Serge gleamed a brilliant smile. “My fingernails may look spotless, but don’t underestimate my laser focus and impish tenacity . . . Coleman! To the Apalachicola!”
The woman selected a vegetable.
Coleman was already in the passenger seat chugging a fresh quart. Serge stood outside the driver’s door with an ancient Gulf Oil road map. “This place called Tate’s Hell looks inviting . . .”
The door of the grocery store opened. “Let me give you some directions. It’s easy to get lost out there in the woods if you’re not from these parts.”
Serge turned and recalibrated his initial impression. The woman’s subdued beauty was more apparent in natural light. High cheekbones, the hair a bit wild and more strawberry, almost no makeup. And he hadn’t noticed the hiking boots before. Definitely a nature mama. But the main thing: green eyes, pure jade. She walked around the car and grabbed the edge of his map.
“The problem is a lot of these back roads dead-end up at the Ochlockonee River.” She leaned closer to Serge and tapped a spot on the Liberty County line. “But this one bridge west of Smith Creek . . .”
“And that’s where the worms are?”
“You’re on your own there, but it’s where I’d start.”
It was the slightest of brushes. The side of his arm and the side of hers. Was it on purpose? Either way, electricity clearly jumped.
She moved her finger along the map, leaning even closer until their shoulders were in full contact. Okay, now that definitely was on purpose. Then sense of smell came into sexual play. Scientists don’t precisely know why, but humans are individually hardwired to be aroused by certain specific scents. She removed her straw hat, and the aroma of her hair reminded Serge of those little hazelnut coffee creamers from 7-Eleven. He got a woody.
“Wait,” she said. “It’ll be much easier if I just show you myself.”
“You want to come with us?”
“Sure, I hike out there all the time. That is, when I’m not riding horses.”
Serge mentally dialed up that last image. Heart be still. He opened the driver’s door and slipped on polarized sunglasses. “Climb on in. It’s only a two-seater, so I hope you don’t mind Coleman’s lap.”
“Heck, no!”
“Coleman, I wasn’t talking to you.”
They all wedged inside. “Wow,” said the woman. “What a cool car!”
“Genuine 1964 Corvette Stingray, just like Martin Milner drove in the third season of Route 66. I have the whole series on DVD. They kept changing car models each year without explanation and it briefly caused me to retain water . . . Where are my manners? I’m Serge.” He extended a hand.
“Lou Ellen, nice to meet.” She ran her hands over the white leather interior. “Where’d you find such an old model in this condition?”
“Actually it’s not mine.” Serge pulled away from the curb. “The owner is just letting me use it temporarily.”
“For how long?”
“Until he gets home from vacation and calls the police.”
Laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“You have a great sense of humor . . . Hey, have you seen our historic gymnasium?”
“It rocked my world.” Serge suddenly cut the wheel. “But I’d like to see it again.”
Lou Ellen braced for balance as the Corvette fishtailed its way over to the limestone landmark, until it almost crashed into it.
Serge jumped out. “Let’s go!”
Coleman opened his door.
“Not you,” said Serge, extending a hand to help Lou Ellen out of the car.
She started up the steps. “But I think it’s locked.”
“I have a key.”
They went inside.
Coleman settled back with a new bottle of malt liquor. He stared without intent at a spot in the air a foot in front of his face. His brain was a test pattern.
Meanwhile, at center court in the middle of the gym’s hardwood floor . . .
“Oh God! Yes! Yes! Yes! Faster! Yes! . . . What are you thinking about?”
“Stobs, rooping irons, pails, the old Sopchoppy lumber mills, turpentiners, cut-rail fences, indigenous blue iris and black willows used for gunpowder, Corvettes through the ages, the Route 66 theme song, 7-Eleven . . . I’m there!”
“Don’t stop! . . .”
Coleman upended the brown glass bottle as the gymnasium’s door crashed open.
Serge sprinted down the steps and leaped into the driver’s seat.
Coleman belched. “What’s going on?”
“We have to get the hell out of here!”
Serge threw the Stingray in gear as a disheveled woman staggered out in a daze and pulled up a bra strap. “Wait! Why are you leaving?”
“To protect you,” Serge yelled as he hit the gas. “There are a lot of serial killers running around. Luckily it was just me this time, but you need to be more careful.”
Meanwhile . . .
The afternoon sun had sizzled away the remnants of the regularly scheduled rain shower, leaving greater Miami in a mild steam bath. The bustling downtown business district, from Biscayne to Flagler and Brickell, didn’t have time to regard another TV news crew as out of the ordinary. The sidewalks were thick with street crazies talking to themselves, and executives with Bluetooths talking to themselves.
A baby-faced reporter with a microphone stood in front of a steep stone building. A cameraman in earphones gave him the thumbs-up.
“Good afternoon. This is Reevis Tome coming to you live for FCN outside the Miami-Dade courthouse, where a half-dozen elected officials have been indicted in a broadening kickback scandal involving no-bid contracts awarded to top campaign contributors. As first reported here on this network, our public records search unraveled a barely concealed trail of bribery and graft leading all the way to the mayor’s office, which has thus far refused comment . . .”
The TV station cut to archive footage of a man with a coat over his head ducking into a black sedan. “Get away from me! . . .”
Then back to the reporter. “. . . We’ll have more for you as the story develops. This is Reevis Tome for FCN in Miami . . .”
FCN. That would be Florida Cable News.
Reevis Tome. That would be a twenty-seven-year-old, fiercely ethical reporter who appeared to be maybe all of nineteen. Another dying breed: the traditionally trained journalist who purely wanted to cover serious news the old way. No blogs or tweets, and definitely no Facebook posts about the newest adorable zoo baby or “six surprising beauty finds at Costco.” And because he didn’t care about money, they didn’t pay him much. One of his Datsun’s back windows was a trash bag. He only had to shave Monday and Thursday.
Reevis never imagined he’d end up on TV. In fact, he abhorred the notion. It was the ink-stained world of newspapers or nothing. Or so he thought. Then came a sea change in the industry near the turn of the millennium. The Internet had dwindled readership to the point that vulture capitalists could acquire most papers for less than the cost of the land under the buildings. Among the hardest hit was the Journal, which covered the Gold Coast counties of Palm Beach, Broward and Miami-Dade. Layoffs, salary cuts, unpaid furloughs, slashed health coverage. The paper began requiring all reporters to carry cell phones that took pictures, then disbanded the photo department. They eliminated the weekend cop reporter. They eliminated Palm Beach County.