Coconut Cowboy (18 page)

The trailing members slid a ­couple forward. The first clump of dirt flew. Then another, and another. Jabow was motivated but tiring. “How deep did they say?”

“They didn't,” said Vernon. “But with those three, I'm guessing not a lot of elbow grease was involved.”

They kept digging until Jabow stood hip-­deep in the ground. “This can't be right.”

“Then we'll just have to widen the hole.”

An hour later, everyone was panting with futility.

“Now I'm really going to kill them!” said Jabow.

A flashlight slowly panned boards and beams. “It's got to be here somewhere,” said Vernon. “The only other answer is they were lying, and they're too stupid and scared for that.”

“What do we do?”

“Fan out and dig a bunch of shallow test holes every few feet.”

Another hour passed. ­People shouted from various corners beneath the house. “Nothing here.” “Same here.” “I've reached the end.”

Vernon turned to his brother. “Jabow, I know how you feel about this, and with every right. But now we have no choice. We've got to bring 'em out and show us.”

“Then I get to kill them?”

“Fair enough.”

Everyone piled back in the vehicles. Just as they were pulling out, a police radio squawked. A hand grabbed the mike. “Vern here.”

“This is Officer Phibbs.”

“Phibbs, it better be damned important.”

“It's leaning that way . . .” And the cop laid it out.

Vernon keyed the mike again. “And this happened
last
night? Why are you just telling me about it now?”

“I'd rather not say any more over the radio.”

Vernon hung up the mike and yelled out the window at another car. “Jabow . . .”

“I heard on my own radio. What a crazy night.”

“I've got to go out there,” said the mayor. “You head back and gather the peckerheads.”

They reached the road at the bottom of Jabow's drive. The pickup headed back to town, and Vernon went the other way, hitting lights and siren. “Of all the rotten times for another sinkhole!”

 

Chapter
TWENTY-THREE

BACK TO NATURE

U
nhurried citizens strolled through crosswalks. Optimistic notions of how the evening's dinner menus would come together. Some lugged plastic and earth-­friendly sacks; others were followed by bagboys pushing shopping carts. One woman had second thoughts about her veal with peppercorn.

The grocery store's automatic doors opened again; an effervescent man in a tropical shirt sprinted out holding a pair of sacks high over his head. “I scored! I scored!”

The crosswalk traffic parted as Serge and Coleman raced back to their moving van. “Publix is a Florida treasure! Where shopping is a pleasure!”

“But we just bought fruits and vegetables,” said Coleman. “I hate it when you only let us shop along the walls of the store with all the yucky stuff.”

Serge checked his appearance in the rearview. “Jedi Master, the force of the beer aisle is strong with this one.”

Later that night, the rental truck pulled into an empty parking lot at Homosassa Springs Wildlife State Park.

“Serge, duck your head down!”

“Why?”

“A security guard! And there's another!”

Two golf carts pulled alongside the driver's door. “The park's closed. Can we help you with something?”

Serge held up a road map. “Checking my route.”

Thud, thud, thud.

“What was that?” asked a guard.

“Must not have stacked the boxes right.” Serge folded the map. “Hope nothing's broken or I'm in trouble. You married?”

“So you're not parking here overnight or anything?” asked one of the guards.

“Leaving right now.” Serge started up the engine and got back on the road.

“That was close,” said Coleman. “I guess you'll have to call off your project.”

“Just the opposite.” Serge swung onto a small road below the park and cut his lights. “That was exactly what I expected. Simply needed to recon their security rounds before I put everything in motion.”

Serge opened the back of the truck and rolled out the chopper, hiding it in the darkness of the side street. Then he resumed driving deeper into marsh country.

“Hey, there's Neon Leon's again,” said Coleman. “Why are we back here?”

“Because the houses really start to spread out, and there's a lot of vegetation for concealment.” Serge slowed and checked each residence for a number of criteria. “No . . . No . . . No . . . No . . . Okay, this one looks promising.”

The truck quietly drove across the lawn and pulled around behind the house.

“Why did you pick this place over all the others?”

“Four reasons.” Serge rolled up the rear door of the truck and climbed in. “First, it's on the Homosassa River. Second, there's enough space between homes that it's out of view. Third, the lights are out at an early hour, which means the owners aren't home.”

“What if they're just having dinner at Leon's?”

“We'll be long gone by then anyway.” Serge dragged the wriggling captive by his ankles across the cargo bed, then pushed him over the bumper, where he fell to the ground with a groan.

“What's the fourth reason?” asked Coleman.

Serge glanced toward the water. “They have one of those.”

“Cool.”

“Give me a hand with Betsy . . .”

A few minutes later, Serge and Coleman moved slowly and quietly through the night, cool wind in their hair, oak branches overhead.

“Mmmmmmmm!”

“Serge, your prisoner is trying to scream again under the duct tape.”

“Doesn't he know this is a nature area?” Serge looked down and delivered a swift kick to the ribs. “You're disturbing the wildlife.” Another kick. “There's more where that came from.”

“Mmmmmmm!”

“Crap! Another challenged student!” Serge ripped the tape off his captive's mouth, producing a brief schoolgirl scream. “So you want to talk?” He pressed a .45 auto into the captive's right eye. “I'm all ears.”

Nothing but frogs belching in the dark.

“That's what I thought.” Serge tucked the gun away under his tropical shirt. “You're all cowards! When it comes to sexual quirks, I'm as weird as you are! No, weirder. There's not a chance you can keep up with me in that pantheon.” He bent down and covered the prisoner's nose and mouth until he couldn't breathe. “When it comes to getting your freak on, my motto is the same as the oath physicians take: Do no harm.”

“Mmmmmmmmm!”

“You'll have to speak more clearly. I can't understand a word you're saying.”
Kick, kick, stomp, kick.
“In all my years, I thought I'd been around every fetish block there is, but not this ghetto.” Extra-­hard kick, this time to the throat. “Trouble breathing, eh? Think about those poor, small animals you tortured and mutilated just for sexual gratification and, worse, profit!” Another stomp that broke his nose.

“He shut up,” said Coleman, looking skyward at the canopy of brilliant stars in the reacquired tranquillity. “This is actually kind of nice.”

“Who says work needs to be stressful?” Serge stood confidently at a steering wheel. “That's why I love environmental experiments.”

Coleman stared over the side into black water. “I've never ridden a pontoon boat before.”

“Necessary for shallow drafting—­and when you need a stable, flat deck.” Serge turned the wheel, and the craft calmly followed a bend in the river. Along the banks: docks and davits and homes with flickering TVs.

“Serge,” Coleman whispered. “I thought boat engines were noisy.”

“Very much so.” Serge turned the wheel the other way. “And that big ninety-­horsepower Evinrude on the back of this baby would wake the whole neighborhood. That's why I'm using the auxiliary electric motor to run silently. Most riverboats have them because the owners generally like to fish, and on the final approach to their favorite spots, they switch to electric so it doesn't spook their prey.”

“The motor's really tiny.”

“With a pontoon boat this size, you can only go a ­couple miles an hour,” said Serge. “Which is fine because we're in a wake-­free manatee zone—­another spiritual commandment with me—­and I don't need to make waves that could bang around those boats anchored at the bank and draw attention.”

“Mmmmmmmmm!”

Kick
.

“You're right,” said Coleman. “We couldn't be more quiet if we tried. And dark.”

“I killed the running lights,” said Serge. “That's a no-­no, but the animals don't mind.”

A barely audible movement of air came toward them as something took shape in the blackness. A large blue heron swooped over the boat and disappeared. An owl hooted from an overhanging branch.

“Nature's cool,” said Coleman.

“Then take a gander off the port side.”

“Which is port?”

“Left.”

Coleman leaned over the edge.

“Your other left,” said Serge.

“Oh.” Coleman walked across the boat.

“Here's how you remember: Port has fewer letters than starboard, and left has fewer letters than right. I can't help you with the basic right and left.”

“Better write it on my shoes again.” Coleman suddenly leaped back and seized his heart.

“What's the matter?”

He pointed with a quivering arm. “There's something giant and alive in the water! Now I know what you're going to do to that guy.”

“Chill out.” Serge ran fingers through his hair. “That's one of the gentlest creatures on earth.”

Coleman cautiously looked over the side again. “I recognize it now. It's one of the manatees we saw earlier.”

“Grab one of our grocery bags and get out a head of lettuce. They like that.”

Coleman dropped the leafy ball in the water. “You're right. He's nibbling. So that's why you made us stop at the store?”

“Not entirely.”

They continued up the river, bend after bend. More birds and unseen things in the trees. Then it became eerily quiet. The boat approached a bridge.

Coleman stared up as they slipped under the span. “This reminds me of
Apocalypse Now
.”

“Near the end of our mission, there will be certain parallels.”

Serge cut the engine back until they were barely moving.

“There's that underwater tank where we looked at fish the other day,” said Coleman. “We're inside the park now?”

“Keep your voice down.” Serge pointed up the right bank. “And your head.”

They watched the roof of a golf cart zip by.

“I think this is a bad idea,” said Coleman. “Those guards are bound to see us.”

“Not if we stay low,” said Serge. “They're on vigil for trouble coming at them from the road. They never expect the river. And the moon won't be up for a while, so as long as we stay on schedule, we'll have cover of total darkness.”

“But I just don't see how it's possible to break into an official place like this.”

“Chaos is always possible in Florida,” said Serge. “Sea World has far more security, but remember in 1999 when that guy snuck into a tank in the middle of the night to swim with the whales? They discovered his naked body the next morning. And he was just some loon who stupidly stumbled through all their precautions, so this place should be a cakewalk.”

Serge steered toward the bank and turned the motor off, allowing the pontoons to drift harmlessly into the mud and reeds. Then he hopped ashore and secured the boat with a rope around the nearest tree.

Coleman followed Serge on hands and knees as they crept to the perimeter of a large enclosure. Serge taped an envelope to a fence post.

“What's that?” asked Coleman.

“Money for repairs because I have total respect for the sanctity of our state parks.” He started snipping the fence with bolt cutters. Soon he had enough clearance to peel back a wide flap. “Now help me unload the boat . . .”

Moments later, they were crawling again. Coleman had a grocery sack and a leash. Serge pulled a pair of ankles.

“Mmmmmmmm!”

Serge grabbed the man's crotch. “I swear to God I'll pop your nuts if you don't shut up! . . . That's better.”

They slithered through the opening in the fence.

“You were right,” said Coleman. “We made it inside.”

“Don't celebrate too soon.” Serge removed his backpack. “We've got critical work to do. Hand me the leash . . .”

WOBBLY

Vernon's car skidded to a stop at the top of the driveway, and he cut the siren.

Officer Phibbs was still interviewing the person who had originally called 911 the day before.

The mayor ran up. “Peter, are you okay? Are you hurt?”

“I'm fine. Just freaked out.”

Other official cars were already there. Several sheriff's cruisers and unmarked vehicles. Detectives taking photos.

“God, I hate those county bastards!” said Vernon. “This is all we need.” He turned to his officer. “You were kind of vague when you called me on the radio. This happened last night?”

The officer nodded.

“And I'm only hearing about it now?”

“Peter ran to a neighbor's house down the road, which may or may not be over city limits,” said the officer. “So the call went to the sheriff's office, and it fell through the cracks . . . Deputies finally got around to coming out, and when I saw all the commotion while driving by, I figured you'd want to know, because of that
other issue
.”

“Excuse me,” said Peter. “What other issue?”

“Your house is located in disputed border country.”

“I don't know what that means.”

“Has to do with that strip of land we annexed so we could catch speeders on the highway,” said Vernon. He glanced around to see if anyone was eavesdropping. “Surveyors cost a lot of money, so we just sort of eyeballed it.”

More sheriff's cars came pouring up the drive. Deputies began unwinding yellow spools.

“Excuse me, Mayor,” said Officer Phibbs. “I didn't exactly tell you everything before, because it was over the radio. Could we step aside for a moment?”

The officer gave him the lowdown.

“What!” Vernon jumped back. “You're completely serious?”

The officer nodded.

Vernon heard car doors slamming across the lawn.

“Who are those guys?” asked Peter.

“No time to explain,” said Vernon. “Listen very carefully: Don't say a single word. I'm getting you a lawyer.”

“But I didn't do anything.”

“Doesn't matter,” said Vernon. “This is one of those rural political feuds, and you've just become an innocent pawn in the border war. Forget fair. Anything—­and I mean anything—­can happen way out here in the country.”

“You mean like that song ‘The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia'?”

“Just keep your yap shut!” Vernon turned and smiled and held out a hand. “Sheriff Highsmith, it's a pleasure. What brings you out to these parts?”

“Vern, are we going to have to do this the hard way again?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure you don't.” The sheriff pivoted. “You must be Peter Pugliese?”

“Peter,” said Vernon. “Remember what I told you. You don't have to talk.”

“Interfering with a witness?” asked Highsmith.

“I don't know about your jurisdiction, but in my town reminding someone of the Constitution is patriotic,” said Vernon. “And speaking of jurisdiction, aren't you out of yours?”

More cars arrived. Men got out on the edge of the property, setting up tripods with highly calibrated telescopes.