast. Occasional landmarks. The mouth of the Withlacoochee below Yankeetown, Crystal River, fat concrete towers at the nuclear plant, Cooglers Beach. The shore began to glow off Port Richey and Tarpon Springs. Stumpy pulled the till to his stomach, turning the clam boat hard starboard.
“Serge, we’re heading away from land. We going straight out to sea.”
“To the mother ship.”
“You mean like Parliament Funkadelic?”
“No, like dope boats that run parallel to shore just outside territorial limits.”
Coleman raised hopeful eyebrows. “Dope?”
“Not this one.”
They passed the point of no return. Coast behind them nowhere in sight. Ahead, the abyss.
“Now I’m really scared,” said Coleman.
“You should be,” said Serge. “We’re crazy to ride out this far. And if we don’t acquire the mother ship soon—”
“Serge!”
Stumpy extended an arm. “There she is, relative bearing thirty degrees port.”
The tiniest twinkling light bobbed above the horizon. Then disappeared below it. Then bobbed up again.
“Looks like a cruise ship,” said Coleman.
“Except a lot smaller.”
Stumpy got on the VHF. “Mako, this is Clam One, do you copy?”
“Mako here.”
“Got two packages.”
“Come around stern. But run silent or I’ll lose my job.”
“Appreciate it.”
“What am I going to do? I owe Serge big-time.”
Clearwater
Camera lights bathed an otherwise dim television studio.
It was a small studio, as they go. Stained concrete floor except for a small patch of blue carpet under a worn Naugahyde couch. An office chair behind a fake, cardboard desk. Three men sat on the sofa. Two wore dark slacks, white shirts, dark ties. The third had a tweed jacket and a fedora.
A cameraman clipped lapel mikes on the guests. Mahoney had brought his own mike, one of those large antique steel jobs used by a night owl jazz DJ in 1947, or an announcer at Ebbets Field.
The show would have no fancy computer-generated intro with exploding graphics. Lowe looked back at the wall behind the couch: a poster with hand-stenciled letters.
Florida’s Most Wanted.
He turned to White. “We couldn’t get on America’s Most Wanted?”
“They’re booked. You take what you can get.”
Lowe stuck his finger through a rip in the couch. “How many people actually watch community-access television?”
“We’ll soon find out.”
“But why’d we drive down here? We could have done this back in Orlando.”
“Because Serge is from Tampa Bay,” said White. “When fugitives are on the run, they often return to surroundings where they’re familiar and comfortable.”
Lowe turned the other way. “Mahoney, you really think Serge was responsible for nailing that cop killer named Woodley back in Cedar Key?”
“Like a tit.” Mahoney stuck the toothpick back in his mouth. “Had some tight cats rifle files. Remember when Serge was nearly pinched in Jacksonville? Mistaken for the other killer?”
“Yeah?”
“Woodley roped an alias as Franklin Turnville. We got wind and cast the net. He must have felt the weight coming because Turnville fell off the radar. For years, doughnuts.”
“What happened?”
“It was like he croaked. Until Turnville suddenly popped up again at that motel. Matching birthday, middle name. Except it was Serge.”
“How’s that possible?” asked Lowe.
“Standard false ID riff,” said Mahoney. “After the miss in Jacksonville, vital statistics found the real Turnville buried in a nearby cemetery. They both obviously got the name off the same tombstone. Problem was, we couldn’t find out
the new alias Woodley began using after he shed Turnville. That’s where Serge came in.”
“But if all of us couldn’t find out . . .”
“Because Serge thought like him. My gut? When you go tombstone diving, you don’t just cuff one name. After Serge got hip to the Turnville coincidence, he correctly guessed Woodley switched to another ID off another nearby headstone—another that Serge had also jotted down. From there it was a simple public records search for Serge to peg which dead guy had come back to life. Probably saving that nugget for when he needed an ‘Out’ from Cedar Key.”
“So it was no accident he led us to that island?”
“Nothing with Serge is an accident.” Mahoney reached in his jacket for an unsoggy toothpick. “One thing you need to know about Serge: He always has a Secret Master Plan—”
“Welcome!”
The trio on the couch looked up.
The show’s host arrived with napkins around his neck to keep stage makeup off his collar. “Thanks for coming! It’s going to be a great program!”
“How’s this going to work?” asked White.
The host whipped off the napkins and hopped behind the desk. “I go live with a call-in number. Then after the show we keep the phone banks open and wait for all the tips to pour in.”
“Live?” said White. “It’s midnight. What kind of ratings will we get?”
“Oh, you wouldn’t believe. I’m recognized on the street all the time. People always coming up to me.”
“What do they say?”
“ ‘Hey, you’re that guy.’ Then we’ll rerun our segment a bunch more times during normal hours. Just mention me at the press conference when you catch this character.”
“How many fugitives have you caught so far?” asked White.
“We’re on in ten,” said the host. “Everybody ready?”
They nodded.
“Here we go . . .” The host watched the cameraman silently count down on his fingers until a red light came on above the camera and he pointed at the desk.