It carried on late into the starry night. Orion, Taurus, Ursa Major. The captain—a full-bearded man with a fuller frame—became surly with drink. His eyes locked on one of his more popular crew members, “Calico Kid” Serge. There had been a woman a fortnight ago in Trinidad. One of the captain’s regular wenches. As the rum fermented his brain, the captain lavishly entertained the suspicion that back in port, Serge had left him sloppy seconds. Because he had.
And now here was Serge, the center of the crew’s merry attention again, spazzing out with hyperactivity, walking around the deck on his hands, spinning yarns and floating grandiose concepts that wouldn’t find traction for years. “No, really, I call it the cotton gin . . .”
It was already in the captain’s eyes. A decision had been made.
They pulled anchor at first light. Then the captain summarily ordered it dropped again before they had fully cleared the atoll.
Bird Key behind the ship—even with its unsustainably low covering of plants—was too good for Serge. The captain had his mind set on another of the islands, the one now called Hospital Key. It got the name because an epidemic of yellow fever hit Fort Jefferson on nearby Garden Key, and that’s where they quarantined the stricken soldiers. But the fort and the disease hadn’t arrived yet, and the island was still nameless. It was just called a sandbar.
The rowboats reached the shallows and Serge was tossed over the side. He stumbled ashore as the captain roared his amusement. Serge fell to his knees weeping as the captain hurled insults in an archaic construct that today would roughly translate: “Who’s the big man now?”
Just before shoving off, the first officer tossed Serge the suicide weapon, which he quickly loaded, and shot the captain.
Splash.
“What a beautiful day!” said Serge. “Let’s go have some fun!”
They helped him back into the small boat and returned to the ship . . .
Chapter 16
Central Florida
A black SUV left Interstate 4 behind in the late afternoon and began a meandering country drive that seemed to lead nowhere. Reevis’s Datsun was right behind.
The vehicles eventually rolled up a quiet street and parked in front of a tidy cottage.
“Here’s the plan,” said Nigel, laying out the details.
“It’s a stupid plan,” said Reevis. “And just when I thought my profession couldn’t sink any lower. Since when do journalists use psychics?”
“Cops hire them all the time,” said Nigel. “And the viewing public loves them! You’ll be a pioneer!”
“I’ll be a laughingstock!”
“You heard what your editor told you back at the office,” said the producer. “Just give it a try.”
“But whatever happened to the missing-woman case we were supposed to be working on?” said Reevis.
“That’s over,” Nigel said bitterly. “It got solved.”
“It did?”
“Tragically, she’s alive. Mid-life crisis. Been backpacking in Europe.” Nigel looked toward the front porch. “Ready?”
Reevis noticed the happy silk flag. “You sure we have the right address?”
Nigel nodded. “Been here before.”
“You have?”
“I was waiting until we arrived to surprise you.” Nigel eagerly rubbed his palms together. “There’s a second element that will put this segment over the top, television’s version of a daily double, combining two things audiences love the most. Not only are we consulting a psychic about a crime, but we’ll also have a confrontation with a psychic!”
“Please stop,” Reevis said weakly.
“No, seriously,” said Nigel, leading the way up the porch steps. “We paid her to work on a show before we met you, and you’ll never guess! The psychic was wrong!”
“I’m shaken.”
“So was I,” said the producer. “Last time she predicted the body would be found near water with sounds and lights. Just my bad luck that the victim in that case wasn’t dead, either. Turns out the girl ran away with her boyfriend for a few days. So here’s the deaclass="underline" We start out like everything’s on the level; then, when she’s lulled into false confidence, you pepper her with accusations about the last case. It can’t miss! The scrupulous reporter uncovering a scandalous psychic hoax.”
“I feel ill.”
Nigel pounded and pounded on the front door.
“I don’t think anyone’s home,” said Reevis.
“There a car in the drive.” Nigel tried the doorknob. “Günter, it’s unlocked.”
“I draw the line here,” said the reporter. “I’m not a burglar.”
“Reevis, where are you going?”
“Back to the office.”
“Reevis? Reevis! . . .”
The door to the Datsun slammed, and the reporter drove off.
Nigel looked at his cameraman. “He’ll come around later for the voice-over. Let’s go inside and get some B-roll.”
Günter Klieglyte ran jiggling up the steps and barged through the door without knocking. They stood in an empty parlor.
“I know you’re back there!” yelled Nigel. “Come out now! We want our money back! . . .”
The cameraman ran forward in the dark room and tripped over something on the floor.
“Good God!” said Nigel. “It’s a body! Get a close-up!”
Down the Hall
Madam Bovary arched her back high in a prolonged tremor of ecstasy. Then she collapsed onto the mattress and hugged Serge hard around the neck. “My pirate!”
“You’re welcome.”
“But how was it for you?”
“Great.” Serge rolled off her and caught his breath. “I usually try to think of historic stuff to heighten the experience, but this time it was so vivid.”
“So you now believe in my skills at past-life regression?”
“The Eight Ball says definitely.”
“By the way, my real name’s Trish.”
“Pleasure to meet you— . . . Wait, did you hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“From the other room. Listen . . .”
They both stared at the closed bedroom door.
“. . . We know you’re back there! Give us our money! . . .”
“Oh no,” said the psychic. “Not another.”
“Unhappy customer?” said Serge. “This happen often?”
“Only occasionally, but it’s never pleasant.”
Serge hopped out of bed. “This one’s on me.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Let you relax and enjoy the afterglow.” Serge kissed her forehead and trotted toward the parlor. “Just a minute!”
Günter had the camera rolling on a close-up of a prostrate Coleman when Serge came skipping into the room wearing only black Miami Heat boxers. “How can I help you crazy kids? You’ve caught me in a great mood. Out of the blue, I just got fucked stupid by a smoking-hot babe that I only met a few minutes ago. So how’s your own day going?”
“Are you getting all this?” whispered Nigel.
Günter nodded as he kept his face against the rubber eyepiece and panned down to the underwear.
Nigel pointed at the floor. “Why did you kill this man?”
“Coleman?” Serge kicked him in the thigh.
The body sat up with a groan, then conked out again.
“He just has a different day planner,” said Serge. “Anything else?”
“Yes! I’m here to demand the return of two hundred dollars from a fraudulent session that hoaxed a respected media outlet and traumatized the parents of a missing girl.”