My gut flopped.
Crap! Maybe he’s right...
I cringed. My mind swirled, searching for a way to backpedal out of this mess. “I just meant tha—”
Crrssstttcrk. Crrrchh.
From the driver’s cab, the sound of static crackled through the air. As my mouth hung open mid-syllable, a familiar voice buzzed over the ham radio.
“Operative Garth to Mr. Gray. Come in, Mr. Gray. Over.”
I glanced at Grayson. He appeared as relieved as I was.
“Hold that thought,” Grayson said, then scrambled out of the banquette toward the driver’s seat. I followed behind him, then flounced into the passenger seat a few feet away.
“Gray here,” Grayson said, clicking a button on the microphone. “Come in, Operative Garth. Over.”
“Mr. Gray! Thank God!” Garth almost shouted.
His normally nerdy, laid-back voice sounded awash with urgency—and something else. Panic, perhaps?
“Is Pandora with you?” he asked. “Over.”
“Yes,” I shouted.
“She’s here,” Grayson said. “Over.”
“I need your help. Over.”
“What kind of paranormal activity are we talking about?” I asked. When Garth didn’t reply, I added a hasty, “Over.”
“My brother Jimmy. Something’s wrong with him. Over.”
Grayson’s eyebrow crooked into a triangle. “Has he sought medical treatment? Over.”
“I ... I don’t know. Four days ago, he and a friend of his went fishing. I found out today that his friend is missing.” Garth’s voice trailed off. “Jimmy’s been acting really weird ever since. Over.”
“Weird how?” I asked. “Over”
His voice cracked. “It’s hard to explain. Over.”
“We need more specifics,” Grayson said. “Over.”
“I can’t. Not over the radio. Over.”
Those last words from Garth caused my own eyebrows to shoot up an inch.
From what I knew of Operative Garth, he’d never had a problem yammering over the ham radio about everything from vampires to alien invasions. What could possibly be so weird about Jimmy’s behavior that Garth couldn’t mention it over the airwaves? I exchanged glances with Grayson. He seemed to be wondering the same thing.
“Is Jimmy in danger? Over,” Grayson asked.
Garth cleared his throat. “If what I think is true, we all are.”
“What do you mean?” Grayson asked. “Over.”
“Uh ... hold on,” Garth said, his voice suddenly hoarse. “Jimmy just—”
The signal went dead.
“Operative Garth?” Grayson prompted.
No reply.
“Operative Garth?” Grayson barked again into the microphone. “Come in, OG. Over.”
We sat in the cab in silence for a full minute. Static was the only response we could raise on the radio.
I locked eyes with Grayson. “Is your radio broken?”
He fiddled with a few buttons on the black box mounted under the dashboard. “No. It’s operating normally.”
I bit my lower lip. “Then Garth’s radio must’ve died.”
“Let’s hope it’s as simple as that.” Grayson pulled his cellphone from his shirt pocket and dialed Garth’s number. “He’s not answering.”
“Let’s give him a couple of minutes,” I said. “He sounded off somehow. Maybe he’s just ... you know ... indisposed.”
“That must be it,” Grayson said, clicking off the phone. “I’m sure he’s all right.”
But in the silence that followed, neither one of us believed it.
Chapter Four
The toothless old woman in green polyester pants stared at us like we were crazy, then clutched her purse tighter to her body and steered her shopping cart toward the other side of the Walmart parking lot.
“Hush!” I hissed at Grayson. “You’re scaring the locals.”
“All I said was that aliens are—”
“Hush!”
After Operative Garth had gone mysteriously radio silent, Grayson had been unable to reach him, despite numerous attempts. The strange little prepper wasn’t answering his cellphone, either.
At the time, Grayson and I had been camped out in the Walmart parking lot in Chiefland, Florida. Needless to say, neither of us had required further encouragement to pull stakes and head out of town. After leaving a message on Garth’s phone, we started packing up and setting our sights on Plant City—home of a giant strawberry water tower and Garth and Jimmy’s junk-filled prepper compound.
I smiled apologetically at the old lady as she hobbled by, pushing her unwieldy, wobbly-wheeled shopping cart. She shook her head at us and avoided eye contact.
Great. I’m the weirdo here.
I hissed at Grayson. “For the last time, Garth was not abducted by aliens!”
“I disagree,” Grayson said, hoisting a cooler up the steps of the RV. “Like Schrodinger’s cat, it’s a plausible theory until proven otherwise.”
“No, it’s not!”
Grayson shoved the cooler inside the decrepit Mini-Winnie. “Then what’s your explanation for Garth suddenly going incommunicado?”
“It could be anything,” I grumbled. “But say ‘alien abduction’ one more time and I’ll render you incommunicado!”
Grayson’s eyebrow rose an inch. “I don’t see why you have to get all huffy about it. I’m merely speculating on possible scenarios.”
“Ugh!” I snatched up a cheap lawn chair. Grayson had set up a pair so we could dine alfresco amid the ambiance of asphalt and exhaust fumes. I folded it savagely, then handed it to Grayson.
“Those boys live in a junkyard,” I said. “Any number of things could’ve happened to either one of them. Maybe a rusty refrigerator fell on their heads, for all we know.”
“Don’t be preposterous,” Grayson said, tossing the lawn chair inside the RV.
I blanched. “I’m the one being preposterous? Let me remind you—the only reason we’re in this stupid parking lot in this stupid town is because you wanted to search for stupid ‘secret Native American treasure.’”
Grayson shrugged. “I fail to see what’s preposterous about that. Chiefland calls itself ‘The Gem of the Suwanee Valley.’”
My upper lip hooked skyward. “So?”
“Think about it, Drex. Chiefland. Gems. I was merely following the intellectual thread hidden in plain sight. You know. Like they did in The Da Vinci Code.”
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Since arriving in Chiefland two days ago, the closest thing to an “intellectual thread” we’d discovered was the town’s quirky quilt museum. And the closest thing to an “ancient relic” was the person running it.
I grabbed the second lawn chair and kicked it until it collapsed. “Get this straight in your head, Grayson. There are no chiefs in Chiefland, and no aliens in Plant City!”
Grayson sniffed. “You’re entitled to your opinion, Drex. And I’m entitled to mine.”
I opened my mouth to argue, but Grayson silenced me with the wag of a spidery index finger. “Without additional facts, there’s no point in postulating further about either subject. Agreed?”
I let out a breath. “Agreed.”
“Good. Are you ready to go?”
“I couldn’t be any readier.”
“Grab the lantern over there and let’s roll.”
“Why don’t you grab—” I began, then stopped myself. Remembering my covert mission to get to Point Paradise for a haircut by Beth-Ann, I sweetened my tone. “I mean, ‘Got it, chief.’”
I grabbed the lantern and smiled at Grayson. “You know, since we’re heading out, do you think we could make a pit stop in Point—”
Grayson’s cellphone rang. He glanced at the display. “I better get this.”
“Who is it?” I asked. “Garth?”
Grayson shot me a quick glance. “That’s on a need-to-know basis, Drex.”
Then he turned and disappea
red into the RV—totally unaware that I’d missed whacking him in the ass with that lantern by less than three inches.
I WAS STILL GRINDING my teeth when the RV’s half-bald tires spun up a cloud of dust across the Walmart parking lot.
After clicking off his mysterious phone call, Grayson hadn’t had the courtesy to offer me a single word of explanation. Instead, he’d jammed the keys into the ignition and peeled out of the lot like he’d just gotten word the last taco stand on the planet was closing in two minutes.
“What the heck’s going on?” I demanded, my arms folded over my chest. Miffed at being ignored and left out of the loop, I was determined to make Grayson trust me—even if I had to use every deceitful trick in the book.
“He’s dead,” Grayson said, tucking his cellphone into his shirt pocket.
I gasped. Then I wilted with horror. “Dead?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.” Grayson shook his head and pulled onto the highway. “What a tremendous loss to paranormal research.”
I sat back in the passenger seat, stunned. A tear came to my eye. I scrounged in my purse for a Tootsie Pop to console my aching heart.
Garth had been a harmless, goofball nerd. Sure, he’d been a weirdo conspiracy chaser. And he hadn’t exactly given Brad Pitt anything to worry about, either. Garth had been short and wiry, with thick, black glasses, a frizzy, bleached-blond mullet, and buck teeth that would’ve made a donkey cringe in shame. But all in all, he’d been a pretty decent guy.
Plus, he’d always thought I was a babe.
“Poor guy. How’d he die?” I asked.
Grayson sighed. “Age-related causes.”
I stuck the Tootsie Pop into my mouth, barely able to conceive of the notion. “He seemed so young. I thought he was in his late twenties, tops.”
Grayson nodded solemnly. “The truly inspired do often seem to defy the effects of time.”
“So, how old was he?”
“Ninety-two.”
I choked on my sucker. “Garth was ninety-two?”
Grayson shot me a look. “Garth? No. I’m talking about The Amazing Randi.”
My eyes shot twin death-rays at Grayson. I’d have hurled my Tootsie Pop at him if it hadn’t been my last watermelon-flavored one. “Who the heck is Amazing Randi?”
“What?” Grayson gasped and nearly ran the RV off into the ditch.
After regaining control of the vehicle, he turned and stared at me as if I’d come from another planet. “Not Amazing Randi. The Amazing Randi. He’s only the greatest scientific skeptic and paranormal debunker who ever lived!”
“Debunker?”
Grayson let out an indignant grunt. “Really, Drex. I’m sure I mentioned him before. He co-founded the Committee for Skeptical Inquiry?”
I shrugged. “Uh...not ringing any bells.”
“Don’t you remember? The Amazing Randi’s mission in life was to challenge and disprove paranormal and pseudoscientific claims from around the world.”
My upper lip hooked skyward. “Uh, no offense. But from what I’ve seen, there’s a ton of guys out there doing the same thing. You and Garth included. What was so great about Randi?”
“The Amazing Randi,” Grayson corrected again. “Well, for one, he put his money where his mouth is.”
I smirked. “That must’ve made it hard for him to eat.”
Grayson eyed me as if I’d just had a seizure. “I’ll give you a pass this time. But only because of your utter ignorance.”
“Gee, thanks.” I stifled an urgent eye roll and decided to play nice. “So tell me, Grayson. How did The Amazing Randi put his money where his mouth is?”
“By creating the James Randi Educational Foundation. It offers a million dollars to anyone who can prove their own supernatural powers or the presence of a supernatural being.”
The million dollars prompted something in my brain. “Oh, yeah. I remember you saying something about that not long after we met.” I smirked. “I bet the thought of getting a million bucks really brings the kooks running.”
“They’ve examined a few claims over the years,” Grayson conceded.
“Let me guess. No winners yet?”
Grayson let out a sigh so deep his chest sunk inward. “No. Over the last sixty years, thousands have tried for the prize. But no one has ever gotten beyond the master’s unsurpassed ability to spot tricks and fakery.”
“What makes—I mean made—Randi so good at spotting fakes?”
“Simple,” Grayson said. “He was a master magician.”
I laughed. “Oh. Of course. That explains everything.”
Grayson’s face grew stern. “I’m serious, Drex. The Amazing Randi was every bit on par with Houdini.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes. He knew every trick in the book. In fact, one of his most famous acts was escaping from a locked coffin submerged in water. He also got out of a straitjacket while dangling over Niagara Falls.”
“You don’t say,” I said. “So, is that how you got out? Escaping from a straitjacket?”
Grayson glanced over at me. “Ha ha.”
“So Randi was an escape artist,” I said. “What’s the big deal? I’ve gone out with at least half a dozen guys who disappeared when the check arrived. Nothing magical about that.”
“That was kind of his point,” Grayson said.
“What do you mean?”
“The Amazing Randi traveled the globe doing feats that appeared to require otherworldly powers. But at the end of each performance, he always concluded his show with this simple statement, ‘Everything you have seen here is tricks. There is nothing supernatural involved.”
“Oh.” I sat up in my seat. “So, in other words, Randi used magic to prove there was no such thing as magic.”
Grayson’s left eyebrow flat-lined. “Well, yes.”
“And that’s what made him famous?”
Grayson shrugged. “That and his obsession with debunking people who claimed they could read minds and whatnot.”
“You don’t think mind-reading’s possible?”
“No.”
For some reason, I felt oddly relieved. I smiled. “So, how’d Randi get so famous?”
“Back in 1972, The Amazing Randi was invited to The Johnny Carson Show to oversee the props used by Uri Geller.”
“Uri Geller? What power did he claim to have?”
Grayson turned his head from the road and stared at me, a pained expression on his face. “You’re kidding. Uri Geller? He was only the most famous psychokinetic practitioner of his time.”
“Psycho what?”
Grayson winced. “Psychokinesis. It’s the ability to manipulate physical matter without physical intervention.”
“Oh. Cool. What did Geller do to prove his claim?”
“He bent spoons with his mind.”
I sneered. “Bent spoons? Geez. I can think of a few better things to do with a talent like that.”
“If such a talent exists,” Grayson said. “During that episode of The Johnny Carson Show, Geller failed.”
I smirked. “Are you saying no utensils were harmed in the making of that show?”
“I suppose. But you’re missing the point.”
“No, I’m not. He proved Geller was a fake, right?”
“More or less. The show was basically twenty-two minutes of Geller staring at spoons.”
I laughed. “So, how’d Randi stop him?”
“He wouldn’t say. The Amazing Randi was first and foremost a magician. And, being a gentleman, he never revealed his secrets.”
I noticed a dimple form in Grayson’s cheek. “You admired This Amazing Randi guy, didn’t you?”
“Absolutely. He was one of a kind.”
I cocked my head. “Isn’t that rather ironic?”
“What do you mean?”
“The Amazing Randi was a paranormal skeptic. I figured you’d consider him your enemy. Or at least your rival.”
Grayson’s eyebrow arched. “Why would you thi
nk that?”
“I dunno. I guess because you want to prove the paranormal exists. Randi wanted to prove it didn’t.”
Grayson shrugged. “I don’t see the conflict.”
“You don’t?”
“No. Drex, to prove something scientifically, one must be willing to examine all the facts and accept the conclusions they yield. The same set of facts that might lead to proving something’s existence might instead lead to proving the exact opposite.”
“Okay, but—”
Grayson turned his gaze toward me again. “Don’t you see? Only by eliminating human bias—including fraudsters, cheaters, charlatans, and other falsifiers—can we arrive at the unadulterated truth. And, ultimately, the truth is what we seek, is it not?”
“Uh...sure,” I said, then laughed.
“What’s funny?”
“You sound like you’re channeling Buddha or something.”
“Not possible. The Amazing Randi proved channeling is a hoax.”
I smirked. “Perhaps he just never met a real channeler.”
“Perhaps. And now he never will.” Grayson let out a sigh and stepped on the gas.
I could tell the news of his death had affected Grayson deeply. “Where did Randi die?” I asked softly.
“In Plantation, Florida,” he said. “It’s not that far from Plant City. I thought we might pay our respects while we’re in the area.”
“Sure. Why not?”
As I turned to face the road ahead, my thoughts wandered back to Garth’s voice on the ham radio. He’d sounded strangely hoarse. Panicked, even.
Geez. I hope Randi’s grave is the only one we’ll be visiting on this trip...
Chapter Five
As Grayson steered the old Winnebago off the I-4 exit ramp toward Lakeland, the anxiety that had been gnawing at the pit of my stomach for hours amped up its pitch. In a few more minutes, we’d be at Garth’s prepper compound.
What could’ve happened to him and his brother Jimmy?
As opposite as bookends, Garth was a goofy-looking, Wayne’s World wannabee. He was the kind of nerd you’d expect to find holed up in a basement playing World of Warcraft with his imaginary online “friends.”
Scatman Dues (Freaky Florida Mystery Adventures Book 6) Page 3