by Tim Dorsey
To Mahoney the diner wasn’t depressing at all. In fact, it was full of people: men with fedoras and packs of Lucky Strikes, others in sailor uniforms, coeds ordering milk shakes. What wasn’t to be happy about? World War II had just ended!
Mahoney waved for the waitress. She arrived chewing gum. He ordered a cup of joe and asked about the pie.
Tourists walked down the sidewalk, past a chain-link construction fence with No Trespassing signs. They spotted the lone man in the back of the diner talking to himself. Someone phoned the police.
Mahoney looked up from his paper. That waitress sure was taking a long time. His police walkie-talkie sat on the table next to the ashtray. It squawked with the report of the intruder in the Pelican Diner. That’s where I am. He stood and pulled his pistol. The other customers nudged each other and pointed in alarm. A couple of mugs near the front of the diner pushed hats down onto their heads and ran out the door.
The walkie-talkie continued squawking. Mahoney looked down. Wait, what’s a strange, futuristic device like this doing in the forties? Mahoney glanced up again. All the people had disappeared. The lights were off. Dust, cobwebs. He looked out the diner’s window. Tourists gossiped and gestured, until they saw the gun, then they ran. The walkie-talkie crackled again. This time the call was from a heavy-breathing cop running down the beach less than a mile away.
Mahoney put on his own hat and rushed out the door.
Three out-of-breath officers in tropical shirts hustled back to the motel, getting their stories straight how they’d lost McSwirley.
“He must have run track in high school.”
They arrived at Jeff ’s former room. A dark line of clouds advanced from the south. A burnt orange ’61 Coupe de Ville skidded into the parking lot.
Agent Mahoney ran toward them, flashing a badge. “Where’s McSwirley?”
“Got away.”
“How’d you manage that?”
“He had a big lead.”
“We almost caught him…” said another officer.
“…But then he jumped in a cab in front of the Thunderbird. He used to be a big track star, you know.”
Mahoney went through the open door of Jeff ’s room.
“Hey! You can’t go in there!”
Mahoney made a quick recon sweep. He read the note on the dresser without touching it.
“What’s that?” asked one of the cops.
“Just evidence. Nothing you needed to have noticed.” A tiny, flickering screen caught Mahoney’s eye. He walked over and picked up the still-running camcorder dropped on the bed.
Mahoney rewound it. The screen was blank for the longest time. He fast-forwarded. Nothing. More fast-forwarding…. Stop! A shadow crept into view. It began writing the note on the dresser. Mahoney held the screen closer. Come on, turn around. The person stopped writing and briefly looked back toward McSwirley’s bed, an ambient light catching the side of his face. Mahoney’s jaw dropped. “Oh, my God!” The camera bounced on the bed.
“What is it?”
Mahoney ran out the door and jumped into his Coupe de Ville.
It started to rain.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
MIDDLE-OF-NOWHERE, FLORIDA
A rented green Taurus sped east through a driving rain. The wipers couldn’t keep up.
Jeff punched the steering wheel. “No! No! No! No!” He looked down. The speedometer said ninety. His foot pressed harder for more fuel. “Dear God! Please help me!”
Jeff had taken the cab to the airport, where he’d swapped it for the rental. Police quickly got the description, but Jeff was already halfway across Polk County in the belly of phosphate country, an even greater pursuit distance when category-three storms are factored. The nearest person to catching him was in a burnt-orange Coupe de Ville ten miles back on State Road 60, chasing a hurricane hunch.
Gaston had continued its predicted track, cutting northeast across the state from the Gulf of Mexico, now up to an ambitious twenty-two miles an hour. The storm’s increased speed had taken a bite out of Jeff ’s safety cushion. If its course held, in less than an hour it would bisect Lake Wales Ridge, the north-south spine of peninsular Florida and the closest thing to a mountain range anywhere in the level state.
Then it got interesting. Forecasters at the National Hurricane Center issued an urgent update. On the other side of the state, Hurricane Isaac had taken a last-minute jog after barreling in from the Atlantic and raking downtown West Palm. Latest projection: Lake Wales Ridge.
The Taurus’s rubber wipers tore loose and took flight. Metal scraped glass. The steering wheel pressed into McSwirley’s chest as he strained for visibility. The junction sign at U.S. 27 told him he was almost there. The Taurus swung north.
Serge checked his watch. “What’s taking him so long?” He was under the concrete overhang of a tourist-attraction snack bar. The overhang wasn’t engineered for rain that went sideways, let alone up. Serge peered out through the haze at the loose definition of a seventy-eight-year-old tower on the highest point of the ridge. He heard someone coming and pulled his piece. “Jeff! Is that you?”
A human form gradually took shape in the swirling leaves. It was running toward the concession, across an open, rain-lashed field dotted with oaks and palms. Serge tucked the pistol into his belt. A soggy McSwirley ran under the overhang and chucked the skeletal remains of a shredded umbrella.
“You made it!” said Serge. “Thanks for coming.”
“Serge, I have something important to tell you—”
“It’ll have to wait,” said Serge, grabbing Jeff ’s arm and pulling him to relative safety. “It’s about the killer.”
“But, Serge, I know who the killer is—”
“Shhhhhh! I think I see someone else coming.” Serge pressed against the side of the snack stand and shielded Jeff behind him. He drew his pistol again and peeked around the edge of the building. Another form took shape in the distance.
“But, Serge, the other killer! I saw the tape—”
“Not now,” said Serge. “I think I see the other killer….”
Coleman went through his usual checklist upon awakening: Where am I? What’s happening? Why am I wet?
Sometimes Coleman would wake up in motion, like now. He raised his head. The view was dark except for two small circles of light a few inches from his face. What he saw through the eye-holes in the parrot head told him that the costume was acting as a kind of Niagara Falls barrel. He slowly floated somewhere.
“This is new.”
Serge squinted into the storm. The form became identifiable, growing larger as it covered the last hundred yards. A soaked Mahoney rushed under the overhang and angrily threw a wooden umbrella handle against the wall.
Serge stepped out from the side of the building. “So if it isn’t my old pal Mahoney.”
The agent spun toward the voice and drew his weapon, but Serge already had the drop and shook his head. “You’re not that fast.”
Mahoney set his pistol on the ground.
“Kick it to me.”
Mahoney did.
Serge picked it up and stuck it in his pocket. “What are you doing here?”
Mahoney wrung out his sopping hat. “I discovered who the other killer is.”
“Who?”
Serge recognized the cold piece of metal the moment he felt it against the back of his head. A deep voice behind him: “Drop it!”
Serge set his pistol on the ground. “Jeff, have you lost your mind?”
“Yes,” said Mahoney. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
McSwirley jabbed the back of Serge’s head with the gun barrel. “Get over there with Mahoney.”
Serge walked a few feet and stood next to the agent. “Where’d you get the gun?”
“You gave it to me when you dropped me off,” said Jeff. “Remember? You told me I’d need it.”
“The bright side is, I was right again,” said Serge. “But I still don’t understand what’s gotten
into you.”
“Jeff ’s the other killer,” said Mahoney.
“No way!” said Serge. He turned to McSwirley. “Right?”
Jeff hyperventilated. “I can’t take it anymore! All the death, human cruelty, murder victims and their relatives…”
“I didn’t want to mention anything before,” said Serge. “But you need to get off the self-pity jag. It’s kind of icky.”
“Fuck you!” yelled Jeff, flashing with rage and waving the gun. “You think this is self-pity?”
“Just the whining and crying and the rest of your personality,” said Serge. “But other than that—”
“Shut up! There’s nothing to pity here!” Jeff ’s face twisted into something Serge hadn’t seen before. “You think I’m feeling sorry for myself because I have to talk to those people? Oh, poor, poor me, all these sad stories. I have it so hard. No! They have it hard! I have nothing to complain about. This isn’t self-pity!”
“What is it, then?”
“Self-loathing! I shouldn’t even be knocking on those fucking doors. I’m revictimizing them.”
“I was almost right,” Mahoney told Serge. “Strong split-personality vibe. Except it wasn’t you. It was Jeff.”
“Shut up!” McSwirley stretched out his shooting arm. “This is it.”
“This is what?” asked Serge.
“Thanks for all you did for me. I know you’ve got your problems, but you genuinely cared.”
“Jeff,” said Serge, “just put the gun down. We can talk this out. Remember all the yuks on the road?”
“Too late. I didn’t know what I was going to do until I got here, but now it’s clear.”
“What is?” asked Serge.
“Mahoney’s the closest one to catching you, and he’s never going to give up. So I’m going to do you a favor.”
“Jeff, listen to me—”
“Before I shoot myself, I’m going to shoot Mahoney. Then you’ll be free. Just give me the word.”
“But I don’t want you to shoot Mahoney.”
“Why not? He’s vowed to bring you in.”
“We all have our roles to play. Mine’s to instruct jerks. His is to catch me. That’s how it works. He’s one of the good guys.”
“Okay,” said Jeff. “Then I’ll shoot him because I want to. Then I’ll shoot you.”
“He’s lost it,” said Mahoney.
Jeff covered his ears with his hands. “Shut up!”
Serge lunged for the gun, but Jeff quickly took his hands down and aimed again. “Don’t even try it!”
Serge backed up. All manner of debris was flying now, like if compost heaps were used for a ticker-tape parade. They were on the downstream side of the building, temporarily shielding them until the hurricane’s rotation switched. The field began to flood. Water lipped over the concession’s patio.
“Your choice,” said Jeff. “You tell me to shoot him, you live. You don’t, I kill both of you.”
“It doesn’t have to end like this,” said Serge.
“What’s the matter? Suddenly you don’t like death? It’s not so much fun anymore, is it? Now you know what I have to go through.”
“Jeff, look,” said Serge, “that night in the vault, all those things you said. If I’d known it was this serious—”
“Shut up!” Jeff covered his ears again. “Stop telling me that!”
“Okay, I’ll shut up.”
Mahoney nudged Serge. “He’s not talking to you.”
“Who’s he talking to?”
“The voices,” said Mahoney.
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Jeff stomped his feet in the rising water. “I’m going to kill you!”
“Jeff,” said Mahoney, “don’t listen to the voices.”
“I was talking to you that time,” said Jeff.
“Sorry,” said Mahoney. “It’s getting kind of confusing.”
“Could you start using names?” asked Serge.
Jeff extended his pistol arm again. “I almost admired you. But you don’t have any backbone at all. I’m shooting Mahoney first, just so you can see it before you go…. Time to die!”
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
LAKE WALES
The entire nation clung to every update from the National Hurricane Center. It was on all the stations. Nobody ever imagined such a thing. Because it had never remotely come close to happening.
The eyes of two full-blown hurricanes were about to crisscross in the middle of Florida. Then what? Would the storms keep going? Would they cancel out? Would they join together in some kind of hurricane supernova?
The intersection was less than thirty minutes away. If the networks could reach the epicenter in time, their footage would be historic. Satellite trucks raced toward the middle of the state, converging on Lake Wales Ridge.
The rising water reached Serge’s shins in a riptide. He pleaded with Jeff, but it was hard communicating in the deafening collision of storms. Lightning crashed, mini-twisters spun across the flooding ridge, birds drowned, frogs could fly. Drama on a biblical level.
Jeff reached the end of his tether. He stiffened his arm and cocked the pistol. A finger began pulling the trigger.
“Nooooooooooo!!!!!” Serge jumped in front of Mahoney.
Another shout: “Ahhhhhhhh!”
A giant bird cascaded around the side of the building in the floodwaters, slamming into the back of Jeff’s legs. A pistol flew into the air and splashed. Serge and Mahoney dove and grabbed four legs, saving Coleman and Jeff from being swept away. Then they huddled against the side of the building where the current was weakest.
“That was close,” said Serge.
“Don’t move.”
Serge turned toward the barrel of Mahoney’s gun.
“I’m faced with a problem,” said the agent. “You saved my life again.”
“So stop screwing up.”
The sky suddenly grew light. They raised their heads toward the parting clouds. The eyes were crossing.
Mahoney began backing off the patio into a drizzle.
“Where are you going?” asked Serge.
“This meeting never took place,” said Mahoney. “But the debt’s paid in full. There’ll be a next time.” He ran off into the mist.
Serge watched him disappear and turned to Jeff. “Now, what are we going to do about you?”
Jeff lowered his head and sniffled. “Please kill me.”
“Jesus,” said Serge, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Nobody has to kill anyone. And we have some lovely parting gifts.”
The news trucks began arriving on the crest of Lake Wales Ridge, just in time to catch the last of the eclipsing eyes. A Florida Cable News correspondent jumped out with a microphone.
“This is Blaine Crease, the first on the scene at the historic crossing of the hurricane eyes. I’m standing at the foot of the equally historic Bok Tower, dedicated in 1929 by President Coo lidge—”
Crease and the cameraman were distracted by a sound. It was music. Except it wasn’t the melodic, sixty-bell carillon usually heard from the marble-and-coquina tower. More news trucks arrived. The noise grew louder. Nobody spoke. Just a bank of cameras trained on the top of the edifice, broadcasting live to the nation. The noise became even louder, now competing with the rear wall of the twin eye, moving in fast. Wind snapped and rain stung. Then they all saw it.
Atop the bell tower, Serge stepped into view with his Stratocaster and battery-powered mini-amp. His right hand slammed guitar strings. DUH-DUH! Da-da-dah, da-da-dah, da-da-dah, DUH-DUH! They all recognized it now—the unmistakable opening hook from “Jumpin’ Jack Flash.”
“I was born…in a cross-fire hurricane!…”
The eyes began parting, and everyone took cover.
EPILOGUE
TAMPA: WESTSHORE BOULEVARD
Serge wielded a razor-edged knife.
“Please, don’t!…”
Serge shook his head. “I can’t help myself.”
“Listen to reas
on!…”
“Stop arguing and give it to me!”
Witnesses watched in horror.
Serge sat with a big cloth napkin tucked into his collar. The knife was clenched in one fist, a fork in the other, both pointed upward in the ready position. Serge slammed the butts of the cutlery on the table. “Bring me another one!”
“And another scotch,” said Coleman.
“Yes, sir.” The waiter ran off.
Coleman poured ice water over the liquor-seasoned cubes in his cocktail to get the extra. “I’ve seen you eat before, but never like this.”
“Hurricanes bring out my appetite.” Serge grabbed a roll and butter. “Besides, this isn’t about eating.”
“What’s it about?”
“Paying tribute to The Legend.”
A large group of onlookers continued to gather where Serge was seated at the bar. The waiter returned and set a plate in front of him. A forty-eight-ounce Angus steak the size of a doormat. “You don’t have to go through with this.”
“Nobody ever has to be the best.” Serge went to work with the knife. “You just get the calling. And when you hear it, you better listen. It’s something me and The Legend understand.”
“But your name’s already going up on the wall.” The waiter pointed toward an honor roll of engraved brass plates. “You already ate one of those monster steaks.”
“I’m eating two.”
“But nobody’s ever eaten two. Nobody’s ever dared.”
“Did Shula win just one Super Bowl?”
Coleman held up an empty glass and jingled ice cubes in the international refill signal.
Serge continued cutting meat. “I used to think Clapton was God, but now I realize the transmission was garbled. Shula is God. Luckily, a lot of other people are experiencing the same revelation, and these churches have begun springing up all over the country.”