“The woman started dating the guy, and her sister told some horrible lie that made him dump her?”
“No.”
“I give up.”
“Here’s the red-flag answer that says you think like a killer: She wanted to meet the guy again at the next funeral.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“That’s why normal people don’t give that answer.”
“It’s a stupid test.”
Gus grabbed the keys to the cruiser. “We need to get going.”
AN ECLECTIC BLEND of people in “I Follow Nobody” T-shirts milled around the base of the Bogie Channel Bridge, where Serge’s notice on the community center’s bulletin board had told them to assemble for their first field trip. They were joined by several regulars from the pub and some clowns from a local carnival who were buying pot from Coleman.
A ’71 Buick Riviera skidded up, and Serge jumped out. “Welcome to the Night Tour!”
He reached in the backseat for camera equipment. “Truly apologize for being late. Hate it when people do that to me. Unavoidable personal emergency. Okay, I’m actually having marriage problems. But that’s confidential; I can’t reveal any details. Even
They nodded.
Serge began leading them on foot over the bridge.
“…Observe the stars, their concentration and brightness almost like special effects this far from the light pollution of the cities…. And now we come to the night fishermen. Can’t say enough about the night fishermen! You see them throughout the Keys, every night, all night. How can they spend so much time like this? When do they sleep? What about their jobs?…” The fishermen stared at Serge as he walked by talking loudly. “…Don’t they know how to form relationships? What killed their life ambition? Keep it up, guys!… And now we come to No Name Key, best viewing location for miniature deer, especially at night when it’s cooler and they come out to forage….”
The gang walked two more miles down the straight road across the island. They saw a total of eight deer, including a doe and a fawn that slowly crossed the street ahead of them and climbed into the brush. They came to the end of the road, which used to be the ferry landing before they built the Seven-Mile Bridge. Now it was just ruins with a barricade and reflective warning sign so tourists wouldn’t drive into the water.
“This way.” Serge left the road and started up an unofficial footpath that led from the north side of the pavement. The gang followed. After a few hundred yards, dense trees gave way to a moonlit clearing bordered by mangroves on the bay side. Water from a rising tide splashed through a maze of exposed roots that ensnared trash. Swim trunks, fishing line, rusty beer cans, two shoes tied together, mildewed pup tent and a Clorox bottle.
Somebody else already occupied Serge’s clearing. Teenagers in trench coats and stud collars and black makeup. They tended a waning campfire. A small pelt lay on the ground, blood and entrails. One of them held a stick over the fire, roasting an animal heart.
“Who the heck are you?” asked Serge.
The teen with the stick took a bite off the end. “Vampires.”
Another teen with spiked palm mitts relieved himself in the bushes. “Devil worshipers.”
“Which is it?” asked Serge.
“Both,” said the one by the fire.
“I see,” said Serge. “Overachievers.”
The one at the fire stood up. He was the leader because his mother let him borrow the station wagon. “What are you doing here?”
“Holding a meeting,” said Serge. “We reserved this clearing. It’s been on the board at the community hall all week. I know we’re a little late, but we still have the rest of the hour.”
One of the people susceptible to joining cults raised his hand. “Is it hard to become a vampire?”
“Oh, sorry.” One of the clowns stepped out of the way so the teen could continue his line.
Coleman tapped Serge’s shoulder. “He’s making me hungry.”
