Naked Came the Florida Man

by Tim Dorsey

  All she kept saying was that it was “her fault.” That only made the list grow in Calhoun’s head. Finally, the coach was able to drag out enough details to learn that the problem was academic, and he practically collapsed with relief. But then puzzlement. What kind of problem could Chris have in class? So many straight A’s now that he barely glanced at her report cards.

  “Chris, I can’t help you if you won’t talk.”

  It wasn’t that Chris was resisting the coach. She was one of those people who can hold in crying as long as they don’t talk, or it all erupts. She couldn’t have that. So she silently reached in her backpack with a quivering hand and pulled out a term paper.

  Calhoun took it and looked at the top of the first page. A big red F. Now he was really confused. Chris never got an F in anything. Plus, this was a science paper, her best subject.

  “Okay, Chris, I know you’re upset, so can you come back here tomorrow, same time?”

  She nodded.

  “And can you leave the term paper with me?”

  Another nod. She left.

  Coach Calhoun leaned back in his chair with the paper and didn’t know what to make of it. But the game plan for that Friday night’s gridiron contest had just been put on hold. He scooted his chair up and logged on to his computer. Surfing the net, checking her footnotes. To himself: “What the heck is dark energy?” More clattering of the keyboard. “Quarks? Photons? Planck time?”

  The next afternoon, the final bell of the school day rang. Minutes later, Coach Calhoun entered a classroom. The only person still there was a teacher behind his desk, starting to grade quiz papers. He had been a midterm replacement for the previous science teacher, who had left to accept a higher-paying position at a private school on the east side of the county.

  “Mr. Garns?”

  “Yes?”

  “Coach Calhoun.” They shook hands.

  “How can I help you?”

  “It’s about one of your students, Chris Maples.”

  “Oh.” Garns turned serious and looked down, making a mark on a test paper. “I guess she went running to you about her last grade.”

  Calhoun hit pause in his brain. This was not how he expected the conversation to begin. He reassessed. “She didn’t come running to me. But I did see her paper. I’ve known her for a while, and I’m trying to understand this F.”

  Garns, not looking up: “She used the Internet.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Students aren’t supposed to rely on the Internet for sourcing. It’s unverified,” said the teacher. “I made that extremely clear when I came on board.”

  “I agree,” said Calhoun. “But I went through her footnotes. These weren’t bulletin boards or blogs. They were scientific research journals with articles from professors at Caltech, MIT, Carnegie Mellon. I asked other teachers, and those Internet sources are allowed.”

  “The footnotes weren’t in the proper format.”

  Calhoun took another deep breath. “I looked at your strike-throughs on her paper, like where she cited dark energy as the reason why gravity isn’t slowing down the expansion of the big bang.”

  “We haven’t covered that in class. And I don’t believe it exists.”

  “She noted it as a theory. It has support in the research journals.”

  “You’re a science teacher now?” Garns stood. “Second-guessing me?”

  “Not in the least. I’m just trying to sort all this out.”

  “She also has a big attitude problem.”

  Calhoun’s head practically spun on his neck. “Are we talking about the same person?”

  “She undermines my authority.”

  “She talks back? That would surprise me.”

  “No, just smug like she’s too smart for my class, challenging me in front of the other students.”

  “Challenging?”

  “Interrupting to ask cynical questions, like the dark energy thing.”

  “I think she’s just trying to learn.”

  “I see where this is going,” said Garns. “You coaches.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Pressuring teachers to keep players eligible.”

  Calhoun stopped again, this time to check his temper. He knew there was a widespread stereotype about coaches tampering with grades. But in reality, the vast majority take a holistic approach to developing a student, both as an athlete and a person, getting to know their parents, talking to their teachers.

  “Can we dial this back a bit?” said Calhoun. “It’s not about us. It’s a student’s welfare.”

  “So you coddle your players?”

  “We don’t need to continue in this direction.”

  “You sports guys think you have so much influence.”

  Calhoun took a final pause to choose words, because a bridge was about to catch fire. “I’ve seen you before. Not often, but enough to know.”

  “Seen me?”

  “Some of the finest people in the world are teachers. They work tirelessly for little pay. But what really makes them so special is they’re like parents to the whole community. They find no greater joy than helping students succeed to their utmost potential . . . Then there’s some of the worst people in the world. Also teachers, the rare ones here and there. Bitter because their lives didn’t work out the way they’d hoped. And when they see a great kid with a bright future, they don’t take pride in helping them along. Instead, they’re jealous and try to crush their spirit. That is unforgivable.”

  The coach walked around the desk and got face-to-face with Garns. “But you’re right about one thing. Coaches do have undue influence in our culture. I make it a rule not to use mine. I also make exceptions.”

  Calhoun stormed out of the classroom and slammed the door.

  Coach Calhoun sat in the principal’s office. He’d finished laying out his case, and now the ball was in the other court.

  “I find all this hard to believe,” said the principal. “But since it’s coming from you . . .”

  “So you’ll look into it?”

  “With due diligence. If it’s true, this is very disturbing news. It has no place at my school.”

  The principal kept his word. He interviewed students and parents, and the feedback was uniform. Some teachers use a tough style of teaching, but only to push the students to do their best. This new science teacher just seemed to genuinely dislike the kids.

  By the end of the week, Garns was packing up his belongings in a cardboard box. And swearing he’d find a way to get even.

  Chapter 32

  Osceola County

  Creeping was afoot.

  Two suspicious figures on their hands and knees inched forward in the night. North of St. Cloud, Florida. North of sanity.

  Coleman raised his right hand and sniffed the palm, then held it to Serge.

  “Get that out of my face.” Serge’s back was like a leopard’s. “You’re just going to have to deal with it.”

  They crawled forward across the pasture like a sniper team. At least Serge did. Coleman’s stealth was more like that of something in a playpen. Serge looked up: “Full moon. That’s the worst for our mission, but we were in no position to pick our timing.”

  Ribbit.

  “You brought Jeremiah?” asked Serge.

  “He’s good luck.”

  “He’s loud,” said Serge. “He’ll give our position away.”

  “Not my Jeremiah!”

  “Shhhh! Keep it down!” Serge lowered his chin in the tall weeds. “People are up . . .”

  Moments earlier, the gold Satellite had left the highway for the concealment of a dirt road that ran through pine hardwoods. From there, Serge drove across the bumpy pasture as curious cattle watched the silhouette of the Plymouth in the moonlight. They continued on until reaching some new-growth woods and brush at the edge of a property. That’s where they left the car and commenced their crawl. Now they were in the perfect position that Serge had scoped o
ut in advance with Internet help. Ahead: the target.

  A white farmhouse sat atop a small hill.

  It was a large farmhouse, as they go, two stories with an addition on back. The owner’s budget apparently favored size over condition. A tin roof sagged above the front porch. The wood siding had termite damage and missing paint from the sun. A pond sat off the driveway. And now two strangers lay in the woods just a stone’s throw from the front door.

  “What do we do?” asked Coleman.

  “Wait and watch.” Serge got out binoculars and scanned windows. “I picked the best spot to launch our operation, but that’s where my plan ends. I knew this extraction would be tricky because I figured he didn’t live alone. We must recon the social structure of this abode and find its soft underbelly.”

  “What’s going on in there?”

  “Remember the pastor from the funeral protest? He just went in the kitchen. I’ve picked up five other people inside, but they’re all young women. Long dresses and bonnets. They’re holding candles like it’s some kind of ceremony.”

  “No guys?”

  “Something weird’s going on in there.”

  Coleman kissed his frog on the mouth. “Weird how?”

  “Looks like one of those cults where the leader preaches strict obedience to the gospels in order for him to have sex with everyone.”

  “Is that what the gospels are about?”

  “I hate to judge without all the facts, but I’m guessing he’s taking liberties.” Serge handed Coleman the binoculars. “Stay here.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To get more facts.”

  Serge darted ahead toward the farmhouse, sweeping around the west side, which was shielded from the moonlight. He plastered his back against the building, creeping sideways. Soon he was under a window. He slowly rose on tiptoes until his eyes were just above the sill.

  Inside the living room, the women stood in a line with heads bowed over their candle holders. The pastor held an open Bible with one hand and gesticulated wildly with the other. Then he stepped forward. The women’s chests heaved with anticipation. He looked up and down the row before blowing out one of the candles. He took that woman by the hand and led her into another room.

  Serge resumed creeping along until he came to another window. This one was a bit higher. He found some loose bricks on the side of the house and fashioned a little stack. Two eyes again rose above a sill. It was a bedroom. Mirrors everywhere, including the ceiling. A video camera sat on a tripod in the corner. Serge watched the pastor taking off his shirt. The young woman took off her bonnet and reached for the top button under her neck.

  “Holy mother,” Serge said to himself. “There’s no way she’s even close to eighteen. I can’t watch.”

  He crouched down below the sill, and when he did, a couple of the bricks at his feet toppled. “Shit.” Serge hit the ground and rolled himself as tightly as possible against the lattice along the farmhouse’s crawl space. He looked sharply up and saw the shadow of the pastor’s face against the windowpane. Serge held his breath as the shadow moved from one side of the window to the other, clearly convinced something was out there.

  After the longest of times, the shadow left the window, and voices could be heard inside.

  “Whew!” Serge scurried in a big loop around the side of the house and dove back into the brush next to Coleman.

  “What did you see?”

  “It’s worse than I thought,” said Serge. “First, I don’t see any way of extracting the pastor without raising general mayhem from the women. They’ve been brainwashed. So we must abort the mission and put him under surveillance until we can identify an interception point away from his flock. Second, I think the one he’s about to have sex with is underage. I should burst in there under general principles to stop it. But what if I’m wrong or she’s older than she looks, or some kind of common-law wife?”

  “Maybe you could phone in an anonymous tip.”

  “That’s a great idea.” Serge pulled out a disposable burner phone with prepaid minutes. He looked up as clouds drifted across the moon, cutting the light. “And our luck might be turning. We’re getting extra cover of darkness . . .” He began pressing buttons.

  A tap on his shoulder.

  “Not now, Coleman. I’m phoning in the important information.”

  Another tap. “Uh, Serge . . .”

  “I told you I’m busy!”

  Tap, tap, tap.

  “Dammit, Coleman! What is it that can’t wait?”

  A crunching of leaves. “Who’s out there!”

  Serge looked up to see the pastor aiming a double-barrel twelve-gauge shotgun.

  “Damn,” Serge whispered. “Keep your head down and don’t move.”

  “I said, who’s out there!”

  The pastor kept walking, straight toward them.

  The gun cocked, now only feet away. Just a thin, single row of bushes between them and discovery. The clouds began thinning and drifting away. The moonlight grew brighter on the leaves.

  “Come out with your hands up or I’ll blast ya!”

  Stone silence. Then:

  Ribbit . . .

  The shotgun’s twin barrels bore down on an exact spot in the bushes.

  Jeremiah slipped out of Coleman’s pouch, and before the pair could react, the amphibian leaped from the brush. Another big jump, and it landed at the pastor’s feet.

  “For heaven’s sake! I’m giving myself a heart attack over a stupid bullfrog!” The pastor propped the shotgun on his shoulder and turned back toward the farmhouse.

  That was all the opportunity Serge needed. He sprang from the vegetation and caught the pastor in the small of his back with the stun gun. The victim fell inert.

  Serge and Coleman grabbed him under the armpits and dragged the limp body from view as several curious people in bonnets appeared in the front window . . .

  Just after midnight, the gold Plymouth returned to the motel on the north shore of Lake Okeechobee. It backed up to their room.

  Serge stood idly next to the car like he was bored.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “Cheyenne.”

  “You’re bringing her in on this?”

  “Just the opposite.” His eyes scanned every conceivable direction. “I have to make sure she doesn’t get the slightest whiff of what we’re up to. I’m taking a wild stab this is a touch worse than romantic commitment.”

  Serge began to whistle as he leaned against the back of the car, slowly rocking. “That’s long enough. She’s not around. Open the room and I’ll get our guest from the trunk.” He bent down and began inserting a key in the lid.

  A woman’s voice: “There you are!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Serge leapt up and landed sitting on the lid of the trunk. “Where the hell did you come from?”

  “Uh, just around the corner,” said Cheyenne. “What’s gotten into you? You’re awfully jumpy.”

  “Nothing, nothing,” said Serge. “Almost had an accident up the road. Heart’s still pounding.”

  A wary eye. “Are you sure that’s it?”

  “Definitely!”

  “If you say so.” An off-hand smile. “I didn’t know where you went, because I was kind of hoping . . . uh, you could show me your tombstone rubbings.”

  “Yes, yes, sure. How long are you on tonight? I just have a couple pressing business matters to tie up, and then it will be a freaking tombstone jamboree.”

  “Are you positive you’re okay?”

  “I’ll ring you in the office when I’m free.”

  “I’ll be waiting.” She headed back to her office, glancing over her shoulder in suspicion. Serge had a toothy grin and waved to her with wiggling fingers. Then she was gone.

  “Hurry, Coleman!”

  The trunk popped, and soon a familiar scene.

  Two people sat next to each other on the edge of a motel bed. Coleman smiled and petted a frog. Serge petted a roll of duct tape.


  A brief scream as the pastor regained consciousness and looked down at all the tight rope and his uncomfortable chair.

  Ribbit.

  “Where are my manners?” said Serge. “Jebediah, meet Jeremiah. Sorry, but he didn’t bring his wine.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Damn, you’re fast.” Serge began cleaning under his fingernails with the tip of a large-bladed hunting knife. “My conditions are nonnegotiable. First, release all the young women at your farmhouse. We both know what’s going on. Second, no more protests outside military funerals. Make that anywhere in the world while we’re at it.”

  “You can’t do this!” said the pastor. “You’re abrogating my First Amendment rights!”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” said Serge. “Few things are as important to me as our blessed Constitution.”

  “You agree?” said the pastor. “Then how can you do this?”

  Serge shrugged. “I’m wrong. Sorry.”

  The pastor fumed with flared nostrils. “You’re going to hell!”

  “Meet you in the elevator.”

  The pastor threw a tantrum in his chair, making the legs tap-dance on the wooden floor. “Who do you think you are?”

  “An angel,” said Serge. “Avenging or merciful. You make the call!”

  “You’re no angel!”

  “I was using poetic slack,” said Serge. “‘The better angels of our nature.’ That was Lincoln. And I want you to embrace all your fellow citizens as children of God.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  “‘You can’t always get what you want.’ That was Jagger.”

  “You won’t get away with this!”

  “I don’t have to get away with anything if you agree to my simple terms.”

  “Never, you pervert! Not in a million years.”

  “I was kind of hoping you’d say that, because I have so been wanting to try this.” Duct tape quickly went over the mouth, and the chair began being dragged backward.