“Holy Christ,” he gasped, realizing it was his station’s SUV.
He rubbed at the window with the back of his hand and peered inside. Ian Bass sat in the driver’s seat, cradling one arm to his stomach and talking on a cell phone with the other. He jutted his chin up to indicate that he saw the sheriff and mouthed the words, “hang on.” He glanced into the back seat and saw an ash-covered man, skin and bones, completely naked, sitting alone, his head lolling back and forth. His face was a mess of bruises and blood and both eyes were swelling. To Paul, he looked like he might’ve just stepped out of Auschwitz or climbed down off a cross—a strange juxtaposition of images indeed. Next to the man, on the sooty rear bench seat, sat a cowboy hat, tattered and burned. Ian rolled his window down, apparently finished with his call.
“Got him, Sheriff,” he said, his face looking almost as bad as the poor man’s in the back seat.
“Huh?” Paul said, shooting a glance back at the guy, who looked up and grinned through bloody teeth. “Got who?”
“The Cowboy Killer,” Ian said with pride.
“You mean to tell me that’s the … I mean, he doesn’t look like he could …”
“I’ll kill you, too, pig,” the man in the back seat hissed.
“Well,” Paul had stepped back at the man’s outburst, “I suppose you did. How in the world did all this happen?”
Ian relayed the story of how Gary John Suskind—the man whom they had thought might be the infamous serial killer—was not The Cowboy Killer. He had, however, been involved in the deaths of two other people.
Paul Puckett scratched his head, not sure how all the pieces fit together.
“Okay, wait,” he said, “So, this guy (he pointed to the man in the back seat) is The Cowboy Killer.”
“Yes.”
“But the guy who took him down is also a killer?”
“It’s a long story,” Ian said, “Anyway, he and Troy—”
Paul held up a hand to interrupt him. “Troy? Who’s Troy?”
“Troy Bodean,” Ian explained. “He’s the first guy I thought was The Cowboy Killer, but he’s not either. In fact, he helped Gary take down the real killer.”
“I am thoroughly confused.” Paul stared at the remnants of the building as the fire hoses continued to rain on the dying red coals. “So, who’s going to jail?”
“The FDLE is sending a caravan to pick up Jasper.”
“Jasper?” Paul asked.
Ian looked over his shoulder and hooked his good thumb toward the now dozing criminal in his back seat. “He is. Jasper Obadiah Hurlbutt. The real Cowboy Killer.”
“But how did the FDLE know he was here?”
Ian reached into his back pocket and pulled out his badge. He licked his lips and inhaled slowly as he showed it to the sheriff.
Paul Puckett whistled through his teeth and rubbed the sweat from his forehead. “So, you’re FDLE, eh?”
Ian nodded.
“Guess this means you won’t be coming back to work tomorrow?”
Ian shook his head. “Nope.”
A long pause settled between them. Paul shuffled back and forth trying desperately to process all that was unfolding around them.
“What about Gary?”
Ian pointed toward the portion of the building that was still standing. In an untouched booth toward the back, a man sat wrapped in a blanket across from an older man with a paramedic bandaging his head.
Paul walked into the building—or rather, the mucky grime of wood and ash that might've been a giant’s campfire after it had been extinguished. He stepped carefully through fallen ceiling joists, pieces of broken and melted vinyl records, and broken glass … lots of broken glass. He would later learn that forensics would estimate that ninety-seven Molotov cocktails had been used in the assault that would be called Florida’s Largest Wood(y) Fire in the newspapers.
As he approached he could hear Gary speaking to Dante in a series of sobs and sniffs. Apparently, this whole thing had started with Gary trying to woo Matty by stealing a kayak and taking him on a secluded boat ride. That had ended with Matty being eaten by an alligator. And then, when he’d taken his sometime boyfriend, Dani, out to find the remains, the gator—possibly the same one—had eaten Dani.
“I was just trying to hide the kayak because the whole world was looking for it and I figured if they found my prints on it and maybe Matty’s blood that they would,” Gary looked up at Dante, “that you would … kill me. Or I’d go to jail or something.”
Dante said nothing. The old man’s eyes were glazed over and blood oozed from a bandage on his head. The paramedic looked up at Paul.
“Concussion,” she said. “Might not remember much about this. He’s going to need a few days in the hospital to assess the real damage.”
She helped Dante up and walked him slowly through the wreckage toward the ambulance.
She was surprised when the injured man stopped to speak to the couple sitting on the curb outside the building. A pretty young woman wearing, well, almost nothing, was dabbing a bit of gauze under the brim of a cowboy hat.
“You’re the damn drummer that did all this, right?” Dante demanded.
“No, sir,” Troy pulled himself to his feet and faced the man, helping Cinnamon up to stand beside him.
“That guy is headed to jail for a very long time,” Woody’s only good-looking dancer said.
Dante nodded his head. “His playing was definitely a crime.”
Troy smiled, “Ain’t that the truth.”
“You play, kid?” Dante poked a light finger into Troy’s chest. “Got an immediate opening.”
“Nope,” Troy raised his hands. “Can’t play a lick on anything but a fishin’ pole.”
Dante grimaced.
Troy thought about it for a second. “But if you’re looking for a real pro, you should try Ronnie Hobgood. Best I’ve ever heard and I think he’s looking for work.”
Troy reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. Though it was sopping wet from the fire hoses, he found an old card Ronnie had given him and handed it to Dante.
“Thanks, cowboy.” Dante said.
“It’s Troy, sir. Troy Bodean.”
Dante shrugged his shoulders. “Thanks, Troy Bodean. Now get the fuck out of my bar.”
With that, the paramedic pulled the old man away toward the ambulance.
“Ain’t much of a bar anymore,” Troy said, surveying the damage in the pale purple haze of dawn.
“Sure as hell isn’t,” said Cinnamon. “Looks like I’m out of a job.”
“What’ll you do? Head back home?”
“No,” she said with a slight downward turn of her eyes. “I might try that review in Key West at Bourbon Street. Dani won’t be working there anymore and they’ll need someone to fill in.”
“Isn’t that a drag bar?”
She shrugged.
“But … you’re a girl,” Troy said, waving his hand along her body like she was a prize on the Price Is Right.
“Ha,” she laughed. “Thanks for noticing. Anyway, sometimes they hire women. Maybe I’ll just be the most convincing drag queen on Duval Street.”
Troy grinned. “That you will. Thirteen drag queens and one pretty lady.”
“What about you?” she asked, hooking her hand into his elbow.
“Guess I’ll be headin’ back to the tennis club. Season’s about to start and I want to get that place ready so I can hightail it outta there when the head pro gets back from Miami.”
She stopped and looked into his eyes. “You’re … you’re leaving? But … why?”
He brushed a stray hair off her forehead. “It’s just kind of what I do, darlin’. Besides, this place ain’t quiet enough for me.”
She laughed, but tears threatened to well up in her eyes. “A rambling cowboy. Well, I hope you find what you’re looking for out there.”
Me too, he thought as they walked away from the crater left where Woody’s used to stand. Me too.
>
“Well, kid,” Paul said as he loaded Gary into his patrol car, “you might be off the hook with Dante if he can’t remember any of this.”
Gary looked up. His face was streaked with tears through a thick layer of ash.
“As for the theft of the kayak,” he paused to scratch his chin, “you’ll need to come with me.”
He was not looking forward to calling Mr. Self-Righteous Reporter, Chad Harrison. He would have to relay the bad news that the kayak was destroyed, but at least this time, he had the thief in custody.
50
Just Desserts
Frankie Russo walked with purpose, like an Olympic speed walker on … well, on speed. The shock of the burning strip club had worn off and the pain of losing Marty had come storming back. His heart ached and his throat was sore from uncontrollable sobs. What had it been … thirty years ago? Or maybe thirty-five? He could remember it like it was yesterday, walking into that place near Walker Square—God he did not miss Milwaukee. He’d been searching for a new haunt and was drawn to the bright, shining neon rainbow sign out front. He could almost remember what the name of it was … it was on the tip of his tongue and he—
He froze. It couldn’t be, could it? He squinted into the rising sun and could almost see the image of Marty standing out front smoking a cigarette trying desperately to look macho and sexy at the same time. His dark hair was slicked back and he wore a Freddie Mercury mustache and a Queen t-shirt. Behind him in all its tubular glory glowed the bar’s name: Woody’s.
“Of all the crazy coincidences,” Frankie muttered as new tears welled in his eyes.
He looked up at the sky. It was going to be a beautiful day. As he looked down, he could see the big, boxy shape of the Winnebago ahead. Thankfully, it had been pulled to the side of the road.
“What do I do now?” he asked no one.
Something caught his eye ahead on the side of the road opposite the RV. A squat little building of stucco and red roof tiles with a distinctly Spanish appearance sat tucked in a scruff of mangroves. He walked a bit closer and saw a statue standing out front. A man stood in a boat riding on the waves, one arm outstretched toward the west. Frankie found the sign revealing that the man in the boat was San Pedro—or Saint Peter.
“Of course,” Frankie smiled and looked at the sky. “Thank you, Marty.”
Though he was no Bible scholar, he knew that Peter was a fisherman, or a fisher of men. Marty had sent him a sign to carry on to Key West, the biggest fishbowl of men east of San Francisco.
“I will continue on to Fantasy Fest in your honor, Marty. I love you so m—”
He took two steps and was bowled over by a man he hadn’t seen racing toward him on a rusty bicycle. He’d been so distracted by the statue of San Pedro that the oncoming bike had taken him by surprise.
The man who’d knocked him down yelled, “Suck it, ya bum!”
He looked down at his clothes, soaked and sooty. He did look like a bum. But that was no way to treat someone down on his luck.
“Screw you, jerk!” He yelled at the wobbling bike disappearing away from him.
Chad Harrison threw up the finger as he flew past the vagrant he’d just plowed into. He chuckled to himself. It had most definitely not been an accident. He scored himself ten points for putting the bum in a mud puddle. Bonus.
He pedaled on, unaware that the collision had loosened the chain on the bike—a karmic occurrence that would come back to haunt him all too soon. The morning mist was burning off and the day was already proving to be the warmest he’d felt this month. He swiped at a trickle of sweat running down his temple in irritation. Off the side of the road, in front of a shack of a building that used to be a quirky little art gallery, he saw a sign announcing:
NEW MANAGEMENT! ADULT NOVELTIES, LIQUOR, AND TATTOOS
Nice, he thought sarcastically. Living here just isn’t what it used to be.
He could remember when he’d bought the bungalow back before the tourist boom—or at least before it got so commercial that it drove most native Floridians out. There was a time pre-dating all of that crap, that he could ride his bike up and down Islamorada in the middle of the Overseas Highway and never see another car, or shop, or person for that matter.
And with all the pollution caused by the damnable influx of human garbage, enjoying the water was a toxic affair at best. Not that he could enjoy that either.
“Damn thief!” he yelled, throwing a fist into the air, cursing the as-yet-un-caught kayak purloiner. Can’t even keep a boat under your house without chaining it up, he thought. And that stupid hillbilly of a sheriff can’t even track down a single lead on the thing. I’ll see him run out of office before I’m through. He’ll wish he’d never heard of me by the time this is over.
Though he wasn’t yelling at anyone in particular, his face twisted into some strange contortions as he ran over the whole thing in his head. A group of cheerleaders in a passing convertible thought it was funny enough to post a snapshot of him on Instagram with the caption: Crazy dude yelling at the sky. Only in the Keys.
But Chad Harrison, known to a very few rabid fans as Cap Wayfarer, would never see the embarrassing post. At that exact moment, his untied shoelace flopped inside the loosened chain. He’d forgotten to tie it the last time this had happened. The whole thing turned into a knot that a salty sailor would be proud to call his work.
With a jerk, his tangled left shoe wound tight into the chain and jerked him hard to the side. His bike went sailing off the road and toward the marshy muck. He flew past the round, tennis ball shaped sign with peeling blue letters announcing the entrance to the Islamorada Tennis Club. He pulled hard and was able to get a little slack for his left leg, but in doing so, he’d pulled the lace tight, binding his foot even more inside the shoe. He was still moving fast and out of control when he hit a deep pool. He crashed in, splashing wildly in the slimy mire. Try as he might, he could not get his shoe loose from the bike. He was tangled inexorably in the rusty gear and couldn’t stand. As it was, he could only flop around on his right foot to keep his head above the grungy water.
He struggled on, picturing the gruesome scene in the movie, Saw, where the lead character had to cut off his own foot to try and escape to save his family. His heart pounded in his chest as he plunged under the surface and clawed at the damnable shoelace. He jerked on his foot trying to free it, but nothing would work. Stars began dancing across his vision and he knew he was about to pass out. He wondered if this is what it was like to drown.
And then it came to him. He would have to go under, find the bottom, let the bike rest and give him some slack. Then he should be able to loosen the shoe. The more he fought it, the tighter it got. His lungs burned with effort, but he figured it could only be seven or eight feet deep here at the most.
He concentrated on slowing his breathing. He was tired, damn tired. But if he could get free, he could crawl back to his house, climb into the hammock and rest for a month or two.
Steeling himself, he took a deep breath and let himself sink. Visibility was less than zero. As he sank down into the swampy marsh, he wondered if he’d made a mistake. What if he couldn’t get the shoelace to let go. If he couldn’t get loose, he was exhausted and would never make it back to the surface.
After what must’ve only been seconds, but seemed like hours, the bike finally rested on the bottom. Amazingly, as soon as the weight came off his foot, the shoe opened up and he jerked his foot free. With his last bit of strength, he pushed off and rushed toward the surface. He broke through laughing and gasping for air.
He pulled himself up onto the tangle of roots of a nearby mangrove and flopped over on his back. He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, but when he finally lifted himself up to get the lay of the land, he realized he could no longer see the road. He had no idea which way was out. He eased himself up to a sitting position, aching from the ordeal on the bike, and scanned the area around him. It all looked the same. All jungle and marsh, no solid land or road.
And then, he saw it. A flash of color. Something out of place in the green and black and brown. He squinted into the rays of sunlight dappling through the mangroves. There was definitely something there that didn’t belong. He tried to stand and a sharp pain shot through his lower leg. He looked down to see his ankle swollen to the size of a grapefruit. Odd, he thought, that the grapefruit gets such a bad rap. It’s always a tumor the size of a grapefruit, never an orange, or apple.
He pulled himself along as best he could, over the octopus-like roots of the trees, trying hard not to put pressure on his bad sprain. As he got closer, the object became clearer. It was smooth and round on one side, and jagged on the other, and as orange as a Monroe-Dade County construction sign. Chad Harrison had found his kayak—or what was left of it.
He lifted his hands into the air and bellowed in triumph. “Yes!” he yelled. “I knew it. I knew I would find it!”
He sat shaking his head piecing it all together. “Tennis pro. Or maybe the help. Somebody at that damned tennis club stole my kayak for a joyride. That’s exactly what happened.”
He laughed harder, his hands starting to shake. “I’m going to bury the prick who thought he could steal from me.”
The odd echo of his voice rising across the water got louder. “I’ll own this tennis club before it’s all through. You hear me, you bast—”
His tirade was interrupted by a low, guttural growl behind him. He jerked his head around so fast that he lost his balance and fell into the water beside the jagged piece of his kayak. At first, he was afraid he would sink again, but found the bottom to be about six feet deep. He was just barely shorter than that and had to hop slightly on his good foot to keep his head from going all the way under.
As he did, he saw the shape: long, black, and scaly. His heart thrummed again and his breathing bubbled the water in front of his face. The gator’s eyes flashed yellow just above the surface, moving toward him. He hopped backward as fast as he could, but it wasn’t fast enough. He swallowed a mouthful of swamp and coughed and sputtered as he flailed his arms, trying desperately to gain speed.
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