“. . . 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 jail: 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:
“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?”
