Florida Son

by W. J. Costello

“Inspector.”

  “Did he inspect that ID place for you?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he find out who sold them Heath’s Social Security number?”

  “Tried but no luck.”

  “Did he find out if Heath bought a new Social Security number?”

  “No luck with that either.”

  “Too bad. It would have been nice to know if Heath is living under an alias. It would have made finding him easier.”

  We were sitting in folding chairs under the awning of my RV. The bug zapper crackled and buzzed and glowed purple against the blackness of night. In the distance the sea roared and heaved. Faint music drifted from somewhere in the campground.

  Passing campers waved to us and said hello and made comments about the hot Florida weather. We held out our bottles of Corona Light as a salute to them, then clinked our bottles against each other, sipped a little of our beer.

  “Mmm. Tastes good.”

  “I have a theory, Julie. You want to hear it?”

  “Fire away. Tell me your theory.”

  “It’s profound. So be prepared.”

  “The suspense is killing me.”

  “Here’s my profound theory: Everything always tastes better after a day at the beach.”

  “Everything?”

  Her playful eyes danced between her bottle and my anatomy.

  “You flirting with me, Julie?”

  “Maybe.”

  “We can test my theory. Want to?”

  She drained her beer.

  “Okay, Einstein,” she said, and stood up. “Let’s go test it.”

  I froze.

  “Wait a minute, Julie.”

  “Are you playing hard to get?”

  “Look over there.”

  “Where?”

  “Near the volleyball court. See that guy?”

  “You mean the one with the bike?”

  “He’s staring at us again.”

  “Is that the same man from the cemetery?”

  “Same man, same bike, same stare.”

  He stood in the shadows. His glassed glinted in the moon.

  I set my bottle on the ground and stood up.

  “Are you going over there?”

  “Let’s go inside, Julie.”

  Three seconds after we entered through the entry door I exited through the driver’s door.

  The plan:

  I would sneak up from behind the guy. I would catch him by surprise. I would give him no chance to escape on his bike.

  Execution of the plan:

  I edged my way along the side of my RV until I reached the rear. Then I stopped and crouched. My eyes scanned the area.

  In a sudden burst of speed I raced across the pavement to the corner of a truck camper. I peered around at the volleyball court.

  He was still there.

  I crept to my right and moved stealthily along the edge of a fence. Somewhere off to my left I heard a dog bark. I stopped. I waited.

  The barking stopped. I moved on.

  After a while I paused near the open door of an RV where an old woman sat smoking quietly. She looked at me. I looked at her. When her eyebrows went up I raised my index finger to my lips and motioned for her to remain quiet. She took a long steady pull on her cigarette, then nodded indifferently and looked away.

  A dozen more steps and I stopped again.

  I had circled around behind the guy.

  Now he was right in front of me.

  Only feet away . . .

  I crept closer.

  Closer.

  Closer.

  I pounced like a Florida panther.

  His bike went flying and we went flying. The pavement was hard. It always is. Everything made with asphalt concrete is hard.

  We rolled, we wrestled, we roared.

  Six seconds later I had him pinned down. When I looked down at his face I recognized him immediately. He worked at Toddler Town Day Care. He was the janitor there.

  “Dusty? What are you doing here?”

  “Whu-whu-whu-what?”

  “You stalking us?”

  “I . . . I . . . I . . .”

  “Never mind,” I said, and pulled him to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  When we got back to my RV I sat him down on the sofa. He pushed up his glasses, stared down at his palms, fiddled with his watch. His eyes darted like mice.

  “We saw you at the cemetery the other day,” I said. “You’ve been following us. You’ve been watching us. Why?”

  He shrugged.

  Julie and I looked at each other.

  “Dusty,” she said, “did you ride your bike all the way here from Tampa? That has to be—what, sixty miles?”

  He nodded without looking up.

  “Sixty-three point one miles,” he said. “Sixty-three p-point one.”

  “That’s a long ride,” Julie said. “Why did you come here? Was it just to stand in the dark and stare at us?”

  He shrugged again.

  “You need to tell me why, Dusty. Why did you follow us to the cemetery the other day? Why are you behaving like a stalker? When I saw you staring at us I got a creepy feeling. You scared me.”

  “I d-didn’t mean to, Julie. I’m sorry.”

  I rubbed my chin. It didn’t help. I rubbed it some more.

  “Here’s an idea,” I said. “Why don’t we drop the subject. Let’s talk about the video instead. Dusty, you said something the other day when you watched the video. You said, ‘They don’t look like Max’s hands. They are his hands.’ What’d you mean by that?”

  “N-n-nothing.”

  “Then why’d you say it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He rocked and mumbled.

  “You know something and you’re not telling us. What is it, Dusty? What are you not telling us?”

  “Maybe I’m not the person you sh-sh-should be talking to.”

  “No? Then who is?”

  “Do you really think Max is gone for g-good?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He pushed himself up from the sofa.

  “I never wanted to b-b-be involved. I’m staying out of it. Maybe you should be asking s-somebody else about Max. I’m leaving now.”

  And he did. Quickly.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING we drove back to Toddler Town Day Care. We wanted to speak to the owner. We thought maybe she could shed some insight on Dusty’s strange behavior.

  The rain had begun to ease when we pulled up in front of the house and parked. Julie and I dismounted the motorcycle and shucked off our yellow riding gear.

  In the best of conditions motorcyclists are nearly invisible to other motorists. In rain they are completely invisible. Their presence on the road is clouded by sluicing water and blurred windshields and hypnotic wiper blades.

  I stood on the sidewalk in front of Toddler Town Day Care and looked at the house across the street. Dusty lived there. He had grown up there. Julie had told me so.

  Questions in my mind: Is Dusty home right now? Is he staring out the front window at us? Did he use to stare out that same window when he was a boy? Did he use to watch the family across the street? Did Mr. and Mrs. Crowley use to wave to him? Did he know their secret?

  “Are you ready to go talk to her?” Julie said.

  I nodded and we headed toward the front door. I hoped Mrs. Walker’s office didn’t still reek of Lysol.

  “Good morning, dears,” she said when we entered her office. “Coffee? Tea? Muffins?”

  The Lysol smell was gone.

  Coffee and muffins sounded good. We got some.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

  Julie set her cup and saucer on the coffee table. She leaned forward and lowered her voice.

  “We’re here to talk about Dusty.”

  “No need to whisper, dear. Dusty is not here today. He took the day off. He said he had some business to attend to. So please feel free to s
peak up.”

  “We came here to ask you a few questions about Dusty. He’s been acting strange—even for him. First he made that strange comment after watching the video here in your office. Then a few days later he followed us to the cemetery. He stood on a hill there and stared at us while I said prayers for Max. Then last night he rode his bike all the way from Tampa to our campground in Sarasota. He just stood outside in the dark and stared at us. We spoke to him about it.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. But it seems as if he knows some secret about Max.”

  “Like what?”

  “We don’t know. We wish we did.”

  Mrs. Walker sat back and steepled her fingers.

  “His comment the other day was strange,” she said. “I have to agree with you there. But Dusty is Dusty. He is often strange. It does not make him a bad person. It only makes him different. We in the world of academia have long understood human differences. Are you familiar with Dr. Howard Gardner’s theory of multiple intelligences?”

  “I am,” Julie said.

  “I’m not,” I said.

  “Then allow me to enlighten you, dear. The theory first appeared in his book Frames of Mind: The Theory of Multiple Intelligences. The theory can be summed up as thus: It is not how smart you are, but how you are smart. The theory contradicts the laughable notion that humans are born with a single intelligence. It postulates that there are at least eight different human intelligences: bodily-kinesthetic, interpersonal, intrapersonal, logical-mathematical, musical, naturalist, verbal-linguistic, visual-spatial.”

  I felt as if I should be taking notes.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “Sorry to interrupt. But what’s all this got to do with Dusty’s strange behavior?”

  “Patience, my dear boy. Patience.”

  Bad boy, Rip. Go sit in the corner and think about what you did.

  “To support his theory Dr. Gardner specifically pointed to savant syndrome. On the one hand individuals with savant syndrome have low overall levels of attainment. On the other hand they have exceptional ability in a specific domain. For instance they may possess the ability to quickly and accurately calculate the day of the week for any given date. Or they may possess a superior memory.”

  “Like Dusty,” I said.

  “Precisely,” Mrs. Walker said. “Dusty possesses a rare gift. He is different than you and I. It would be a grave error to construe this difference as strange. A very grave error indeed.”

  “What about . . . ?”

  She held up her hand.

  “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “You think his recent stalking behavior falls outside the range of acceptable differences.”

  “And you don’t?”

  She tapped the tips of her fingers together.

  “There is something you need to know about Dusty,” she said. “Over the past several years I have observed a steady decline in his mental state. To be precise the decline began five years ago when Max was abducted. One can only assume the two events are correlated. Not only correlated but causally related. I fear that Dusty’s recent behavior further evinces the continuing decline of his mental state.”

  “So Max’s abduction traumatized Dusty.”

  “It would seem so. Very much so.”

  “Were they close, Dusty and Max?”

  “Dusty has never demonstrated inappropriate behavior around the children. We would never tolerate such . . .”

  “I mean were they friends?”

  “I never observed a bond between them.”

  “Me neither,” Julie said.

  “Doesn’t mean they weren’t friends,” I said. “Does Dusty know sign language?”

  “It would not surprise me if he did,” Mrs. Walker said. “He reads an enormous number of books. He remembers everything he reads. I would say chances are good he knows sign language.”

  “Be my guess too,” I said. “I also think he knows something about Max’s disappearance. I plan to find out what it is.”

  “And how do you propose to do that, Mr. Lane?”

  “Don’t know. Any suggestions?”

  “Dusty is as much of a mystery to me as a black box is to a behaviorist. Nobody really knows what goes on inside a mind such as his. Nobody really knows how to unlock its mysteries.”

  “Maybe I’ll just ask him.”

  “You could certainly try.”

  “I could. If he were here. But he took the day off.”

  “I expect him to return to work tomorrow. You could speak to him then.”

  “Or you could give me his phone number and I could speak to him now,” I said, and smiled encouragingly.

  “It is our policy not to give out phone numbers.”

  I began to reach for my wallet, then thought better of it. She didn’t seem like the type to accept bribes.

  “Good policy,” I said. “You certainly wouldn’t want Dusty’s phone number to get into the hands of a stalker.”

  She missed the irony. Most people do. Why do I even try?

  “I have an idea,” Julie said. “Mrs. Walker, would you phone Dusty for us? Would you give him my phone number and let him know we’re trying to reach him?”

  Mrs. Walker thought that was a splendid idea. She cooperated. Without a bribe. Sometimes it happens.

  She picked up the office phone and dialed Dusty’s number. When his voice mail picked up she left him a message.

  We thanked her and left.

  Outside on the sidewalk we stood looking across the street at Dusty’s house. His bike lay on the front porch. It hadn’t been there an hour before.

  “Should we knock on his door?”

  “Julie, you read my mind.”

  He didn’t answer the door. He probably didn’t want to talk to us. Not yet anyway. He probably needed some more time to think first.

  We had phoned him. We had knocked on his door. He knew we wanted to talk to him. He would get back to us. I was sure of it.

  We got on my motorcycle and headed home in the pouring rain.

  CHAPTER 39

  JUNIOR MESSY MOUNTED his bicycle. The banana seat was crooked. The bell was rusty. A fender was missing.

  “You stay within sight,” his father told him. “Don’t go beyond those tents over there. Okay, sport?”

  Junior rolled his eyes.

  “This is serious business, son. You need to take it seriously. That man is crazy. He threatened us. He wants to hurt our family. We have to take his threat seriously. We have to exercise caution. You don’t want him to follow you around in his pickup truck again, do you?”

  Junior shrugged.

  “Dad, you always make such a big deal over nothing.”

  “Nothing? You think this is nothing?”

  “Why are you restricting me? I didn’t do anything wrong. Why can’t I ride down to the bait shop?”

  “I told you why.”

  “I’m ready to go back home. This vacation sucks.”

  His father frowned.

  “Make me a promise,” he said. “Promise me you’ll turn around and come right back here if you see that pickup truck. Can you promise me that?”

  “You mean I can ride to the bait shop?”

  “Only if you promise me.”

  “I promise. Thanks, Dad.”

  Mr. Messy waved as his son rode off.

  I walked over to him.

  “Tough being a parent,” I said.

  “You never stop worrying,” he said. “I already feel nervous about letting him ride to the bait shop. Was it the right decision? I don’t know. I never know. See these gray hairs? Fatherhood gave them to me.”

  “You file that restraining order yet?”

  “Yesterday.”

  I nodded.

  “Last year we visited Shenandoah National Park,” he said. “We decided to go there in early November because we wanted to enjoy the beautiful colors of the changing fall leaves. We spent the first day driving along Skyline Drive. Everywhere we saw re
ds and yellows and oranges and browns.

  “That night we camped near a little stream. In the morning I went down to the stream and kicked off my shoes and waded in the water. Cold cold water. Clear too. Clear enough to see the pebbles at the bottom.

  “After a while I shut my eyes and listen to the sounds of nature around me. Water trickles. Fish splash. Bugs click. Frogs croak. Birds sing. Wind whispers.

  “Then I hear a deep rumble. When I open my eyes again I see a big black bear staring down at the surface of the water as if a fish would swim past at any moment. Before long the bear grunts and dips its head and slurps up some water. Then it raises its head again. The big head turns toward me. The black eyes lock on me.

  “The closest trees are maybe thirty feet away. My RV is even farther away. I have nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. I know I can’t outrun the bear. I know it can charge at over thirty miles an hour.

  “My heart flutters with panic. I begin to hyperventilate. My breathing rasps in and out of my throat. My chest tightens.

  “All of a sudden four hundred pounds of black bear raises up on thick hind legs. The huge head swings to the left. The tan muzzle begins to sniff at the air. It sniffs loudly. I know it can smell my fear.

  “As I stare at canine teeth and clawed paws I imagine the horrible sounds they make against flesh and bone and I whisper a little prayer to myself.

  “Then I scold myself for having left my rifle in the RV. How stupid of me. Park rangers had warned us about bears.

  “And so I begin to consider my options. Should I throw rocks at the bear and try to shoo it away? Should I back up slowly? Should I roll into a ball and hug my head with my arms?

  “Then I see the bear come down on all fours again. It lowers its head and begins to lap at the water while keeping an eye on me. Its glossy fur shines black. Its ears flick at bugs. After a few moments it raises its head again, then shakes like a wet dog, sending drops of water glistening in the sun.

  “I now realize the bear isn’t going anywhere. It plans to stay put. All I can do is wait. Wait for the bear to make the next move.

  “The bear has the power to decide whether I live or die. I am powerless. I no longer control my own fate. It is a disturbing realization.

  “Minutes later the bear snorts and drops its head and turns and lumbers away and disappears over a hill.