The kerosene flame came back to life.
The ex looked up from the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
“Calico Kid Serge. And you must be Gil.”
Gil stood back up and aimed a pistol. “Are you the current loser fucking my wife?”
“No,” said Serge. “Well, not for the last half hour.”
“Son of a bitch!” Gil stormed across the room and pointed the gun between Serge’s eyes. “You’re a dead man!”
Serge put a hand to his mouth and yawned.
“What’s the matter with you? I have a gun!”
“But I have the Eight Ball!”
“What?”
Serge shook the water in the novelty item. “Its power is much greater.” He held the ball’s fortune-telling window toward Gil’s face. “See?”
“Where?”
“There.” Bam. Right in the nose.
It’s not the injury as much as disorientation. A pain source so close to the brain is magnified. Involuntary blinking. Whatever else your hands were doing, they can’t help but drop everything and fly to the center of your face . . .
Ten minutes later . . .
Serge tugged hard on a stretch of rope and yelled down the hall. “You can come out now.”
A wedge of light appeared as a door cautiously opened. “Is it safe?”
“Completely.”
It was indeed safe, but Trish grabbed her heart anyway at the sight of Gil. He was fit to be tied—and he was. The work with the rope defined overkill. Dozens and dozens of loops like a woman left on the railroad tracks in a silent movie. A tube sock duct-taped in his mouth.
“Forget you ever saw this,” said Serge. “I just have to wait for nightfall, and you’ll never have to worry about him again.”
Several Hours Later
A ’62 Ford pickup sat on the shoulder of a rocky road in the Apalachicola National Forest. Two men in overalls began hiking into the woods as the sun went down.
“I sure likes that Serge,” said Willard.
“Mm-hmm,” said Jasper. “Leavin’ us all his expensive gizmos like he did.”
“We’s gonna corner the worm-grunting market fer sure!”
“Where is that stuff, anyway?”
“Claimed it was in the same spot where we laid eyes.”
“I think it’s just behind those trees over there.”
More walking. Moss and peat and toadstools. As they rounded a cluster of pines, the top of the sonar pole came into view.
“Yep, this is the place,” said Willard. “Right where he told us.”
A few more steps.
Willard froze and Jasper bumped into him from behind. “Why’d you stop?”
“Holy infant Jesus! Is that what I think?”
“Looks like a body,” said Jasper.
City folk would have hightailed it out of there, but the brothers had seen a lot of dead stuff in the woods over the years. They crept forward.
“Gross. Look at his mouth.”
“Who you think it is?”
“He’s got a name tag,” said Willard.
“Looks like it’s from an assisted-living center. Says ‘Preston.’”
“Ain’t that the name of the guy who was taking care of Aunt May?”
They paused and looked at each other: “Serge.”
And this is where city folk definitely would have called the police. But back in the hills, you learn early not to wait for someone else to supply the justice. They thought the deed was extreme, but they understood.
“We best get rid of this fella before Serge finds his pecker in a wringer.”
“Least we can do for him.”
They fetched the shovels from the pickup and went to work. Breaking through the forest floor demanded serious back work, but beneath that, the soil was rich, moist and cooperative. They knew they had to go deep because scavenger animals would follow the scent and undo their efforts.
Digging went on into the early night, and a lot of earthworms were flung aside in flying spadefuls of dirt. Finally Willard rested one arm on the end of a shovel and wiped his grimy brow with the other. “Think it’s good enough?”
They were both standing in the rectangular hole, and Jasper stared eye level at the ground all around. “Nothin’ can burrow this far. Give me a boost.”
They got out of the pit and caught their breath. Then they stood at opposite ends of the body, grabbing wrists and ankles, and shuffled back over to the hole. They began swinging Preston.
“On three,” said Willard. “One, two . . .”
Suddenly running footsteps crackled through the leaves, and they were blinded by bright lights.
“Why’d you kill him?” yelled Nigel.
The wide-eyed brothers froze with the body in their hands.
Cassadaga
A psychic peeked out the curtains. “Sure looks dark enough.”
“It’s not just darkness.” Serge shook the Eight Ball. “It’s also waiting for all the nosy people to go to bed.”
Trish jumped as her cell phone rang again.
“Who’s calling now?” asked Serge.
She checked the display as it continued to ring. “I don’t recognize the number.”
“Aren’t you going to answer it?”
“Hell no!”
“You better.” He checked the advice of the Eight Ball. “You don’t want to vary your routine and have some idiot wandering over here.”
“Okay.” She held it to her head. “Hello? . . . Let me check . . .” She covered the phone and whispered. “It’s for you.”
“Me?” said Serge. “Who is it?”
Shrug.
Serge snatched the phone. “Talk . . . Oh, it’s you . . . But how’d you get this number? . . . You found a business card for Madam Bovary? . . . Where’d you find it? . . . Could you repeat that last part again? . . .” He slowly closed his eyes. “No, I think I’ve pretty much got the full picture. I’ll be there as fast as I can . . .”
Smooth hands grabbed his arm. “You can’t go anywhere. Don’t leave me with him!”
Serge glanced around the room in thought. “Okay, you’ve had enough trauma already . . . Coleman?”
“I’m up for the day!”
“Coleman, stay here and watch the ex-husband,” said Serge. “Even Houdini couldn’t escape from all those ropes and knots, but just in case, here’s a gun.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back soon.” Serge took Trish by the hand. “Plus, I need to do some psychic shopping for Gil anyway . . .”
. . . After a two-hour stretch of high-speed back-road driving, a silver Corvette pulled up to a handmade cabin on the outskirts of Sopchoppy.
Lightning bugs led the way as Serge and Trish headed for the porch.
Jasper flung open the door in advance. “Thank God you came! We’re in a real mess! They say they’re going to the police and pin a murder on us with their TV film!”
“What’s the status?” asked Serge.
Willard gestured inside. “Take a gander for yourself.”
They entered the homestead to find a reality-show producer and his cameraman in captivity.
Trish leaned to Serge. “Does every room in your life contain people tied to chairs?”
“Pretty much.”
“We didn’t know what to do,” said Jasper. “We were trying to bury the body so you wouldn’t get in trouble . . .”
“And they snuck up on us with their camera,” said Willard.
“Everything will be fine now.” Serge paced across the cabin floor. “I just need some time to think . . . Explain again exactly how you were able to track me down.”
“These two fellas were talking a blue streak when we were tying them up,” said Jasper. “I asked how they’d come to be in our neck of the woods, and with such frightful timing. They said they were working with a psychic on a murder, and he led them right to the spot.”
Serge smacked himself in the forehead. “My bad. I’d completely forgotten about you guys . . . These Route 66 episodes have so many moving parts that I probably need to buy some Post-it notes.”