by John Locke
His words had come too quickly, and he seemed to regret having said them. He hastened to add, “But that was then, and this is now.”
“The town was cursed?”
He smiled. “Forget I said that, it’s just an old wife’s tale, a figure of speech. What’s important is the tide has turned, and it’s a new day, a happy time for our town.”
Pocket sat back in his chair and filled the silence between us by drumming his fingers on his belly. Before long he had a rhythm going where each tap produced a hollow sound not unlike a housewife thumping a melon for ripeness. He abruptly brought his concert to a close and looked at the check again.
“This is valid?” he said.
I nodded.
“And you’re a cook.”
“Cook and caretaker,” I said.
He winked. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve been holding off this foreclosure for six months, hoping something would work out. We’re days away from filing, and suddenly, out of the blue, you and your girlfriend just happen to show up in time to save Beth’s Inn.”
“So?”
“Don’t you find that amazing? I mean, you being a total stranger and all?”
“I’m just protecting my job,” I said.
Chapter 9
I FIGURED BOB Pocket would be on the phone before I got out the front door. I also figured he’d shit his pants when he found out I could buy not only the bank in which he worked, but the whole town as well. I’d been worth a half billion dollars before my recent score, but now my net worth was north of six billion. What could this tiny bank be worth, twenty million at best?
Two weeks ago I put twenty-five million in Rachel’s account, which meant The Seaside’s waitress could buy Pocket’s bank. So yes, the check was good.
I walked across the street to Rider’s Drug Store and purchased three EpiPens, which cut their supply in half. The pharmacist looked blissful. He said, “I just ordered those EpiPens last week.”
“You sell a lot of them, do you?”
“In all the years I been here, I sold one,” he said.
“That being the case, why’d you order six?”
“Just had a feelin’,” he said.
“Got a feeling when you’ll sell the other three?”
“Nope, but they’ll sell before the expiration date, you can be sure of that.”
I didn’t know what gave him the confidence to make that statement, but a day ago I wouldn’t have expected to buy three EpiPens, or even one, for that matter. Nor would I have imagined myself giving an innkeeper’s banker a check for sixty grand. Maybe Bob Pocket was right. Maybe there was something charmed about this town. I just hoped the cosmic balance didn’t depend on me.
I took a different route back to the Seaside, but I don’t know why. Main Street to A1A would have been a clear shot, but for some reason High Street to Eighth felt more inviting. Maybe I was subconsciously trying to get the feel of the little town.
Something happened when I turned on High Street.
I felt a tingling sensation. A good one, like the kind you feel when you first climb under the covers on a cold night. The further I drove the more soothing it felt. By the time I hit Eighth, I was practically euphoric. This was the feeling I’d had two nights earlier, when I’d followed Rachel down A1A, and again yesterday when I stood behind the B amp;B, contemplating the caretaker’s job. I drove past an empty tailor’s shop, some old houses, and a boarded-up dry cleaning store. At the intersection to A1A, on the left-hand corner, I saw a lady carrying what looked like a picnic basket up the steps of an old church. I remained there a moment, my eyes transfixed on the church. I’m not a religious man, nor even a spiritual one, but the feeling I was enjoying seemed to come from the area of the church.
I wasn’t alone in this, either.
In the churchyard, standing reverently, but still, like statues, were half a dozen elderly people. Their eyes were turned skyward, or perhaps I should say balcony-ward, since the second floor balcony on the side of the church seemed to be their point of focus. As I sat on my brake at the stop sign I noticed a small line of people turning the corner. They weren’t together, and none were speaking. But all were making their way toward the churchyard. There was also a van parked twenty yards to the side with two guys in the front seat. Like me, they appeared to be watching the statue people in the churchyard. They had almost certainly brought the first group of old people to the church and appeared to be waiting for them. I backed my rental car, turned into somebody’s driveway, put my flashers on, and climbed out. Crossing the street, I approached two elderly women and a man bent over a cane.
“What’s the attraction?” I asked.
No one answered.
Suddenly, one of the ladies sighed deeply and started moving her head around. Tears welled in her eyes and began streaming down her face. She rounded her shoulders as if warming up to take an exercise class. About that time the man’s cane fell to the ground and he slowly straightened his back. A look of ecstasy crossed his face and tears flowed freely from his eyes. The third woman broke into a wide smile and started dancing in a tight little circle of space.
I looked around.
The others were making small movements with their bodies. Some of the new arrivals stood stock still, as if waiting for something marvelous to happen. Their eyes were hopeful and glazed over as if experiencing the type of rapture that comes from contemplating divine things. As I watched their faces break into euphoric smiles I was reminded of a tent show I’d been to as a kid, where a preacher offered to trade the town folk miracles for money.
Only there were no preachers around.
I didn’t want to leave. But apparently the guys in the van had seen me trying to talk to the old folks, because the driver climbed out holding a cell phone to his ear, and within seconds, a cop car pulled in front of the church. I waved goodbye to my elderly friends and to the cops and van guys as well, and jogged back to my car. No sense in ruffling feathers my first day on the job.
I glanced at the church again and saw more people heading there. All were old or sickly, though some were being pushed in wheelchairs by younger, healthy people. All of them: healthy or sick, young or old, looked like they came for a miracle. Silently, I wished them well, but couldn’t help thinking they were the same people who’d travel 50 miles and stand in line to see a piece of French toast that looks like St. Paul’s bullfrog.
I backed onto Eighth, made my way to the corner and turned right on A1A. I’d got about a mile before losing the feeling of euphoria. I didn’t know what the power was, or how it spread, but it seemed to emanate from the church. At least today it did. Of course, yesterday I felt it behind the B amp;B and the night before it occurred a mile further south. So what had I really learned? My life had been filled with strange experiences, but this one took the cake! If the town wanted to make a killing, maybe they could find a way to harness the energy around that church and sell it. I doubted that was possible, but on the chance it might be, I gave serious thought to heading back that way with an empty bottle and a cork.
But that would have to wait.
I drove another half-mile and turned into the parking lot of The Seaside B amp;B, where, as caretaker, my first order of business was squirrel infestation.
I’d begun my military career right out of high school as a sniper for the Army. In those days I learned how to move stealthily through the woods and tall grass, where distance traveled was often measured in feet per hour. What I’m saying, it was a rare day that I didn’t encounter snakes, rodents and insects of all types, so I had no fear of St. Alban’s tree squirrels.
But I had no intention of climbing into that attic yet.
Most animals will give you a wide berth, provided you don’t back them in a corner. In the wild, there are plenty of escape routes for the big and small beasties, all of who are nervous, frightened, or curious. When they see or hear or feel you coming, the nervous move
on, the frightened growl or hiss and move on, and the curious stop to look, maybe piss or defecate near you, but eventually slither or scurry away.
But the Seaside attic was self-contained, with walls, a floor and a ceiling and only a few small holes available to the beasties as escape routes. I had no idea what might be lurking in the eaves and insulation-filled floorboards of that attic, but there was one thing I did know: this was their attic, not mine. It had been theirs for a long time, and I wasn’t going to change that in a day, or even a week.
I had a plan.
My plan involved the ladder I found in the storage shed that was located to the side and back of the property. It looked to be about twelve-feet tall, with an extension that would take it up to about twenty.
Beth had gone to Jacksonville for the day, and guests weren’t scheduled to arrive until after four, so Rachel and I had the place to ourselves. My plan was to make a quick, pre-emptive strike against the squirrels by boxing them in. I’d let them sit there awhile, let them expend some energy trying to scratch their way out, then gas them with a pesticide bomb and assess their response. I gathered some metal flashing, nails and a hammer, and propped the ladder against the side of the house by the openings the squirrels were using to enter and exit the attic. I boarded up the holes I could find. Then I put the ladder and other materials away, changed into a pair of khaki shorts, and swung by the kitchen long enough to crush some ice cubes in a blender and roll them into a hand towel. Then I headed to the beach where Rachel was sunbathing.
“Hey Scatman,” Rachel said.
“Scatman?”
“I looked it up on my laptop,” she said. “Scatman Crothers played the part of the caretaker in The Shining. Dick Hallorann?”
You had to love this girl: two days earlier I’d told her about the Grady Twins, today she was giving it back to me. Rachel had on a black and white striped bikini and was lying on a chaise. She wore her hair in a French braid with a white bow tied on the end. She’d pulled the braid over her left shoulder to frame her face. The glass beside her was empty; save for a small pool of water and a couple of nearly melted ice cubes, remnants of what I guessed had been a pina colada.
“Where’d you get the drink?” I said.
“I made it in the kitchen. They don’t have anyone to serve drinks here, can you believe that?”
“I think the waitress is supposed to serve the drinks.”
She looked at me curiously. “Well, that’s what I did.”
I nodded.
Rachel said, “What’s with the towel?”
“Here, I’ll show you.” I put the frozen towel around her neck.
She gasped when it touched her skin, but within seconds she was murmuring, “God, that feels good!”
I said, “I think I’ll take the car down A1A for a few minutes.”
“Like how many minutes?”
“Maybe twenty. You want to come?”
“No, I’m good. I want to catch some rays today if we’re still doing breakfast tomorrow. Are we?”
“We are.”
She looked up at me and squinted against the sun. “You sure you want to do that? Cook breakfast for tourists and townies?”
“I am. Can I get you another drink before I go?”
“Maybe you could bring me one when you come back.”
I kissed her on the cheek. “As you wish,” I said, quoting a line from our favorite movie, The Princess Bride.
“Thank you, Farm Boy,” Rachel said, not to be outdone.
A few minutes later I took A1A back to the church, but this time I felt nothing. Nor were there any old people in the churchyard. Whatever had happened, if it happened, had stopped happening. But I didn’t care; I knew how to find another great feeling.
I turned the car around and headed to the sand dune where we’d found the boy a couple nights ago. I parked on the shoulder of the highway and made my way to the fire ant colony, and lay on my back next to it the same way the kid had been laying. While I waited I wondered what I’d tell the cops if a squad car happened by.
Within minutes I felt them crawling on my arms and legs.
I closed my eyes and smiled.
Chapter 10
D’AUGIE HAD BEEN surprised to see Rachel sitting at the foot of his hospital bed the morning after his fire ant incident. She’d come to check on him, she said, adding that she and Kevin had come the night before for the same purpose. She’d laughed when he told her his name, and barked a couple of times. Under normal circumstances, he’d have slit a woman’s throat for making fun of him, but with Rachel, it seemed so childlike and cute, he found himself laughing along with her.
“Is it spelled D-O-G-G-Y?”
He told her the correct spelling.
“Is it foreign?”
D’Augie changed the subject. “Did you happen to find my knife last night?”
“You had a knife?”
“More like a pocket knife,” he lied.
So Creed must have found the knife and kept that information from Rachel. Which meant he’d be suspicious, and have his guard up next time D’Augie attacked. D’Augie had been mortified to hear that Creed saved his life. But it didn’t change things. He still intended to kill him, first chance he got. He decided to play it cool with Rachel, see if he could get some information that would help him kill her boyfriend.
He watched her remove a plastic water bottle from her purse and shake it. Then she unscrewed the cap, poured something red and gloppy from it into a plastic cup on his hospital table, and handed it to him.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Red Drink.”
“What’s in it?”
“Water, grape juice, pomegranate juice, cranberry juice, protein powder, birch bark, a bit of citrus, some other stuff.”
He held it up to the light and stared at it. “What’s it for?”
“It’s full of antioxidants, and prevents you from getting sick. But if you’re already sick or get hurt, it heals you quickly.”
“This some sort of family potion?”
“No, it’s Kevin’s recipe.”
D’Augie abruptly put the cup down and silently cursed himself for being so stupid. He must have been reeling from the effect of the drugs they’d given him to have considered drinking this red concoction in the first place. He looked at the puzzled expression on her face. Then again, if Creed wanted to kill him, he’d already be dead. He wouldn’t have sent this girl to poison him.
“What’s wrong?” Rachel said.
Unless she was one of Creed’s assassins.
“D’Augie?”
But if she was one of his assassins, would she be so stupid as to tell him the drink was Creed’s recipe?
D’Augie looked her over carefully, while thinking about the events from the night before, the events prior to landing on the fire ant hill. Such as watching Creed and Rachel at dinner, their tender scene on the porch, and the way she stomped off into the night cursing like a sailor. D’Augie had seen women act like that before, but they weren’t assassins. They were angry girlfriends.
“Kevin told you to give this to me?”
Rachel laughed. “No, silly. I made it. It’s Kevin’s recipe, but I make it for him all the time.”
D’Augie looked at the liquid in cup. “You ever try it?”
“We drink it almost every morning. It’s really good for you. I wouldn’t have brought it if it wasn’t.”
“Show me,” he said.
“What?”
He handed her the cup. “Show me how good it tastes.”
Rachel took it and shrugged. “Seriously?”
“Unless there’s some reason you’d rather not.”
Rachel made a face that would have been adorable had she not been trying to poison him. Then, to D’Augie’s surprise, she drank half the cup, paused, then placed the cup carefully on the table and smiled.
“See?” she said. “Delicious, nutritious, and healthy.” She suddenly made a face, grabbed her thro
at and said, “Wha…what…Oh, my God, I…I don’t feel so good…I-” then she fell to the floor.
D’Augie jerked himself to a sitting position and peered over the edge of the bed. Rachel jumped up, yelled “Boo!” and nearly scared the shit out of him.
“Sorry,” Rachel said, “but you deserved that.”
She seemed to study his face a moment. “You’re pale,” she said. “Hey, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you okay?”
He nodded.
Rachel moved around the side of the bed and, to D’Augie’s utter amazement, she kissed his forehead. Then she stroked his hair a moment before reclaiming her seat. She picked up the cup and drank some more and said, “You sure you don’t want some?”
“I’ve got…” she looked at the plastic bottle on the hospital table. “Half a bottle left. You want to watch me drink that too?”
“I’ll split it with you.”
D’Augie drank while Rachel talked. She told him that she and Creed were on vacation, and had traveled the eastern sea coast for two weeks. That wasn’t news to D’Augie, since he’d been hunting Creed for months, showing his photo to all the private jet operators and airports around the country. A couple of weeks ago a Louisville baggage guy remembered a man who fit Creed’s physical description, who had demanded strict secrecy. But he said the man used a different name and the photo was all wrong. The guy he’d seen looked like a movie star and didn’t have a jagged scar on the side of his face. D’Augie decided Creed must have changed his appearance. He’d heard Homeland Security assassins could do that, but D’Augie’s informant gave him a critical piece of information: the guy who might be Creed was traveling with a young lady named Rachel Case. So regardless of the name Creed was using on the manifest, Rachel was using her real name, and they had left Louisville for Atlantic City a few days earlier. D’Augie had Googled Rachel Case, from Louisville, found her photos, learned her background information. Then he scoped out the nicest hotels in Atlantic City until he saw Rachel lounging at the pool drinking Kashenkas with a guy that had to be Donovan Creed. Sure enough, when he called the front desk, they confirmed a Donovan Creed was registered there.