Electric Barracuda

by Tim Dorsey

  Serge reeled in the chain leash as Coleman resumed crawling by in the background. “Got it again . . . whoops . . .”

  Serge managed a grin at the receptionist. “It’s like I have two children . . . Know where Hunter hangs out around here?”

  “Might try the spa. He’s been getting a lot of massages.”

  “Did he pull a muscle or something here?”

  “No, they just cost a lot.”

  “Thanks.”

  Serge scooped up a fish and tossed it back in the aquarium. “Let’s go, kids.”

  They headed through a labyrinth of halls and reached an intersection. Ahead: the spa entrance. Left: bright sunlight through glass exit doors to the beach. Serge stopped and clenched his fists. The shakes started in his feet and rose to his throat.

  “What is it?” asked Coleman.

  “Damn! Come on!” Serge turned left and ran for the light.

  Coleman took off after him. “But what about Hunter?”

  “I’m a father now,” said Serge, bursting outside through the doors. “I have responsibilities . . . Mikey! You’ll love this! . . .”

  An hour later, three people came back in the building. They made a left down the hallway and entered a pampering spa. People getting mud packs, cucumber slices on eyes, stationary bikes and treadmills with cardio-monitors and headphones. Someone with his back to them lay facedown on the massage table, taking a flurry of karate chops to the shoulders.

  “Hunter?”

  No answer. Serge walked around to the front. Not him. He looked at the masseuse, digging knuckles into neck tendons. “Seen Hunter?”

  She angled her head toward the tanning salon on the other side of the room.

  Serge walked over and bent down to a blue slit of ultraviolet light from the opening. “Hunter? You in there?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Serge, from Cabbage Key.”

  “Serge!”

  The bed’s cover flew up. Hunter swung his legs out in a skimpy Speedo. He removed protective goggles. “Great to see you. What are you doing here?”

  “Thought I’d spend a little of the shareholders’ money.”

  “That a boy! Couldn’t have picked a better place.” Something caught his eye. He paused and stared down curiously at Serge. Then Coleman and Mikey. “What’s the deal with all your pants?”

  The three looked at their shorts: pockets on hips ballooning to the max. Sand-covered knees.

  “We went shelling,” said Serge. “I’m now a responsible parent teaching my son: all Florida, all the time. Check it out . . .” He dug both hands deep in his pockets and produced twin piles of colorful sea treasures. “Angel wings, coquina, imperial venus, auger, cerith, angulate periwinkle . . .”

  Mikey enthusiastically dug through his own pockets. “Shells!”

  Coleman reached in his shorts and pulled out two fistfuls of seaweed.

  Serge grinned. “He had a little trouble with the concept . . . So how’ve you been?”

  “Feel like a billion.” Hunter threw a towel over his shoulders and began walking. “I’d like you to meet the gang . . . The guy getting the shiatsu is Jessup.”

  The man in the massage chair looked over and waved.

  “On the bike and isokinetics are Manfred and Addison. My top executives,” said Hunter. “So what are you up to?”

  “I was going to hit the hot tub by the pool. Incredibly relaxing, at least fifty water jets,” said Serge. “Why don’t you join us?”

  “Is it free?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Think I’ll pass.”

  “But there’s a bar out there. Drinks on my company.”

  “What are we waiting for?” Hunter turned. “Guys! free drinks.”

  Shift change at the reception desk.

  The new clerk stared at a mug shot.

  “Nope. But I just came on.”

  White looked at the other agents. “What do you think?”

  Lowe stared into the aquarium, watching a joint float on the surface. “Doesn’t seem like Serge’s kind of place. It’s too . . . nice.”

  White made a check mark on a chamber-of-commerce list. “Let’s move. We got half a page left, and we’re losing light . . .”

  Behind the resort, the top half of a large reddish sun sat on the horizon of the Gulf of Mexico.

  Hunter Bleadoph and his executive team had practically trampled each other running out of the spa. After changing in the cabanas, they reunited by the pool and climbed into the hot tub.

  Serge and Coleman brought over the promised free drinks.

  “Gracias,” said Hunter, taking a Rémy Martin. “You were right about this tub. Jets are fabulous—couldn’t be more relaxing.”

  “Yes it can,” said Serge, walking around the deck in the cool sunset that produced a thick layer of steam from the water’s surface. Perfect for his plan.

  “Aren’t you going to join us?” asked Hunter.

  Serge pointed up at one of the top floors. “Forgot my swimsuit in the room. I’ll get it in a minute.” He smiled and surveyed the executives. “So what am I looking at here? A hundred million in taxpayer bonuses?”

  Arrogant laughter from the tub.

  Serge began laughing, too. He elbowed Coleman. Coleman began laughing.

  Hunter stopped laughing and set his drink on the side. “You think too small.”

  “You’re my heroes,” said Serge.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll get there,” said Hunter. “Mark my words. I’m a great judge of character.”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “No, really, you’re destined for things.”

  “Appreciate it.”

  “I’d appreciate another drink.”

  Serge pointed his right hand like a pistol at Hunter. “You got it, big guy!”

  Four drinks later:

  “This is the life,” said Hunter.

  “That it is,” said Serge, jerking the leash as Mikey strained to leap in the deep end of the adjacent pool.

  “So when are you getting in here with us?”

  Serge smacked his forehead. “I’ve gotten so caught up listening to your wisdom that I forgot to go back to the room.”

  Hunter became distracted. He turned: “Is there something I can help you with?” It wasn’t friendly.

  A family of four stood quiet and patient a few feet away. “We’ve been waiting to use the tub,” said the father.

  “Good for you,” said Hunter. “Keep doing it.”

  The executives spread out to take up the tub’s remaining capacity.

  The dad gestured at a sign on a palm tree. “It says you’re not supposed—”

  Hunter turned. “I see it. Half-hour time limit for courtesy. So what?”

  “You’ve been in there over an hour. I don’t mean to be rude.”

  “You are being rude.” Hunter’s eyes went to the next person. “And what the hell are you looking at?”

  The wife lowered her gaze. Her husband took her by the hand. “Come on, honey.” They left abruptly with the children.

  Hunter rested his head back and closed his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” said Serge. “It is a rule.”

  Hunter, without opening his eyes: “Rules are for other people.”

  “But you never know when a rule could save your life.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Hunter. “Thought we were on the same page.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Serge. “It’s just that there’s so much to learn from you. Which reminds me—bathing suit. Oh, and I almost forgot something else . . . Coleman, take the leash. Mikey’s going for the diving board.”

  Serge grabbed a bag off a rattan lounger. “I bought you a little something. Or rather my company did. Was going to get something else, but gift baskets are dead to me.”

  “What is it?” asked Hunter.

  Serge pulled his hand out of the bag. “Bath salts.”

  “For my wife?”

  “No, you guys,
” said Serge. “From Hong Kong. Outrageously expensive. Made from illegally smuggled endangered species . . .” He crouched down and dropped his voice like a co-conspirator. “. . . Asian aphrodisiac. Supposed to make your dick harder than a Polaris missile. Some of the staff here’s pretty hot.”

  “Then I’ll definitely have to try it,” said Hunter, fingering his wedding band. “Leave it by our towels and I’ll use it back in the room.”

  “Why not right here in the tub?” said Serge.

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to put anything in this water.”

  “Rules are for other people.”

  “Ha!” said Hunter. “Hear that, guys? My star pupil! . . . Serge, dump it on in!”

  Serge stood in silent thought.

  “Well?” said Hunter. “What are you waiting for?”

  “Just a last question,” said Serge. “And it’s an important one, because I want to study from your example how to make critical decisions in the future. Possibly the very near future.”

  “Fire away.”

  “How do you feel about seventy-year-olds with health problems who had to go back to work because their retirement nest eggs were depleted?”

  “Fuck ’em,” said Hunter. “Bad things happen to people all the time.”

  “So true. So very true.” Serge unscrewed the lid, walked around to the upwind side of the tub and gently let his magic powder flutter down into the water. “My favorite part is the almond fragrance.”

  Serge recapped the bottle and pointed again at the upper floor. “Going to get my suit now.” He began walking away.

  “I smell almonds,” said Hunter.

  “That means it’s working,” said Serge. “I’ll be right back.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” said Hunter.

  “I know,” said Serge.

  One Hour Later

  A family of four returned to the pool deck behind one of Sanibel’s finest resorts.

  “Look at that,” said the wife. “Those jerks are still in there.”

  “I can’t believe it. They’re sleeping,” said the husband. He walked over to the tub. “Come on. You’ve been in there long enough . . . Wake up!”

  No response.

  “They’re drunk,” said the wife.

  The husband crouched and shook Hunter’s shoulder. He slumped forward, facedown in the water.

  The woman’s curdling scream filled the night and brought staff running from every part of the resort.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Nine P.M.

  A cell phone rang. “This is Lowe . . . What! . . . When? . . . Uh-huh . . . Uh-huh . . . That’s strange . . . Where did this happen? . . . Thanks for letting us know.” He clapped it shut and turned to White. “Sheriff’s office. Got a report from one of the smaller local police departments. Four dead at a nearby resort.”

  White looked over from the driver’s seat. “Homicide?”

  “Don’t know yet,” said Lowe. “Scene still has them baffled. This family found all four bodies in a hot tub.”

  “What jurisdiction?”

  “Sanibel.”

  “Sanibel!” White looked in his rearview at the bridge he had just crossed to Captiva. Brakes squealed. The steering wheel spun.

  “Something else,” said Lowe. “All four were corporate officers of GUE.”

  “That financial group that got the bailouts?” said White, straightening out the car and racing back toward the bridge.

  Lowe nodded. “On some kind of secret retreat.”

  Mahoney nodded. “Serge.”

  “Wonderful,” said White, hitting the gas. “The press is going to be all over this . . .”

  The Tamiami Trail

  A ’69 Barracuda sped south into the night.

  “Is Mikey asleep?”

  Coleman looked in the backseat. “Totally crashed. He looks so cute with your nunchucks.”

  Serge watched the roadside view go by. “When did all this development happen?”

  “Where are we?” asked Coleman.

  “Bonita Springs, just north of Naples. I used to love this part of the Tamiami, but scratch it from the A-tour.” Serge cringed at the chain of chain stores out the windows. “This nightmare should clear by the next county.”

  “Been meaning to ask.” Coleman mixed vodka with Dr Pepper. “What did you dump in that hot tub with those four guys? It wasn’t actually something good for their dicks?”

  Serge’s head turned slowly with a sly grin.

  “That’s what I thought.” Coleman chugged from a plastic tumbler. “Some kind of acid that burned them up?”

  “Too pedestrian,” said Serge. “Plus, they’d feel it coming on and jump out of the water. I take pride that my bath salts are very soothing, nothing but luxuriating pleasure . . . Here we go . . .” A sign at the Collier County line. Next: shopping centers, gated communities. “Damn, more development. At least there’s refuge at our next stop . . .”

  The Barracuda angled toward the shoulder of the road.

  “Why are we parked?”

  “To check the next stop.” Serge pulled a small laptop from his backpack and opened it on his legs. “This one isn’t just location but a sensitive time window.” He tapped the keyboard. “Here’s their website . . .”

  “Then what was it?”

  “What?”

  “In the hot tub.”

  “I love chemistry.” Serge scrolled down the screen. “The really fascinating thing is that normally stable compounds react vigorously upon innocent contact with air or water. Individually, the products from the hardware store wouldn’t do that. And for some crazy reason, nobody will sell me a pre-mixed batch. So I had to put on my chef’s hat in the motel . . .” He leaned toward the screen. “Oh, pleassssssse!”

  “Found something?”

  “This website says we might still have a day or so, unless misfortune strikes in the meantime.” Serge handed Coleman the computer and pulled back onto the highway. “I’ve been waiting to see this my whole life! It’s one of those things that should be on every true Floridian’s Life List, like the elusive Flash of Green at sunset.”

  Coleman held the computer’s screen to his face, then did a double take at Serge. “You’re shitting me.”

  “About what?”

  “This looks like something chicks would force us to do, much worse than guest towels.”

  “Coleman, Dendrophylax is a spiritual experience.” A highway sign: Exit 111. Serge took Immokalee Road inland, passing under I-75 ten miles north of the tollbooth to Alligator Alley. “Sometimes you just have to stop and get in touch with your feminine side.”

  “You mean beat off?”

  “Jesus! No!— . . . Well, actually we’ll be in the presence of some pretty intense natural Florida beauty, so I can’t guarantee it won’t come to that.”

  “We’ll have to take turns standing lookout.”

  The Barracuda left civilization and blazed across barren flatlands. “It’s getting late. Let’s put up someplace cheap and hit it in the morning.”

  Coleman chewed a peyote button. “What was the almond business back at the hot tub?”

  “Still on that?”

  “You never let me stay to see them croak.”

  “Like I said back at the resort, that sweet, nutty fragrance is my favorite part.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Once you start smelling almonds, it’s already too late.”

  Sanibel

  Hundreds of rubber-neckers lined the side of the road, pointing and gossiping.

  Officers from multiple jurisdictions taped off the resort and held back the curious.

  Distraught guests got free drink tickets.

  And the press. Satellite trucks arriving nonstop. Some correspondents had already set up along police lines, going live under floodlights that turned night to day.

  “. . . Four confirmed dead . . .”

  “. . . Police releasing few details . . .”

  “. . . Unna
med source said all were top executives of embattled GUE . . .”

  “. . . Apparently attending a secret luxury retreat . . .”

  One of the national cable channels was already taking an audience poll, overwhelmingly in favor of the day’s events.

  A Crown Vic rolled up. Agent White flashed a badge out the window, and an officer raised the crime tape for the car to pass.

  More vehicles arrived.

  “. . . Reportedly found in a hot tub . . .”

  “. . . The seashell capital of the country . . .”

  A commotion on the side of the road. A loud roar as a man with long yellow hair gunned a chopper.

  TV people stampeded with cameras and microphones.

  “Doberman! We’d like a word! . . .”

  “Are you after the killers? . . .”

  The bounty hunter climbed off the bike. “I’m after justice, American style.”

  The kickstand gave way and the bike fell on him.

  Back behind the resort, three state detectives approached the hot tub. A crime scene in top gear. Photos, fingerprints. Two victims already bagged on gurneys.

  The medical examiner swabbed foaming saliva from the mouth of the recently late Hunter Bleadoph. He dropped the sample in a clear bag, then tilted the victim’s head back and pulled up eyelids.

  “Excuse me . . .”

  The examiner turned.

  “I’m Agent White from the FDLE. These are Agents Lowe and Mahoney. I know you’re busy but it’s important for a case. Are we looking at homicide?”

  “Give me another second.” He opened the mouth cavity and shined a penlight, then up each nostril. Individual hairs carefully harvested to preserve follicles. A scraping of skin. He dipped a plastic bottle in the tub and capped it.

  The examiner stood and handed the samples to an assistant. “The lab ASAP. Gas-chromatograph mass spectrometer.” He turned. “Now how can I help you?”

  “This is completely off-the-record because we don’t need a panic, but we’re tracking a fugitive who may be a serial killer.” White looked down at the tub. “He could be involved here, if this wasn’t an accident.”