Electric Barracuda

by Tim Dorsey

  White looked over his shoulder at the swollen corpse. “Good Lord!”

  The examiner opened the victim’s mouth wider and got the light down the throat. “Unbelievable.”

  “What did you find?”

  The examiner stood and snapped off the gloves. “Need to get him downtown for autopsy. If I tell you now and I’m wrong, you’ll think I’m crazy . . .”

  Lee County Justice Complex

  If the sign didn’t tell you it was the morgue, the smell would.

  Agent White applied dabs of menthol Vaseline under each nostril.

  Everyone circled a cold steel table with the naked, camel-shaped body. Except the hump was on the wrong side.

  “Please back up and give me some elbow room,” said the examiner.

  Drama built as the autopsy continued through a checklist of the mundane. Combing the deceased for any exterior marks, taking hair and skin samples.

  “So was your hunch correct?” asked White.

  “Let me work,” the examiner said through his face mask. “This has to be done in the correct order.”

  Finally, all the procedural details had been covered.

  Showtime.

  The examiner grabbed a bone saw. “You might want to look away.”

  They did. The queasy, gnarling sound seemed to go on forever, then suddenly stopped.

  The examiner reached for a tray of surgical instruments and picked up a spreader. “Look away again.”

  The suspense was killing them. “See anything yet?” asked White. He was out of line gabbing in the coroner’s room, but everything was new.

  “Hold your horses,” said the examiner. “Almost there . . .”

  He reached again for the tray and a long, razor-sharp knife, setting its edge along the base of the stomach. “Here we go . . . You all may want to step way back. This could get pretty— . . . just step back . . .”

  No need to tell them twice. The audience retreated to the walls.

  The blade made the initial puncture through the stomach. The examiner went much slower than usual, because of internal pressure. The incision was a third complete, contents expanding the stomach even more than anyone had anticipated. The mystery about to unravel.

  But the pressure was too great. No delicate technique to complete the task. The examiner himself stepped back and, at arm’s length, quickly finished the incision and leaped away.

  “Holy mother!”

  “Dear God in heaven!”

  Someone covered his mouth and ran in the restroom.

  They all stood silent, staring at something from a science-fiction movie.

  In the middle of the room, the contents of the victim’s stomach had emerged and mushroomed into something even larger than the already enormous belly.

  Hardier souls tentatively stepped forward in awe to inspect the multi-colored bouquet of death that now bloomed atop the victim like a gory dinner centerpiece.

  The examiner punched a fist in the air. “I was right!”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Twenty-four Hours Earlier

  Motel 3. Room 11.

  Two men went in the bathroom and knelt by the side of the tub.

  “Coleman, remove the duct tape.”

  He ripped it off the man’s mouth.

  Serge bobbed with glee. “You’re in for a real treat today!”

  “What are you going to do to me?”

  “It’s like Truth or Consequences,” said Serge. “Except I already know the truth, so for you it’s all consequences. Sorry, my game, my rules.”

  The man stared up in terror.

  Serge reached outside the tub and filled one hand from a plastic bag. His other hand went behind his back and pulled something from his waistband. He grinned and held two outstretched palms.

  Terror turned to sobs.

  Serge nodded at the contents of his left hand. “I want you to swallow these pills.”

  “I’m not swallowing those.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Serge. “They’re non-toxic, child-safe—unlike you.”

  “I’m still not taking them.” Louder sobs. “Fuck yourself!”

  “Which brings us to the Consequence or Consequence portion of our program. You can swallow these capsules or . . .”—Serge’s eyes went to his right hand—“. . . You can swallow this gun . . . But hurry and make your call: The game clock’s running. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock . . . Wait! That’s Serge’s bonus buzzer! And everyone knows what the bonus buzzer means! You win a free escape clause! To make your decision easier, we’ll leave the room right after your qualifying round and promise not to return. That way, if you take the pills and can free yourself to seek adequate medical attention in time, you win! . . . So the gun choice really doesn’t make sense . . .” He produced a cell phone. “Or you can call a lifeline.”

  “I can?”

  “No.” Serge put the phone away. “I love to break tension with humor. But for some reason my guests never laugh.” Serge scratched his own temple with the gun barrel. “Is it my delivery?”

  The hostage gulped.

  “Oh, I understand,” said Serge. “Many people have a natural aversion to taking pills. Gag reflex and all . . . Coleman, be a good host and get this man a glass of water.”

  “Coming right up.”

  Ten Minutes Before That . . .

  Room 11 of Motel 3.

  Two men stared in the toilet.

  “What do you make of it?” said Coleman. “It’s not like any turd I’ve ever met.”

  “Me neither.”

  Coleman pointed. “There’s the head. It looks like . . . an orange dinosaur.”

  “Because it is an orange dinosaur.”

  “God has chosen me for something.”

  “Yes, but not what you think. Come this way . . .” Serge left the bathroom and closed the door so the hostage couldn’t hear.

  “What is it?” asked Coleman.

  “You know that pill you took?”

  “The orange one?”

  “It wasn’t medicine. It was one of the things I bought for Mikey from that grocery store toy section. That orange dinosaur is a super-expanding sponge.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Coleman, you must have seen them before,” said Serge. “Didn’t you read the label on the bag before you swallowed that pill?”

  “I like to be surprised.”

  “It was full of brightly colored capsules. Children put them in a bowl of water, which dissolves the gel coating. Then the dry, compressed foam inside expands from the water until it blossoms. But what will it turn into? Some kind of prehistoric animal or spaceship? Then it finally takes shape at an amazing size, twenty or thirty times the volume of the original capsule. Kids love it!”

  “What’s the point?”

  “To play.”

  “I get it.”

  “And so will our friend in there.”

  “Look,” said Coleman. “Mikey’s playing with matches.”

  “Mikey, that’s dangerous!” said Serge. “Always close the cover before striking.” He turned back to Coleman. “That should keep him occupied for the duration of our project, because we obviously can’t have him seeing this. What kind of parent would I be?” He grabbed the bag of remaining capsules off the dresser. “Shall we dance?”

  “After you.”

  They went in the bathroom, knelt at the tub and began rocking side to side with big smiles.

  Serge: “Everybody have fun tonight!”

  Coleman: “Everybody Wang Chung tonight!”

  The hostage screamed under the duct tape.

  Present

  Lee County Justice Complex.

  The audience in the morgue overcame their squeamishness. And then some. They crowded around the steel table.

  “I see a T. rex . . .”

  “There’s a stegosaurus . . .”

  “And a pterodactyl,” said Agent Lowe.

  “This isn’t a joke,” said White.

  “
I remember playing with these as a kid,” said Lowe. “Watching the bowl of water: Is it going to be a brontosaurus or a raptor or maybe a—”

  “Lowe!”

  “Sorry.”

  White turned another way. “Mahoney, tell me more about this Serge.” He looked back at the autopsy table. “What the hell are we dealing with?”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Cyberspace

  Serge’s Blog. Star Date 583.739.

  Today’s topic: the Fugitive Parent.

  The considerations of traveling with children are always important, but no more so than when you’re a fugitive. Like proper nutrition and getting your cover stories straight.

  In my case, being a fugitive parent is a recent development. Some children are delivered by doctors; in certain parts of Florida, they’re delivered at gunpoint. Since I’m new at this, I thought we’d treat it like a reality show, and use this blog to track my journey of discovery as a father on the run.

  First, you hear it a million times, but until you’re at the party, you have no idea: Never, ever take your eyes off them. We’re all human and can easily be distracted for the smallest fraction of a second, but you still feel like it’s your fault. And if you have attention-deficit issues like me and it’s a half hour, you really feel bad. We stopped at this water park, and you know how pet stores have those little clear balls you put hamsters in, and they roll around the house for lots of laughs? I found out they have great big ones for people to run across the surface of a pond or pool, and this water park was renting them. Mikey had two liters of Jolt cola for breakfast and was going Tasmanian Devil. Like any good parent, I thought it would be healthy to let him burn off some energy. So I put him in the ball, and he’s zipping like crazy around the big pool. His legs are little, but the gear ratio with the ball’s radius is multiplied, and he builds up ferocious momentum and hops the lip of the pool and now he’s tearing across the pavilion, food scattering, other parents screaming and diving over benches. Then it got bad. Someone left a service gate open. And he gets out of the park! Now he’s going cross-country, and we can barely keep up. And suddenly it hits me as I’m dodging cars and chasing a kid in a giant clear ball across the highway: No wonder parents are tired all the time . . . He finally got stuck in a ditch, and the ball was pretty scuffed from the pavement, so they made us buy it. Luckily, it breaks down in stackable curved panels for easy storage and reassembly. I tried it later myself, actually pretty fun. Except at first glance, I could have sworn the grocery aisle was wide enough. The ball’s in our motel room now, and Coleman’s sitting in it because it “really holds the pot smoke.” . . . Then this afternoon I redeemed myself—learning from my mistake and becoming so vigilant I should get some kind of parent trophy. Wanted to teach Mikey history, so we stop by this field and I grab a shovel from the trunk because in my career you always keep one there, and we go out to re-create the Great Mining Collapse of 1896 and—you guessed it—I pulled him out just in time! I think I’m really getting the hang of this.

  Fort Myers Beach

  Serge hoisted his backpack off the bed. “Checkout time!”

  “Again?” Coleman sat up in bed with mussed hair and grabbed a joint.

  He felt a gun barrel at the back of his head. “Freeze! Miami Vice!”

  Coleman dropped the joint and threw his hands in the air.

  “Relax, it’s unloaded,” Serge called across the room. “I’ve been teaching Mikey while you were asleep. Figured if he’s going to play with guns, he might as well do it right.”

  Coleman reached down for the jay. “Almost gave me a heart attack.”

  Serge grabbed his son by the hand. “The tour is picking up steam, so look alive!”

  “Give me a minute.” Coleman set the alarm clock for three A.M.

  They left and locked the door. Serge turned to Coleman in the parking lot. “Watch Mikey while I return the key to the office.”

  “You got it.”

  Serge came back from the lobby, stood in an empty parking space and looked down at his shoes.

  “Something the matter?” asked Coleman.

  “Where’s our car?”

  “Maybe it was stolen.”

  Serge looked around in even greater distress. “Where’s Mikey?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You were supposed to watch him!”

  “I thought he was with you.”

  “No! I said for you—”

  “Serge! Over there!”

  The ’69 Barracuda came toward them and flew by.

  “Look at me!” Mikey yelled out the window. “I’m driving! I’m driving!”

  “How can his feet reach the pedals?” asked Coleman.

  “I think he’s standing up,” said Serge, taking off in a sprint.

  Coleman ran after him. “I don’t think he’s going to make the turn.”

  The Barracuda slowed at the end of the parking lot, but not before plowing into a row of shrubs.

  Serge dashed the last yards and yanked the door open. He pulled the child from the car, clutching him to his chest. “Mikey! You okay?”

  “I drove! I drove!”

  “I’m both proud and angry,” said Serge.

  Coleman arrived panting. “Is he hurt?”

  “No, just happy,” said Serge. He handed the child to Coleman, then climbed into the car and reversed it back over the curb with a scratching of branches. “Everyone in.”

  They drove west through Cape Coral toward the Gulf of Mexico.

  “Look at all the foreclosed homes,” said Coleman.

  “Area’s been hit hard by financial twats.” Serge eased up to a remote intersection.

  Coleman looked oddly at the street sign. “Burnt Store Road?”

  “Local pride is unpredictable.”

  They continued into undeveloped wilderness and crossed a small bridge to an appropriately small island. A village of tiny, colorful pastel cottages. Pink, yellow, lime. People in straw hats fished off a seawall.

  “Dig the funky buildings,” said Coleman. “Where are we?”

  “Matlacha,” said Serge. “Isolated enclave of art shops, family restaurants and hard-to-find motels. Perfect for the man on the run.”

  “We’re staying here?”

  “Got something even harder to find. The key to hiding out is crossing as many bodies of water as you can.”

  Another bridge, another island.

  “Ow!” said Coleman. “Ow! . . . Ow! . . . Ow! . . .”

  “Coleman, what’s your problem?”

  “Mikey keeps flicking me in the ear . . . Ow! . . .”

  “So flick him back.”

  Coleman turned around in his seat.

  “Ow!” said Mikey.

  “Ow!” said Coleman. “Serge, why’d you flick me in the ear?”

  “Because you flicked my son.”

  “But you told me to.”

  “Doesn’t mean there aren’t consequences.”

  “Ow! . . . He’s still doing it.”

  “Okay, kids!” yelled Serge. “No more flicking. You want me to have a wreck?”

  Coleman and Mikey glared at each other and stuck out tongues.

  They hit Stringfellow Road and turned north. Coleman unscrewed a pint bottle. “Where are we now?”

  “Pine Island.” They passed several palm tree farms and a scattering of short residential streets named for fish. Mackerel, Trout, Sea Bass, Bonita. Country stores, screen-tented nurseries raising other tropical plants. Then even more isolated homes way back on dirt roads. “And in that direction, remnants of the ancient cross-island canal dug by the Calusas for their canoes. Lived here fifteen hundred years until the 1700s.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “Europeans,” said Serge. “It’s how they’re hardwired: ‘Hey, I see something really old and excellent! Let’s wipe it out.’ ”

  Coleman stared from the window as another grove of coconut palms went by. “I’ve never seen a Florida island like this. Where
are all the condos and golf courses?”

  “Over in douche-bag land.” Serge took a left onto Pineland Road. “Fat cats haven’t ruined this one yet because it’s got a protected mangrove coast and almost no beach that is essential for assholes to sprout.”

  They reached the shore of Pine Island Sound and hugged the coast.

  “You’re slowing down,” said Coleman.

  “Because this is the place.”

  “We’re staying at the Tarpon Lodge?”

  “Just our jumping-off point.”

  They climbed from the Barracuda and into a blinding bright sun reflecting off the bay.

  “Hold it, Mikey.” Serge reached in his backpack. “I’ve got something for you.”

  The boy smiled and clapped. “What is it?”

  Serge fitted a harness over the child’s chest and shoulders, then hooked the end of a leash in the middle of his back. “There.” He slipped his hand through the leash’s other end. “That ought to thin out the drama.”

  Serge led them around to the docks. Or rather Mikey did, straining against the leash.

  “Look at him pull,” said Coleman.

  Serge leaned back, digging in heels as they went. “It’s like walking a pack of wolves.”

  A broad-shouldered man with a ruddy sportsman’s complexion hosed out the stern of center-console whaler. He wore a mesh-back fisherman’s vest, wide-brimmed sailing cap and dark, polarized sunglasses secured around his neck with a sky-blue lanyard.

  “Captain Ron!”

  The man looked up. “Serge!” He cut the hose and climbed onto the dock. Another big hug. “What have you been up to?”

  “I’m on the run.”

  A belly laugh. “Same old Serge . . . But who’s this little fella?”

  “My son.”

  “I didn’t know you had a son.”

  “Neither did I. Mom tracked me down and dropped him off at our motel.”

  “Whoops. One of those delayed surprises, eh?” The captain bent down and smiled at the boy. “What’s his name?”

  “Mikey.”

  Captain Ron extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you . . . Ow, he kicked me in the shin.”

  “That’s his way of shaking.”

  “He’s definitely yours.”