Snowbirds of Prey

by Ward Parker

  “I mean what happened with the people on the beach?”

  “What people? Oh, the dead people. I didn’t see anyone anymore and didn’t hear anything, so I thought they left. I kept walking down the beach until my usual turnaround point at the public beach. They have a water fountain and a bathroom, but the bathroom is always locked until dawn which is really inconvenient for me since it’s still dark when I’m there. I gotta admit I’ve taken a leak in the dunes now and then, because at my age the old bladder just isn’t worth a damn anymore. Even though I’d probably get arrested if the cops saw me. And ruin my reputation all over again for a victimless crime that didn’t hurt anyone. I’ve never hurt anyone. If you don’t count people losing their life savings. At least they weren’t physically hurt.”

  “But, the murdered people?”

  “Yes, I was getting to that. Don’t be so impatient. Where was I? Oh yeah, drinking water at the fountain. I didn’t pee this morning, mind you. It’s a rare event, anyway. I don’t want you to get the wrong impression of me. Anyway, I walked the return route and right there I saw two people sleeping on the beach. But I’m no idiot. They were on the spot where the argument took place before. Of course, this time I walk by much closer and they looked more like a couple of rag dolls tossed next to the dunes instead of people sleeping. I got closer and, sure enough, they looked pretty dead to me. Another walker was coming up the beach and I called out for her to call 911. I guess she doesn’t get robocalls from Russia because she did carry a phone.”

  “Was there any blood in the sand?” Matt asked.

  “Some blood was smeared on their necks and arms, but that’s it.”

  “Did you see anything else?”

  “Not related to this. But there was the strangest thing: A shooting star went by and it seemed so low in the sky it looked like a fireball. Really strange.”

  “You know, there have been other murders on this part of the beach,” Matt said. “Have you ever observed anything else?”

  “Nope. Except once I found a bunch of gear some shark fishermen left on the beach. A kayak, expensive-looking fishing rods, tackle boxes, coolers. Just lying on the beach unattended like the fishermen were beamed up by a UFO or something.”

  “Can I use your name in my story, please?”

  “Nope,” the man said. “Well, I’ve got to go.” He gestured at the rising sun, bright in a cloudless sky. “This is a prime day for melanoma.”

  The man strode away north, hugging the edge of the surf to get around the crime scene. Matt combed through his memory and recalled an incident involving two fishermen found dead and drained among the sea grapes nearby.

  “I had hoped Chainsaw really was the killer,” Missy’s voice behind him said.

  She came up beside him, wearing her green Acceptance Home Care scrubs.

  “I talked to a witness,” Matt said. “He saw a third person in some sort of argument with the couple who were killed, but he didn’t see the assailant clearly enough.”

  “It was a couple?”

  “Yes, a man and woman.”

  “Did he see anything else?”

  “Nothing useful.” Matt thought about the earlier conversation. “He did mention a shooting star or fireball flying by overhead. It was strange enough to him that he brought it up to me.”

  “How odd,” Missy said. “I have an idea: Is there a way to go through all the stories of similar murders committed here?”

  “Yeah. You search the network at work. I already printed out all of the stories that seemed relevant. Why?”

  “I want to find out if any other witnesses mentioned a shooting star or fireball.”

  “And what would that tell us?” Matt asked.

  “It would tell us we would have to do some supernatural research.”

  They met a couple of hours later for breakfast at a café on A1A facing the public beach. Matt had run home to grab the printouts and he placed them on the table in a thick manila envelope. The ocean was flat and shimmering in white-diamond sunlight, a prime melanoma day indeed. Joggers and cyclists passed by, absorbed in their workouts, listening to music and podcasts, totally oblivious to the deaths that had occurred only a mile or so up the beach. A faint breeze brought the scent of coconut and brine. It was a perfect day to do anything other than talk about murder.

  “I ordered you a coffee,” Matt said when Missy sat down. She had changed into a sun dress and smelled like shampoo.

  “Thanks. I prefer tea, though,” she said. She wore a floppy hat and dark shades. “Sorry I’m late. The traffic was horrible. It turns out there was some crazy guy driving a riding lawnmower down A1A. He was drinking. And naked. Finally, the police pulled him over. Poor guy had a horrible sunburn in the kinds of places you don’t want a sunburn.”

  “Ah, Lance Jenkins,” Matt said. “He’s out early today.”

  “It’s early for me, too. I’m not used to being out in the sunlight these days. I feel like a vampire myself.”

  “Let’s hope you don’t become one.”

  “Don’t worry. I take precautions.”

  After the server brought their coffees and took their orders, Matt opened the envelope.

  “I had read all of these before, but wasn’t looking for shooting star mentions and if I did see any they didn’t stand out at the time.” He handed her half of the pile. “We’ll divvy them up to get through them faster.”

  “God, there are so many. That many murders?”

  “A lot of these are multiple stories about the same murder.”

  “But still.”

  “Yeah, I’ve counted nearly thirty over the past couple of years,” he said. “But there were probably many more—people found dead and assumed to be the result of overdoses or natural causes that never made the news. The interesting thing is many of the victims had bite marks not just on their necks, but also on their arms or feet. If you were found dead with wounds on one foot, it might not raise a flag.”

  They each read through the stories, picking at their food without enjoyment when it arrived, even though they both had ordered beautiful-looking crepes.

  “I haven’t seen anything yet about orbs,” Missy said.

  “Unfortunately, if a witness mentioned that, it might have been edited out of the story as being too random and unrelated.”

  “Wait, I spoke too soon. A woman claims she saw a fiery UFO flying over the dunes. That’s how she noticed the body of a teenaged runaway.”

  A few stories later, Matt grunted in recognition.

  “Here’s one. The witness said, ‘A giant firefly flew by, bigger than I’ve ever seen in my life.’”

  “We need to look into this angle,” Missy said. “I’ve read some stuff on the internet, but I know someone we should speak to who can give us the real story.”

  Matt had never been in a botánica before. In fact, he had never known what a botánica was. Now that he was here at the Jellyfish Beach Mystical Mart, he did recall passing by the store before, unaware of what the narrow storefront with cryptic boxes and bags on display with Tarot Card-like labels was all about.

  He followed Missy into the shop and through a cloud of incense. There were shelves covered with candles, bottles with ornately illustrated labels holding unknown potions, plastic bags with printed labels glued on, tons of statues and statuettes. For some reason, part of one shelf held insect repellant. The reason being Florida.

  The proprietor approached them, a black woman wearing a blue scarf on her head.

  “Ah, Missy, what brings you here today? And who is this tipo guapo?”

  “Luisa, this is Matt, a friend of mine.”

  Being called a friend was pleasing to Matt.

  “We’ve come to ask your help in investigating a supernatural creature,” Missy said.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “Yes. Do you know of any creatures in Florida, beside vampires, that drink human blood?”

  “Aside from the IRS, I do know of a few,” Luisa said. “From the legends,
not personally, of course. They’ve come to Florida from elsewhere, like so many humans who live here.”

  “Are any associated with glowing orbs or fireballs?”

  “Ah, yes, the soucouyant. Sometimes known as the loogaroo. They’re found in the Caribbean, in islands with French heritage. Trinidad, Dominica, St. Lucia, Guadeloupe, Martinique, Haiti, and others. They’re descendants of Old-World French vampires that came with the original colonists to the islands. They’re basically the Caribbean version of vampires.”

  “What’s the deal with the fireballs?” Matt asked.

  “That’s how they move around,” Luisa said.

  “Okay. Of course,” Matt said. “Who amongst us doesn’t travel as a fireball?”

  “I’m serious. Soucouyants are often old people in their human form, but not always. They appear to live normal lives and can go out and about in the daytime. When they transform into their monster form at night, they shed their human skin and store it in a container in their home, then fly around in the form of a ball of light. They can go anywhere, slipping through cracks under doors into rooms. When they find a victim, they bite them and drink their blood just like a vampire.”

  “I’m surprised I’ve never heard of them,” Missy said.

  Luisa continued, “They’ve been known to infest small villages in the countryside of some of the poorer islands. Sometimes they simply drink from their victims sleeping in their beds, and the victims wake up feeling weak with bruises on their necks or wrists or feet. But sometimes they go all out and drain their victims, killing them. They’ll feed upon pets and livestock as well.”

  “Sounds like human mosquitoes,” Matt said. “But deadly.”

  “How do you stop them?” Missy asked.

  “By killing them,” Luisa said. “There are ways to do it, according to the legends. Usually it involves burning them or letting the sunlight kill them.”

  “I don’t want to hear the details,” Missy said. “It feels a little hypocritical of me to protect one kind of bloodsucker by killing another.”

  “You think?” Matt said.

  Missy glared at him.

  “My patients don’t kill people. As far as I know. But just in case, the communities where they live have strict rules against killing on their properties,” she said. “And they deal harshly with anyone who breaks those rules. This soucouyant, whether it’s a resident, a guest, or a trespasser, is subject to the same rules. But it’s not up to me to decide or to carry it out. Besides, I’m a nurse. It would be difficult for me not to give medical aid to the soucouyant if it came to that.”

  “You sound very conflicted,” Matt said, trying to keep any touch of sarcasm out of his voice.

  “I am. I don’t want harm to come to anyone, human or other creature.”

  “I doubt you’d feel obligated to give medical care to the soucouyant if it was trying to kill you.”

  “True,” she said. And I’ve accepted responsibility for helping to protect my patients and their neighbors. They come first. And this soucouyant, or whatever it is, is putting them at risk of being blamed for the murders. Not only could that destroy their privacy and protection, it could get them killed. You saw the other night what the police do to supernatural creatures.”

  “Yeah.” Matt felt a knot in his stomach when he recalled the sound of the gunshot in Chainsaw’s condo.

  “I know of an obeah man from St. Vincent who could take care of the soucouyant for you,” Luisa said.

  “A what-man?” Matt asked.

  “A practitioner of obeah, Caribbean black magic,” Luisa said. “A witch of the dark arts. A sorcerer.”

  “He can defeat a soucouyant?” Missy asked.

  “Oh yes. And he’s also a realtor,” Luisa said. “In case you want to put your house on the market.”

  30

  Teamwork

  After seeing her last patient and filling out a bunch of paperwork, Missy was late in leaving Squid Tower. The sun had already crested above the ocean. She was concerned that two police cars were leaving the parking lot.

  “What happened?” she asked Philomena, the day gate guard. “Why were the police here.”

  Philomena wiped a tear and her lips quivered. “They arrested him.”

  “Who?”

  “My friend Bernie. It’s all my fault.”

  “My God. Arrested him for what?”

  “When I came to work yesterday morning, I found a credit card on the floor in here. I thought it was Bernie’s.” She stifled a sob. “When I picked it up, I see it has a woman’s name on it. The mayor’s murdered daughter.”

  Oh boy, Missy thought.

  “So I call the police and they come by and pick it up and ask me more questions. And today they come and they take Bernie. It’s all my fault.”

  “Do they suspect Bernie murdered Taylor Donovan?”

  Philomena nodded and smeared a tear with her thumb. “But I didn’t tell them anything.”

  Missy thanked her and told her not to blame herself. As she drove away, she pondered what to do. She felt almost certain a soucouyant was responsible for the murders. If someone—or something—else also committed some or all of the murders, it was highly unlikely it was Bernie. She felt bad for him, he must be frightened out of his mind. But how could she tell the police she suspected a supernatural creature she had never heard of until recently?

  At least Bernie didn’t have to worry about Schwartz while he was behind bars.

  Halfway home, she got an idea and pulled onto the shoulder. She texted Agnes, hoping she would still be awake.

  Agnes answered that she was.

  Bernie the night gate guard was taken in by the police this morning, Missy texted.

  Oh no. For what? the ancient vampire texted back.

  They think he murdered Taylor Donovan. Her credit card was found in the gatehouse after his shift.

  Not good, Agnes texted.

  I think it was planted. We need to contact the security company. I’m sure they capture video from the security cameras. We have to do it fast before it’s lost or recorded over.

  LOL. Good luck getting Rudy to respond quickly.

  Missy couldn’t believe a 1,500-year-old vampire just used “LOL.”

  I’ll go to his office in person if necessary, Missy texted.

  We need to wait until nightfall when Rudy gets to the office. He has humans working for him during the day, but they won’t fulfill a request like this without his permission.

  Bernie’s with the police now.

  You and I will visit Rudy tonight and we won’t leave until we have video to give to the police.

  Bernie expected he’d be interrogated in one of those small rooms with the two-way mirrors he was familiar with from TV cop dramas. Apparently, the Jellyfish Beach Police Department did not have these. Instead, he found himself in a conference room with a long table surrounded by chairs, with a TV on one wall and corny motivational posters on the others.

  Affird sat at the table on one side of him and a detective named Smallquist was on the other. Smallquist was not small. He looked almost seven feet tall and had a big gut. His too-short necktie barely made it over the crest of his belly. The pointy top of his shaved skull made the bald look backfire for him.

  Bernie twisted in his chair. “Can I have a soda?”

  “No,” Affird said.

  “I thought you’d be the ‘good cop,’ since you know me,” Bernie said.

  “In your case, we’re both gonna be the ‘bad cop,’” Smallquist said. “I’m going to ask you again to clarify that you stole Taylor Donovan’s credit card when you killed her.”

  Bernie decided Smallquist was the rare giant of a man who was a nerd anyway.

  “No, I didn’t steal her credit card,” Bernie said.

  “But you did kill Ms. Donovan,” Smallquist said.

  “No! I told you, I didn’t kill her and didn’t take her card.”

  “Then how did the card end up in your gatehouse?” Affir
d asked. He had his sunglasses on, even in here. “We spoke to the day and weekend guards and no one saw the card anywhere until it was found this morning after your shift.”

  “Someone put it there to frame me.” Bernie said, trying to sound confident. “You’ll see my prints aren’t on it.”

  “No one’s prints are on it. It was wiped clean,” Smallquist said. “Who would frame you and why?”

  “My guess is Mr. Schwartz. He’s been out to get me fired since I started working there. I think he even wants to kill me.”

  “A powerful accusation to throw around so lightly,” Smallquist said.

  Bernie stared at the wall. One poster was a giant photo of a swarm of ants attacking a caterpillar. The headline read, “Teamwork.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention this,” Bernie added, “but I did see him stalking customers at the ice cream shop.”

  “Do you think Schwartz killed Ms. Donovan?” Affird asked.

  Bernie had to be careful. “I’m not supposed to say anything negative about our residents.”

  “Stop swinging your chair back and forth and answer the detective,” Smallquist said.

  “Do I think he killed her?” Bernie said while nodding frantically, looking at each detective and pointing to his own nodding head.

  “We’re audiotaping this conversation,” Affird said. “You need to state your answer out loud.”

  “I’m not supposed to say anything,” Bernie replied.

  “For the record, the suspect has been nodding like a bobblehead in response to my question about if he thought Leonard Schwartz killed Taylor Donovan,” Affird said in a loud voice directed to the audio recorder on the table.

  “Okay, tell us again everything you did on your shift last night,” Smallquist said.

  “Why? Was someone else killed? I’ve changed my mind. I think I should have an attorn—”

  Smallquist’s arm shot out like a rattlesnake strike and paused the recorder.