“There are dozens of guys working separately,” said the second.
“Usually it’s lonely older women with a lot of jewelry.”
“That’s why we initially didn’t suspect it in this case, because of your age.”
Courtney’s brain raced to process data. “I don’t see any broken windows. How did they get in the house?”
“Probably a ‘bump’ key,” said the first detective.
“What’s that?”
“About twenty brands of locks cover ninety-five percent of the residential market, so they buy blanks to cover the spread . . .”
The other pulled out his own key chain. “See these ridges? They go up and down, high and low . . .
“. . . But on a ‘bump’ key, they’re all at the maximum height. Then they simply match the blank to the lock brand on your house.”
Courtney checked her own keys. “That’s kind of disconcerting. It just opens the door?”
“No, they have to practice,” said the first.
“An accomplice grabs the doorknob and applies torque, trying to turn it . . .”
“. . . And the other sticks the key in the opening of the lock and whacks it with a rubber mallet . . .”
“. . . If all goes right, the internal tumblers momentarily bounce, and the knob pops open in the hand of the guy applying pressure.”
Courtney leaned back against the door frame. “So what now?”
“We’ll have the sketch artist call . . .”
“. . . In the meantime, get your locks changed.”
“I’ll do it this afternoon,” said Courtney. “Will that stop another bump key?”
“No.”
The detectives headed out the door and down the front porch steps. The first stopped and turned. “Just one more thing, ma’am . . .”
“Yes?” said Courtney.
“How’d you like the shrimp cocktail?”
They walked away laughing.
STATE ROAD 60
High beams from a Firebird Trans Am was the only illumination for miles, splitting the thick night in that long no-man’s run between Lake Wales and Yeehaw.
A hamster crawled out of a bong. “Serge, I thought you were going to take care of this guy back at Busch Gardens.”
Serge slowed to let a rabbit cross the road. “I was, but realized they don’t have what I need there anymore. It would have been perfect back in the seventies, except I’m guessing the safety people decided to lower the risks.”
“Change of plans?”
“No, same plans. Plenty of other places have since cropped up that’ll work just as well.”
A few more minutes and the black Pontiac pulled up alongside a barbed-wire fence. There was a gate with a gnarled wooden sign across the top. Coleman read it and turned to Serge. “You’ve got to be kidding. He’s going to be tickled to death?”
Serge grabbed a pair of bolt cutters. “You’d be surprised.”
Soon the muscle car bounded across one of the most wide-open plains in all of Florida.
Coleman leaned toward the windshield. “Are you going to let me watch this time?”
“From a safe distance.”
“Yes!”
They finally reached the approximate center of the prairie flats. Coleman started opening his door.
Serge lunged and yanked the handle shut. “Are you crazy! Want to get us killed?”
“Why are you so freaked out?” said Coleman. “There might be another bunny out there?”
“It will soon become more than evident. But whatever you do, don’t get out of the car.”
Serge pulled his gun and stepped out of the Firebird, pointing it into the darkness. He slowly inched his way to the back of the Firebird.
The trunk popped.
Eyes blinked like a waking child.
“Good, you’re still dazed,” said Serge, ripping the tape off Roscoe’s mouth. “Listen, I’ve done some thinking and, whatever you’ve done, I’ve been displaying a complete lack of empathy. So you’re free to go.”
“Huh, what?”
Serge untied Nash and helped him out of the trunk.
Roscoe just stood and stared.
Serge waved with the gun. “Go on. Git!”
“Uh, okay, sure.”
Roscoe took slow steps backward as Serge scrambled into the driver’s seat and hit the gas like he’d just gotten the green flag at Daytona.
Coleman bounced against the ceiling as the Firebird sprang across dips and mounds. “Ow, ow, ow, what’s the hurry? Ow, ow . . .”
“We need to get back outside the fence and lock the gate as soon as possible.” Serge veered and barely missed a watering hole. “I didn’t tell you this before because of your marijuana situation, but we’re not even safe in this car.”
“What!”
“It’s got a tight suspension that doesn’t let us go very fast in this terrain. And the windows aren’t tempered to the proper strength.”
Moments later, the Trans Am was back on the shoulder of State Road 60 with the gate adequately secured. Serge and Coleman leaned against fence posts, peering into the dark expanse.
“Just remembered something,” said Coleman. “You mentioned at the jail that you posted his bail?”
“What a bargain! Paid the bondsman ten cents on the buck.”
“But why would you waste good money that way?”
“It’s like those credit-card ads,” said Serge. “Bailing a dipstick out of jaiclass="underline" eight hundred dollars. What happens now: priceless!”
Serge returned his gaze to the field, resting his chin on top of a post. A quarter mile away, a tiny silhouette turned in a circle and glanced around.
“Nothing’s happening,” said Coleman. “He’s just standing in the open, looking confused.”
“He will soon be accompanied by other thoughts.”
“Wait, what’s that?”
“Where?”
Coleman stretched out an arm. “Way over there to the right.”
“Are you sure?”
Coleman looked down at his sneakers. Written across the toes in Magic Marker: R on one; L on the other.
“I mean the left,” said Coleman. “Even farther away from the guy than we are. It’s not moving. Just standing upright like a human, but the shape’s not right.”
“The guy sees it,” said Serge. “He’s starting to back up. The thing has spotted him and is beginning to walk in his direction.”
“Where’d you get this idea anyway?”
“From a friend who worked at Busch Gardens in the seventies,” said Serge. “He used to run the rib shack, and people really must have loved ribs back then because by the end of the day, they had such huge piles of ashes from the wood they’d burned that it filled several fifty-five-gallon drums. Then they loaded the drums on the back of a big Cushman golf cart, and the animal handlers would give them the all clear, open the gates and wave them through. They’d drive around the Serengeti Plain in the dark, spreading the ashes because it’s a good fertilizer.”
“That doesn’t sound dangerous,” said Coleman.
“It’s not,” said Serge. “Except one night when they reached their first drop point, faint yelling erupted back at the gate: ‘Get out of there! Get out now!’ My friend turned and realized they hadn’t secured all the wildlife. So he mashed the pedal of the golf cart all the way down, racing for the gate and praying. He’d worked at the park a long time and knew one extreme peril that the general public would never suspect.”
“Peril?” Coleman looked up at the gnarled ranch sign over the gate. “I’m not buying it.”
“I was skeptical, too, so I did some research on the Internet.” Serge watched his former captive break into a full sprint. “Found reports of several deaths every year in South Africa and Louisiana, even videos on YouTube. One article quoted a California zookeeper saying that they’d had a couple lions escape since they opened, except they weren’t worried because the big cats were old and sluggish. But there was one zoo resident whose possibility of escape freaked them out more than all the others and required the tightest security.”