Authors: Tim Dorsey
“Definitely.” Serge fit the hatch cover over the hole and began screwing.
A knock from the other side.
Serge sighed. He unscrewed the cover and pulled it back. “What now?”
“I can’t see in here. It’s completely dark.”
“Shoot, thanks for reminding me. If you don’t see the blades, they’ll start tripping you immediately, and then there’s absolutely no way you can make it.” Serge pulled the flashlight off his belt again and handed it through the hole. “You’ll need this.”
“Thanks.”
He screwed the hatch back on.
Five minutes later, Serge finished stripping insulation from a pair of wires and flicked his pocketknife shut. He touched the metal ends together. Sparks. The sound of a heavy industrial mechanism coming to life. The copper tips were twisted into a permanent connection with rubber-handled pliers.
The noise grew louder as Serge walked back around to the hatch. He banged a fist on thick steel. “How are you doing in there?”
“Not too bad. I think I might be able to make it.”
“That’s the spirit!”
“So how long are these flashlight batteries supposed to last anyway?”
“Oops, I didn’t think of that.”
THE LATE NEWS
T
elevision satellite trucks filled the parking lot of a resort hotel. Correspondents were stacked on top of one another, using a custom motor coach for backdrop.
“. . . Authorities still have no leads on the gangland-style assassination of
Girls Gone Haywire
founder Rood Lear, whose bullet-riddled body was discovered . . .”
“. . . Witnesses said two young women were seen earlier in the lobby . . .”
“. . . Following a heated confrontation in Panama City Beach . . .”
“. . . Described only as ‘persons of interest’ are leaders of the activist group MAGGH, Mothers Against . . .”
“. . . Responding to an anonymous tip, police arrived at the motel room seconds after the shooting but were too late to apprehend the assailant . . .”
“. . . Meanwhile, online sales of the controversial videos continue to shatter records . . .”
Someone held a microphone in front of Rood’s tearful chief assistant. “. . . He was always giving and giving . . .”
Two people sat in front of a TV, convulsing with laughter.
“Whew!” Serge wiped tears from his face.
“That was a good one!” said Coleman.
Serge’s laughter bled into an expression of concentration.
“What’s the matter?” asked Coleman.
“Not sure,” said Serge. “You know how you sometimes hear something and it doesn’t seem important at the time? But days later, out of the blue, when you’re doing a completely unrelated activity, the significance suddenly dawns on you?”
“No.”
“Andy said his mother shot herself.”
“Poor kid.”
“Coleman, women take sleeping pills or jump.
Men
shoot themselves.”
“Maybe she didn’t have pills or bridges.”
“Can’t explain it, but I just have this feeling.”
Coleman fidgeted on the couch. “What are you doing?”
“I think I’m sitting on something.” He clicked the TV remote and reached for a beer.
“Most other people would find out what it is,” said Serge. “Maybe even get off it.”
“Really?” Coleman rolled to his side and reached down.
“My phone charger!” said Serge.
“Why’d you put it under my butt?”
“Gimme that thing.” He went to the wall and plugged it in.
The display came up. “Coleman, you made me miss a call.” He redialed. “Serge here. You rang?”
“Nice try.”
“Hey, Guillermo. Thought you’d like that touch. Guess the cops didn’t get there in time.”
“You underestimate me.”
“Likewise ; I got Miguel,” said Serge. “So I guess it’s just you and me now. We’re going to have so much fun!”
“Where’s Andy?”
“Someplace safe where you’ll never find him.”
“You’re not getting my meaning,” said Guillermo. “I’m not asking you to tell me where he is. I’m asking if
you
know where he is.”
“What’s your point?”
Click.
Serge looked quizzically at the phone.
“What is it?” asked Coleman.
“Shit!” Serge jumped up and ran out of the room. He knocked hard on the next door.
Spooge answered.
“Andy with you guys?”
“No, thought he was with you.”
He ran to the next room and knocked again. City and Country passed joints with the rest of the gang. “Andy in here?”
“Said he was going for a walk.”
Serge’s head fell back on his neck. “Andy, Andy, Andy, what have you done?” He looked at the students again. “How long ago?”
“Just missed him.”
“Wonderful!” He turned to leave.
“Oh, Serge. You know when Melvin’s coming back? He’s got the keys to the truck and we need it.”
“What do you mean, ‘coming back’? Where did he go?”
“I don’t know. Left with this guy in a car.”
“Guy?”
“Really old dude. Your age.”
“Wouldn’t happen to remember what he was driving?”
“That’s easy. Wicked excellent ride, Delta 88.”
“You guys are supposed to be smart,” said Serge. “None of this raised any flags?”
“Thought he was alumni or something.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because he was looking at the Gators bumper sticker on the pickup before Melvin went over and asked what he was doing.”
“And then what happened?”
“I got more beer.”
LAS OLAS BOULEVARD
The case dossier lay in a lap.
“Agent Mahoney’s Monaco sat in a parallel space along the bistro district. Wine, sidewalk tables, palm trees wrapped year-round in strands of white Christmas lights—just down the street from the demolished Candy Store nightclub, national birthplace of the wet T-shirt contest in the bygone spring break era, making it a church of sorts. Mahoney had rescued his share of cops from that lounge, and now the chips were due. He stared at the folder of paperwork and faded photos resting on his legs.”
Mahoney stopped talking to himself. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but the answer was in there somewhere.
He started back at the beginning again, the whole strange saga of Randall Sheets. Wife’s illness, the flights, Madre—that really took him back to the old days—grand jury testimony, son pulled from kindergarten, Battle Creek—
The agent paused on the page. He took off his fedora and ran a hand through his hair. “Women don’t shoot themselves.” He fished out the autopsy, looking for caliber. “Nine-millimeter? That’s weird . . .”
His eyes widened. “Oh, no.”
The agent flipped open his cell and dialed.
“Bugsy, I need travel records for a specific date.”
“How long ago?”
“Fifteen years.”
“That’s almost impossible.”
“Plus I need a sealed juvenile record.”
“That
is
impossible.”
“And I want both in a half hour.”
“You’re crazy. What’s the big rush?”
“Someone’s going to die.”
MIDNIGHT
Rain started again.
A light drizzle, but with ocean gusts that promised a bigger show. Students in sports cars and Jeeps cruised the strip. Decent numbers, but not like the sixties, when it brought A1A to a standstill.
The rain came down harder, scattering people off sidewalks and into bars.
Or bushes.
Andy poked his head up from shrubs along the front of a seafood grill. A quick scan of the surroundings, then another hundred-yard dash south, hugging buildings, staying as far from the street as possible. Another dive into manicured hedges.
A ’73 Challenger rolled down the strip. Serge cranked his windshield wipers from intermittent to full. “How far could they have gotten?”
“Finding one person in this rain is hard enough,” said Coleman. “But two?”
“We have to find them!”
The Challenger blew through a yellow light at Sunrise Boulevard. The Crown Vic behind him ran the red. Agent Ramirez checked his watch and his gun.
Andy wiped rain from his eyes, surveying the street again from behind landscaping.
A Delta 88 crossed a drawbridge at the causeway and made the northern swing onto the strip.
“Maybe he went the other way,” said Coleman.
“You might be right.” Serge made a skidding U-turn where A1A forks at the Oasis Cafe.
Andy waited for the taillights to fade, then jumped out from behind a coconut palm at the Oasis and bolted across the street through honking traffic.
Guillermo drove past a marina just as Andy dove behind a closed ticket shack for fishing charters. But Guillermo wasn’t looking for Andy. He turned to his passenger in the front seat. “Get both hands back on the dash.”
“What are you going to do to me?” asked Melvin.
“Nothing,” said Guillermo. “Just need you to straighten something out for me.”
“Why do we keep driving back and forth?”
“Waiting for a phone call . . .”
Guillermo reached Oakland Park, passing a southbound Challenger in the intersection.
“I’ll never forgive myself,” said Serge. Another U-turn. And another.
Coleman rode out the centrifugal force against the passenger door. “I have no idea which way we’re going anymore.”
The driver of an ’07 Mustang tried to make the light at Sunrise, then changed his mind. Tires didn’t hold the wet street, and he spun into a lamppost.
“Why are we slowing down?” asked Coleman.
“Must be some kind of accident.” Serge strained to see through sweeping wipers that couldn’t handle the volume. Flares in the road. “Can’t even imagine Floridians driving on snow.”
Police put out the cones, snarling traffic to a single lane.
“Dammit!” Serge punched the steering wheel. “What a time for this!”
They crept along, getting closer to the traffic cop in a rain poncho waving cars by with a lighted baton. Only twenty vehicles back now, which put them five behind a Delta 88, ten behind a Dodge Monaco and fifteen behind a Crown Vic with government plates.
The rain became a sheeting downpour, killing visibility. Hazard lights blinked. A glowing baton waved the Crown Vic by. Ramirez hit the gas and raced a block to the appointed street corner.
The Vic hadn’t come to a complete stop yet when Ramirez saw Andy jump from behind the charter-boat shack and sprint down a knoll. The agent leaned across the front seat, opening the passenger door, and Andy dove in.
Ramirez took off.
A Delta 88 and a Challenger rolled through the intersection.
“Serge, what’s the point . . .”
“I’m not giving up on Melvin and Andy!”
“I ain’t saying give up, just that all this driving back and forth isn’t working.”
“I know, and time’s running out! It might already be too late. If only there was some way to turn back the clock and give me time to think—” Serge cut himself off and snapped his fingers.
“Is this like what you were talking about before?” asked Coleman. “A thought pops into your head later?”
“Hang on to something.” Serge cut the wheel hard for a vicious right turn.
Three blocks ahead, Andy crossed his arms tightly, soaked and shivering.
“Sorry,” said Ramirez, turning off the car’s AC. “How you holding up?”
Teeth chattered. “I’m not.”
“That’ll change,” said the agent. “It’s all over now. You made it in.”
The Crown Vic passed Bahia Mar and disappeared south on A1A.
The rain let up. People emerged from restaurants and bars, resuming the nightly sidewalk stroll along the strip. A Delta 88 drove south past Bahia Mar.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER
A
ndy sat on a couch in dry FBI clothes that were three sizes too big.
Ramirez peeked out the curtains again. “What now?” asked Andy.
“Wait.”
“Can I watch TV?”
“No. We might not be able to hear.”
“Hear what?”
Ramirez laid out a collection on top of a bedspread. Glock, extra clips, pistol-grip twelve-gauge, Taser, .38 ankle backup with snap release.
“Agent Ramirez,” said Andy. “Hear what? What are we listening for?”
“Anything. Just a precaution.”
“Thought you said I was safe now.”
“You are, as long as we follow procedure.” He grabbed his phone. “Just have to make final arrangements.”
Ramirez went in the bathroom and dialed.
A half mile away, Serge burst through the door at Bahia Cabana.
City and Country looked up from a bong at the clamor.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Wal-Mart.” Serge ran across the room.
“Wal-Mart?” said City.
“Time slows down,” said Coleman.
Serge pawed through luggage. “Just the cushion I needed to retool the Master Plan and catch back up . . . Here it is!“ He grabbed Andy’s disposable cell and frantically pressed buttons.
”What are you doing?” asked Coleman.
“Trying to find his call log . . .” More menu buttons. “Here it is.” Serge scanned the tiny screen, the same number repeating all the way to the bottom, both incoming and outgoing. “Just as I thought.”
He hit redial.
“That’s right,” Ramirez said into his cell. “With me right now. Perfectly safe . . . Okay, we’ll sit tight.”
The agent hung up; the phone instantly rang again.
“Agent Ramirez.”
“Where’s Andy?”
“Who’s this?”
“Serge. What have you done with him?”
“Done with who? I don’t know any Andy . . .”
Andy sprang from the couch in alarm.
Ramirez held out an arm and shook his head: nothing to worry about.
The boy tentatively sat back down.
“You’re not a good liar,” said Serge. “This phone number’s all over his cell. That’s why we’re talking right now.”
“Why
are
we talking?”
“I want Andy.”
“I just told you—”
“Knock off the act. I know about his mother.”
“Why don’t you come down to the local office and discuss it with us?”
“That’s the last thing you want.”
“This conversation’s over.”
“You killed her.”
“Now it’s really over.”
“Hang up on me, and the next call I make
will
be to the local office.”
Ramirez looked toward Andy, then faced the other way and lowered his voice.
“You still there?” asked Serge.
“I’m here,” said Ramirez. “You need to calm down. I know you cared about Andy, but he’s safe now. Your mind’s playing tricks.”
“My mind tells me women don’t shoot themselves.”
“Some do.”
“You’re the informant.”
“You really do need to settle down.”
“Seen
The Godfather?
”
“You’re insane.”
“When I figured out there was an informant, I knew that whoever eventually contacted Andy to take him in would be someone he trusted. And the traitor. But what sealed it was his mother.”
“Quite an imagination.”
“Let me tell you a story. A long time ago, Madre had an agent on the payroll. No biggie. Just a little intel now and again—tip-off to a raid or shipment about to be intercepted. Then it all changed with a witness for the prosecution. It wasn’t what you bargained for, but too late. They had enough leverage for a life sentence. Now are you following?”
No answer.
“So you went to see Andy’s dad in Battle Creek—one of the few people who knew where he lived. He wasn’t home. But Andy’s mother was. Except you didn’t shoot her.”
“I thought you said I did.”
“You were responsible for her death, but no, you’re not cut out to be the shooter.”
“Who then?”
“My money? Guillermo was with you. Madre would have insisted, so you couldn’t fake McKenna’s death and have him pose for confirmation photos with ketchup on his chest. Guillermo was the right age back then and the wrong psychological makeup to find the house with no McKenna. I’m guessing you tried to stop him.”
“Some story . . .”
A Delta 88 made a U-turn. A phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Guillermo?”
“Hi, Madre. I have great news. I got Andy. Was just waiting for the call from you where to meet Ramirez for the positive ID, so we don’t go through another Panama City.”
“What do you mean, you’ve got Andy?”
“Right here in the front seat with me. Matches the convenience store video.”
“My name’s Melvin.”
“Shut up.”
“Guillermo,” said Juanita, “I did get the call from Ramirez. He says
he
has Andy.”
“That can’t be right.”
“Somebody’s wrong. I hope you can sort it out.”
“Where’s Ramirez?”
She gave him the hotel and room number. “How far are you?”
Guillermo looked in the distance at a giant lighted sign atop a high-rise hotel. “Almost there.”
“I don’t want you to disappoint me.”
“I won’t, Madre.”
“I know you’re a good man,” Serge told Ramirez on the phone. “That’s why I’m betting you lied that you couldn’t gain access to the family’s new address when they were relocated. They’ve just twisted you for so long you can’t see up or down.”
“How’d you know about his mother?”
“I didn’t. It was guess,” said Serge. “You told me just now.”
“It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”
“So her condition hadn’t recurred at all,” said Serge. “She was in perfect health?”
“She was fine.”
“Hasn’t this gone on long enough? There’s still time to make it right.”
“No, there isn’t.”
“It gets worse,” said Serge. “You have a second problem.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’ve got Melvin.”
“Who’s Melvin?”
“Another kid that Guillermo apparently got confused with Andy.”
Ramirez fell down in a chair.
“I’m guessing Panama City didn’t stomach well,” said Serge. “You have a conscience, but Guillermo’s out where the buses don’t run. You couldn’t stop Battle Creek, but you can stop this . . .”
Banging against the wall of Serge’s room. Laughter, shouts, students getting restless and deeper into the alcohol supply.
Serge walked toward the window to hear better. “Listen to me. If I know anything about human nature, this is one you’re not going to be able to live with. There’s a defining point in every life where you have to do the right thing no matter what personal cost . . .”
Ramirez could no longer face Andy.
“. . . Tell me where you are,” said Serge. “We’ll take out Guillermo together. And I won’t say anything to Andy or anyone else about our conversation.”
“It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not! I can . . . hold on—” Serge pressed a hand over his other ear as more noise drowned out the call. A fire engine screamed by with all the sirens and bells, fading down the street. Serge uncovered his ear. “I’m begging: Tell me where you are!”
“I have to go . . .”
“Don’t hang up!”
From Ramirez’s end of the line, Serge heard a fire engine.
Click.