“Worse? But I thought you said they didn’t do anything?”
She sat rod straight and flipped to the back of the book. “The crystal culture might be a lot of make-believe powers and practices, but you’re still dealing with actual minerals that react in the physical world according to the laws of science. Even the guy who wrote this book knows that.”
“I’m not following.”
“While these authors are cashing in by telling people that drinking crystal waters will make them glow with good fortune and spiritual balance, they still have to worry about lawsuits.” She found a page with a giant exclamation point inside a big red warning circle. “Here’s a list of crystals that under no circumstances should you ever drink, or even pour on your skin. All the ones you gave him are here. For instance, adamite, which is zinc arsenate hydroxide.”
“Are you saying it contains arsenic?” said Serge. “Interesting.”
“Here’s lópezite, an even bigger no-no. Galena here contains lead, and cinnabar is a pleasantly unassuming name for mercury sulfide.”
“I gave him mercury?” said Serge.
“Plus, torbernite is radioactive,” said Trish. “It’s another dirty little secret of crystals: many contain heavy metals, which are some of the most toxic substances you can introduce into the human body. That’s why all professional spiritualists keep one foot in the real world and know which stones to handle with care or avoid altogether.”
“Utterly riveting,” said Serge. “I never got that far in the book. Please tell me more!”
“As opposed to mystical powers, each of the crystals on this no-fly list has its own documented adverse neurological reaction,” said Trish. “Administered in that kitchen-sink batch you gave him, and it’s all uncharted waters, if you’ll excuse the pun.”
“That’s quite an eye-opener.”
“Wait,” said Trish. “What’s this?”
“What?”
“You told me you didn’t get this far in the book.” She held it up. “So why is the warning page dog-eared?”
“It is?” said Serge. “Then I must demand a refund. Some browsing customer obviously did that in the store.”
A pause to stare. “If you say so.”
“Hey, guys, check this out!”
Serge looked down the hall. “Coleman’s up?”
“Drinking Schlitz and watching cartoons.”
“Hurry or you’ll miss it!”
“Hold your horses!” Serge slowly rose with a strain of patience. “Coleman’s one of the few people to voluntarily pursue an assisted-living lifestyle . . .”
The pair entered the kitchen. “What’s so important?”
Coleman giggled and pointed at the TV with his beer.
“That isn’t cartoons,” said Serge. “You never watch the local news.”
“I was flipping channels, and they had amateur cell-phone videos of something that happened today. They’re about to show it again.”
They all gathered round. The news station ran a banner across the top of the screen: Florida Man Exclusive. Beneath it—with spots strategically blurred out—a naked man ran through traffic, flapping arms, banging on windows and babbling incoherently.
Trish gave a wary glance sideways.
“Hey, it’s not like I forced him to drink it at gunpoint,” said Serge. “Some people just see a gun and automatically infer.”
The man on the screen was now scrambling over hoods of cars and clawing at his skin, before darting into the intersection. The station stopped the video clip just before the moment of impact with the dump truck. It cut to a location shot:
“This is Ashley Zahn reporting live from the scene of today’s tragedy on the outskirts of Cassadaga. And while toxicology reports are still pending, police sources suspect the epidemic of the new designer drug flakka . . .”
“Trish,” said Serge. “You didn’t mention he was also a drug abuser.”
Chapter 21
After Dark
High beams of a black SUV split the ominous night on Highway 98. Nothing but trees and lawlessness. An oncoming semi truck whizzed by on the two-laner, rattling the car. Then wisps of fog. Every now and then, eyes glowed on the center line before darting off into the brush.
It became less isolated as they saw more and more headlights. The vehicle crested a hill and found the reason. A country store near the Wakulla River. Only place open for miles at this hour.
The SUV pulled into a parking lot full of pickup trucks with abnormally large tires. They went inside, and Nigel headed for the beer case. “You get the shovels.”
They approached the counter.
“Shovels and beer?” said the grizzled clerk. “You boys burying something?”
“No!”
He scanned in the purchase. “Then you must be digging something up.”
“W-w-why do you say that?”
The clerk shrugged. “It’s Friday night.”
Nigel and Günter rushed out of the store.
The next customers stepped up to the counter.
“Anything else?” asked the clerk.
“Just the shovels and beer.”
The SUV took off into the woods. Günter popped the cap off a Beck’s and began chugging.
“Give me one of those,” said Nigel. A green bottle upended.
The Suburban flew over hills and screeched around desolate turns, deeper into nature. Deeper into the beer. They took the fork at Tate’s Hell. A bottle flew out the window and shattered on the sign. “Fuckin’ A! . . . That’s what they say around here, right?”
Nigel turned up the brightness on the vehicle’s instrument panel and watched the odometer, counting down the last 5.7 miles to X-marks-the-spot. They slowed to a crawl when the last tenth turned over. “We’re here!”
“A-Ooooooooo!” Günter bayed at the moon. “Werewolves of London!”
It had been a twelve-pack. The contents of ten were back in the mist, with the final two in their hands as they opened the back of the vehicle for digging implements.
“Just a second,” said Nigel, pulling back the mat over the wheel well. “Take this.”
“A gun?”
Nigel tucked his own pistol in his waistband. “They sell them everywhere in the state. I bought these last week during our confrontational exposé on the dangers of gun shows.”
“Why?”
“To be on the safe side.” Nigel popped his last beer and staggered toward the woods. “Those gun people were scary.”
The pair plunged down the road’s embankment through mossy ground cover, aided by a D-cell baton flashlight.
“This way, I think,” said Nigel. “Günter? . . . Günter! What are you doing waving that gun?”
“Thought I heard something.” He crouched and took aim. “Shine that light over there.”
The beam hit a tree and an unimpressed bird.
Bang.
The bird took flight.
“Why’d you shoot at an owl?”
“His intentions were unclear.”
“Well, knock it off. We might need those bullets. These automatics only hold sixteen.”
Onward. Scraping themselves on branches. Falling down, tearing their pants.
“What’s so funny?” asked Nigel.
The cameraman stifled giggles. “This whole mess. Now that we’ve calmed down, it’s pretty hilarious if you think about it.”
“Günter! We’re not out of this yet! . . .” Snort. “We still have to—” Then he was cracking up as well. “You’re right. It is funny.”
Günter held his last bottle up to the moonlight. “How much you got left?”