by Tim Dorsey
“You’re joking! We’ll just have to fix that!” Serge hit his blinker. “There’s a rest stop.”
Ten minutes later a large family from Wisconsin quickly gathered belongings from a picnic table and fled to a station wagon, glancing over their shoulders.
“Run, Coleman!”
“I’m running.”
Serge raced in a tight circle in the parking lot. “Faster!”
Coleman ran in his own circle. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
“It’s sloshing! It’s sloshing!” Serge invited McSwirley over with a wave of his gun. “Jeff, come on! Join us! You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Jeff began running.
“Faster!”
Jeff ran faster.
“Faster!…Jeff, you’re veering off…. Why are you running into the woods?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
TAMPA BAY TODAY
Deadline loomed. It would be a race. The firsthand story about McSwirley’s kidnapping still had a ways to go. Jeff hovered behind the metro editor, staring intently at a computer screen.
“That’s everything?” asked Tom.
“No, there were lots of stops on the way back for photos and souvenirs, and he made graphite rubbings of the hurricane monument in Islamorada and the gravestone of someone called ‘Mr. Watson.’ I don’t know who that is, but Serge said he was ‘a real asshole and got what was coming.’ Then he spit on the rubbing and threw it away.”
“From the Peter Matthiessen trilogy,” said Tom. “Predatory pioneer in the ’Glades murdered by practically the whole town…. I’m adding it.”
Another burst of typing. “This is all great stuff. Absolutely incredible.” The editor’s fingers slowed. He defined a paragraph and pasted it closer to the top of the article. “Just some minor reorganization and we’re done. I’m moving up the part where they tortured you.”
“When?” asked Jeff.
“Making you drink a huge amount of fluid and run in circles.”
“I think that was supposed to be for fun.”
The editor typed “alleged.” “That covers us.” A blinking cursor scrolled down the screen. “I love this next part. Thought someone was dead for sure.”
“So did I…”
EVERGLADES CITY
A black Hummer exited I-75 just before the toll booths at Alligator Alley. It picked up the Tamiami Trail and drove deeper into the swamp.
A flashing amber light lit up the caution sign with the silhouette of a panther. Vultures collected on the side of the road, pulling long things from the belly of a fourteen-foot gator squashed by a mosquito truck just before dawn.
“Note the fence on both sides of the road,” said Serge. “That’s to keep wildlife out of traffic. Except people keep underestimating gators. You haven’t lived till you’ve driven through the Everglades during mating season and seen one climb an eight-foot chain-link. Gives you a new perspective on those roadside gator attractions with little petting-zoo fences…. Jeff, you getting this down?” Serge looked sideways at McSwirley. The notebook was closed. He looked back at the road. Fingers tapped the steering wheel. “Jeff, you’re going to have to stop trying to escape.”
“So you can kill me?”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because you keep pointing that pistol at me.”
“Because you keep trying to run—This is going nowhere. What about the interview?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“I was just trying to teach you how to have a little fun.”
“By forcing me to drink a bunch of water and run in pointless circles at gunpoint?”
“For your own good,” said Serge. “Like parents make you eat foods they know you’ll love. Far too quickly we grow into jaded adults and lose our appreciation for silliness.”
“Coleman threw up on me!”
“The circle thing doesn’t work as well with beer…. Here’s our turn…”
The Hummer hooked south on Highway 29, a sparsely traveled route even deeper into the swamp. A half hour later, they came to the end of the road. The end of the state. Everglades City.
“Jeff, fact-o-whirl time. Turn on your tape recorder.” Serge pointed out the windshield. “Everglades City is possibly the only place in America to get arrested. The whole city. Blame geography: The Thousand Islands region of southwest Florida is perfect smuggling country. You don’t even have to try to hide in the endless mangrove channels; you have to try not to get lost. And back in the day, those channels were busy. There’s but a single land route in and out, the one we were just on. Couple decades ago, a convoy of sedans with blackwall tires heads down that road. The Coast Guard blockades from the sea. Federal warrants. Of course, nobody does that sort of thing anymore.”
The Hummer pulled onto the grass. The air was eerily still. They got out and stood in the middle of a wide-open green space that marked the center of the isolated community. Too quiet. All animal life had headed for higher ground. That included people. Serge made a slow pirouette in the field. His eyes started at the radio tower, then the boarded-up sportsmen’s inn with yellow-and-white striped awnings, a pioneer bank of Federalist architecture, Gator Express convenience store, extra mooring lines on the few yachts still at the pier, brilliant azaleas, fiery poincianas, the radio tower again. He stopped. “Where’d everyone go?”
“The hurricane,” said Jeff. “Evacuation orders.”
“Yeah, but you have to understand the strain of people who live down here,” said Serge. “They never evacuate…. Must have been Wilma. Incredible photos. That radio tower looked like it was in the middle of a lake.”
Coleman gawked up at the steel structure. “What do we do now?”
“Find a place to stay.” Serge retrieved a tire iron from the back of the Hummer.
“But everything’s closed,” said Jeff.
“Not for long.”
They followed him across the street. Serge stuck the iron in a doorjamb and threw his weight. No luck. He pushed harder and grunted.
Coleman twisted a jay in his lips. “It doesn’t usually take you this long to get in a place.”
“Because it usually isn’t a bank.” Serge heaved a final time. The door popped with a loud crack of frame damage.
“We’re robbing a bank?” said Jeff.
Serge shook his head. “Staying in one. I have this rule about always knowing the coolest shelters. Welcome to the Bank of the Everglades, National Register Historic Places.” He started back to the Hummer. “Built 1923 by Barron G. Collier, namesake of this county. Barron envisioned Everglades City as the west-coast metropolitan rival to Miami, and the bank was to be his cornerstone.” Serge gestured across the spartan landscape. “As you see, Miami sleeps well…. Let’s get our gear.”
Serge opened the SUV’s rear doors. Jeff grabbed a bag and looked up at the granite-block bank. “It’s so bizarre out here in the middle of the swamp.”
“That’s how I chose it. If anything’s left standing, it’ll be this bank. We’ll ride out the brunt in the vault.” They returned through the front door, and Serge dropped his duffel bags in the lobby. He clicked on a flashlight. Jeff tugged his sleeve. “If you planned this, how would we have stayed in here if the people hadn’t evacuated?”
“We would have paid. In fact, I’m going to anyway.” Serge pulled bills from his wallet and set them on a brochure-cluttered table.
“Now I’m confused,” said Jeff.
“Why are you whispering?”
“Sorry. I’m confused!”
His voice ricocheted around the lobby.
“I didn’t mean to yell.”
The flashlight’s beam found a thick metal door, open, with exposed tumblers. Serge entered the smaller room. “It’s not a bank anymore. It’s a bed-and-breakfast. The breakfast part is served in this vault.” The beam swept ancient walls. “Imagine the history. It’s like I’m in a temple. You should come in here and check it—”
McSwirley grabb
ed the edge of the heavy vault door, quickly swinging it shut. Just before it latched, an arm stuck out. Serge pushed it back open. “Jeff, stop fooling around. You don’t want to play with something priceless like this.” Serge test-swung it a few inches. “Could use some WD-40.” He let go of the door and—“Coleman!”
“What?”
“Put that money down!”
“Serge, this is a lot of cash.”
“Drop it!”
Coleman cringed and replaced the currency. “But there’s nobody here.”
“Precisely. Whenever you break into a place, it’s the honor system.”
“We could use the money,” said Coleman.
“So can the innkeepers. This is about historic preservation. Who knows what will happen to the bank if they go under?” Serge marched everyone back outside again. The sun was now deep orange near the horizon. He reached into the Hummer and grabbed a long leather case.
“What’s that?” asked Jeff.
Serge unzipped the end of the bag, exposing a fine wooden stock with zebra grain. “My new shotgun. Isn’t she beautiful? Remington twelve-gauge limited edition.” He pulled it the rest of the way out of the padded case. “Can’t tell you how much I’ve been dying to try her out. Coleman?”
“Think I’ll hang back in the bank and unpack.”
“You sure? It’s lots of fun.”
“I’m kind of tired.”
“Okay, but don’t take the money.”
Coleman winced.
Serge rested the shotgun’s barrel on his shoulder. “Well, Jeff, looks like just you and me. Come on, this is going to be a real treat.”
“Where are we going?”
Serge racked the first shell into the chamber and began walking. “See those isolated mangroves next to that channel leading into the swamp? You can really get lost in there…” Serge stopped; no second set of footsteps. He looked back. “Jeff, what are you doing? Get up here.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“What’s not to want? Nature, playing with big guns?”
Jeff remained paralyzed.
“I get it,” said Serge, poking toward Jeff with the end of the barrel. “You think I’m going to dump your body out there just because it’s the perfect place?” Serge turned back around and resumed walking. “Don’t be silly. Now, come on; we’re losing light.”
They reached the shore, countless stalagmite roots sticking out of the muck from black mangroves, jungle-gym roots grabbing down from the red. A stout, refreshing breeze bent branches. The disappearing sun flickered through green and yellow leaves.
“Are we hunting?” asked Jeff.
“No, I never kill animals. That’s mean.” The wind steadily increased, disrupting their hair. “That’s the beginning of the low-pressure system. This is so excellent.” He raised the shotgun forty-five degrees and pulled the trigger.
Kaboom!
Serge cupped a hand around his right ear to enjoy the flat Everglades echo. Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom, kaboom… “I love the sound of shotguns at sunset.”
He raised it again.
Kaboom!
Serge repeated until the five-shell magazine was empty. He reloaded and handed the gun to Jeff. “Now you try. But hold her tight. You got a tiger by the tail. That first one’s going to surprise your shoulder.”
Jeff awkwardly raised the barrel. “Like this?”
“You got it.” Serge stared up at the sky. “Let ’er roar!”
Serge waited. No kaboom. He turned. The Remington was aimed in his face.
“I told you to stop screwing around.” Serge grabbed the barrel and swiped the weapon out of McSwirley’s hands. “First rule of gun safety is never point at anyone unless you’re going to blow their head off.”
Jeff looked at his shoes. “Sorry.”
Serge demonstrated again.
Kaboom!
“Like that.” He handed the gun back.
McSwirley raised it a second time and, after a period of summoning will, slowly squeezed the trigger.
Kaboom.
The gun fell to Jeff ’s side. He rubbed his shoulder. “Ow.”
“Told you. Try again. It gets easier.”
He tried again. The bonding continued for the rest of the ammo box. The wind blew harder. Leaves filled the air. A small branch let go.
“We better get back,” said Serge. “She’s picking up.”
A stinging rain arrived just as they reached the bank’s front steps. Serge closed the door behind them and braced it with an antique rolltop desk. More furniture was piled at the windows, leaving only a small slit for storm monitoring.
Knock-knock.
“What the hell was that!” Serge leaped and grabbed his pistol. “You guys expecting anyone?” They shook their heads. Serge peeked out the slit. “Damn. How could I have forgotten?” He set the gun down. “Jeff, remember our little secret. You don’t want to endanger any innocent people.”
Knock-knock-knock.
Serge began sliding the desk. “Hold on! Give me a minute….”
TAMPA BAY TODAY
The metro editor stood and yawned. “This is the perfect place to stop. Great job, McSwirley.”
“Stop?” said Jeff. “But there’s more to the story.”
“Max wants us to stretch it into a series. Five parts, maybe more if Serge gets back in touch. Then we’ll call it an ‘occasional’ series.” The editor turned off his computer. “This is the ideal spot to leave the audience hanging. We’ll tease to the sex in Part Two to keep ’em reading.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THE NEXT MORNING
You know how in old movies or the Superman TV program they’d segue to dramatic news hitting the street by showing the front page of a newspaper spinning out of the darkness? Then a brass section crescendos as the paper stops spinning, a gigantic headline across the top? Okay, picture that.
A copy of Tampa Bay Today spins out of the black: KIDNAPPED REPORTER INTERVIEWS MURDEROUS MONSTER.
An epidemic of empty news racks. Store clerks, all day long: “We’re out.”
Everywhere in town, everyone standing, sitting, walking with newspapers, quickly flipping pages, gripped by every word of Jeff ’s account. They couldn’t get enough, so they got more Jeff on Florida Cable News: “He wants the job of that guy who flies the ultralight to lead endangered cranes back home….”
Citizens on the frayed edge of society wrote letters to the editor like never before. One particular message was being composed by shaking hands in latex gloves: volcanic anger over the attention he should be getting instead of Serge.
The paper’s operators were swamped with calls over the series, registering offense over the sex in Part Two and high approval for the murder in Part Four.
PART TWO
Serge quickly closed the door behind the newest member of the hurricane party.
“It’s really blowing out there!” said the tall brunette. She pulled a scrunchy from her ponytail and dropped an overnight bag.
“Jill, the gang,” said Serge. “The gang, Jill…”
Coleman raised a beer. “Howdy.”
“Hey, I know you,” said Jeff. “You’re the woman from the parking-garage booth.”
“I called her with your cell,” said Serge. “You kept falling asleep toward the end of our interview.”
Jill looked around the dark interior. “I thought you said you had a reservation?”
“They must have wimped out when they heard the storm was coming.”
“But we are safe, though. Right?”
“Of course,” said Serge. “I never take risks.”
“Why is that guy shaking so bad?”
“Jeff? It’s just from the realism of the kidnapping experience.”
Jill grabbed a brush and combed out wind tangles. “Is this one of those offbeat businesses? Like Michael Douglas and Sean Penn in The Game?”
“Exactly,” said Serge. “Someone paid a bundle for this. It’s his birthday!”
“Thanks,” Jeff said rigidly, eyes shifting back and forth. Don’t endanger innocent people.
Serge became anxious. “Where’s your uniform?”
“In my bag. I changed at a rest stop.”
“Whew! You had me worried.”
“You really weren’t kidding about the uniform?”
Serge raised his eyebrows. “Can you put it on?”
The wind continued picking up. Rain hammered the windows. Jill emerged from a back room. “How’s that look?”
“I lost my parking ticket,” said Serge, attaching a coal miner’s light to his forehead. “Let’s go look for it in the vault.”
Coleman cracked another beer and followed. “I haven’t seen the vault yet—”
He was grabbed from behind. “What?”
“I think they want to be alone,” said Jeff.
The first few fidgeting hours passed, with faint sounds of the growing violence outside. Coleman found an aerosol can of furniture polish and sprayed his legs. “Sure you don’t want any Hurricane Punch?”
“No thanks.” Jeff sat on the floor and swayed nervously. “Why are you spraying your legs with Pledge?”
“Protecting myself from those evil elves with the blow darts in that corner.” He tossed the can to Jeff. “Better cover yourself good. I think they’re planning something.”
Jeff set the can down. “I’ll take my chances.” He nervously jumped again at another burst of sound echoing from the vault: high-pitched shrieking and machine-gun trivia.
“…Harder! Faster! Don’t stop!…Eeeeeeeeeeeeee!…That’s eleven!…”
“…The Beatles toured the aftermath of Hurricane Dora in ’64 before a concert in the Gator Bowl….”
The storm wore on. The inside of the bank became quiet. Serge finally returned to the lobby, wearing only gym shorts. A tennis towel hung around his neck.
Jeff pointed with dread toward the silent vault. “Jill…?”
“Asleep.”
Jeff sighed with relief. “I don’t know how you can possibly have sex at a time like this.”
“Are you kidding?” said Serge. “Hurricane sex is the best! Another long-standing Florida tradition. Newspapers always run stories nine months later about the baby booms. Puppy booms, too.”