Electric Barracuda (23 page)

“You just asked that.”

“What is this we’re on?”

“Myakka River, park’s namesake.”

“It’s narrow.”

“Current stretch is.” He glanced up. “Perfect cover with the trees.”

As the canoe approached each bend, alligators slid into the water like thieves.

Coleman looked over the side as one passed the other way. “Good God! It’s longer than our boat!” His hands shook so badly he could barely crack another beer, which he chugged in one long guzzle.

“Coleman!” snapped Serge. “I’m counting on you to keep it together until we reach the next fugitive way station. You can’t get fucked up as usual.”

“This ain’t partying.” He popped another cold one. “It’s nerve medication. You sure about gators not attacking canoes.”

“Totally.” Serge gazed up again at overhanging branches. “I’d be more worried about the killer swooping turtles.”

Coleman spit a spray of Miller High Life over the side. “Killer what?”

“Turtles. Big ones with razor-sharp teeth that wait in overhead trees for unsuspecting canoeists, then swoop and bite their heads off.”

Coleman rapidly glanced up and down between the branches and knotholes in the river. Another beer cracked.

“Don’t worry.” Serge made peaceful strokes in the water. “It’s just a goofy myth in these parts. But one that our next stop has gotten a lot of mileage from.”

Moments later, the banks diverged and the river opened up. Serge noticed an unintended change of course. “Why are we starting to go in a circle—” He turned around. “Coleman, get that paddle back in the water.”

“But I’m tired.”

“You’re drunk.”

“Are we there yet?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“There.”

The canoe skirted a final bend and a dock came into view. Some kind of weathered building, an outdoor pavilion, boat ramp, sounds echoing off the banks: Hank Williams and whooping-it-up beer drinkers.

“Now you’re talking,” said Coleman. “What is this place?”

“Snook Haven.” Serge nosed the canoe onto the ramp, got out and pulled it the rest of the way so Coleman wouldn’t make a water landing. “Legendary Florida fish camp overlooking the Myakka east of Venice in the middle of nowhere.”

“Look at all those motorcycles.”

“Bikers find all the best places in Florida.”

They walked around to the entrance, with a large carved snook on the door.

“Serge, there’s a sign with a crazy-looking turtle on it.”

“Souvenir T-shirts to follow inside.” He opened the door. Dark wood. That outback hunting lodge vibe.

“Serge!”

He waved back at two humongous bikers. “Skid Marks! Bacon Strips!”

Big hugs as each lifted Serge off the floor. “Been following your website,” said Skid. “Dynamite Fugitive Tour.”

Bacon hoisted a mug of draft. “A little too close to reality.”

“Nobody would ever find you out here.” Skid dabbed a gator nugget in tartar and popped it in his mouth. “When I first saw the tour, I said, Snook Haven has to be coming up next, and sure enough.”

Coleman grabbed a stool and signaled for three beers. “So what do your nicknames mean?”

A round of laughs. And so began a prolonged afternoon of river country camaraderie. Live entertainment took the tiny stage.

Banjos.

“They filmed the movie right out there on this river,” said Serge.

“Here we go again,” chided Skid Marks.

“Early RKO talking film
Prestige
, starring Ann Benning. Takes place at a French penal colony in Indochina that they built on these banks. I’m going there now in my mind . . .”

Myakka River State Park

Agent White established a command post down at the lakefront sundries store.

A clearinghouse for fruitless reports.

Until . . .

Lowe rushed in. “Come quick. You’re wanted on the radio.”

They ran out to his car. “White here.”

“We got something down at Deep Hole.”

“Serge?”

“No, but you really need to see this.”

“Do I hear someone throwing up in the background?”

“Yes.”

A late-afternoon sun cast that muted warm, orange glow along a hammock of palm trees. A mixed cast of officials stood solemnly along the edge of the sinkhole. Still taking in a new experience.

Decapitated alligator, shreds of a rubber life raft, tent stakes, nylon rope, and a severed human arm that another gator had been munching and dropped when the first rangers arrived.

“What the heck are we looking at?” said White.

Mahoney took a swig from a sterling hip flask. “Serge.”

“Could you be less coy?”

Mahoney flicked a vintage Zippo open and closed. “Seen it a million times.”

“This?”
White gestured at the scene in frustration. “Exactly?”

Mahoney shook his head, still flicking the lighter. It had a blond bombshell from the nose art of a B-17 Flying Fortress. “His milieu.”

“You know, you’re a very difficult person to talk to.”

Mahoney crouched over the arm. “Runs Goldberg long game on sideways jakes to the big snooze.”

“Will you please speak the language?”

A police radio went off.

“Sir, we completed a full sweep. Nothing in the park . . .”

White stared at Deep Hole. “I don’t understand it. We’ve got even the smallest back road blocked. How did he get out?”

Mahoney gazed across shallow marshland, where a trickle of a river snaked out of sight. A knowing smile crept across his face.

“What is it?” asked White.

“Myakka Midnight Special,” said Mahoney. “Canoe Keyhole Squeeze.”

“What?”

“I know how he escaped from the park,” said Mahoney. “River runs under the bridge and straight down to this fish camp near Venice.”

Snook Haven

Serge returned from the restroom. “Okay, I’m back from Indochina. Everyone ready?”

“Ready for what?” asked Coleman. He raised a finger to the bartender. “Beer.”

Serge waved him off. “No beer . . . Coleman, we have to go. We’re on a tight schedule. You think this is all just pointless wandering?”

“Back to the canoe?”

Serge shook his head.

Skid Marks and Bacon Strips got off their stools.

“What?” said Coleman, looking around. “You mean you planned all along to meet here? Like another ‘Out’?”

Skid Marks just smiled.

“You can ride with me,” said Bacon Strips.

Venice

A Crown Vic raced south on Interstate 75.

“Mahoney, you sure about this hunch of yours?” asked White.

“Does a bear shit in the Vatican?”

“There it is,” said Lowe. “Exit 191.”

White took the ramp. They sped down River Road, as in the Myakka River . . .

Less than a mile south, two large Harleys roared along a gravel road, through a tight corridor of palms and slash pines. Serge and Coleman on the back of each.

The hogs passed a small dirt access, where a convertible T-Bird sat off at an angle just out of view in the trees. The redhead in the driver’s seat watched them go by, then slowly pulled out.

The bikers finally emerged from the woods, back into civilization. Skid Marks rolled up to the intersection with River Road and put his boots on the ground. Over his shoulder: “Which way?”

“South,” said Serge.

A couple hundred yards north, the occupants of a Crown Vic just missed two motorcycles turning left onto River Road, followed at a discreet distance by a turquoise T-Bird.

“There’s the turn,” said Lowe. “That little country road.”

White pulled off the highway and stopped by a sign. Snook Haven, Live Music. A cartoon of a green animal wearing a T-shirt: Home Of The Killer Turtles.

Car doors opened. They gathered on the shoulder.

“Seal this off,” said White. “Major felony stop. The rest of you, come with me.”

They roared down the gravel road to the riverbank and an old fish camp. White gave snap directions again for another perimeter lockdown. Then he grabbed the handle of a carved-snook door, and three agents went inside.

“Wow,” said Lowe. “Look at this cool place.”

Mahoney slapped a badge on the bar. He held up a black-and-white photo. “Hey mug, seen this mug?”

The bartender poured foam off a draft. “Sure, just in here.”

“When did he blow?”

“I don’t know, couldn’t have been too long ago.”

Same results for the other agents. Everyone had just seen Serge and Coleman, and nobody knew where they went.

“I remember them,” said a patron in a fishing vest. “They were talking to these bikers. Seemed like they knew each other.”

“Think carefully,” said White. “Did they leave together?”

“Might have.”

“When?”

Shoulders shrugged.

“White,” said Lowe. “Didn’t we see a couple motorcycles take off just before we turned onto this road?”

“That’s right,” said the agent. “And they had passengers, heading south.” He ran out the door.

A Crown Vic led the speeding convoy back up the gravel road until they came to the checkpoint. White yelled out his window. “We’re looking for four people on two Harleys, southbound. Move!”

Part III

THE PAST CATCHES UP

Chapter Twenty

The Tamiami Trail

S
kid Marks and Bacon Strips rode side by side on glorious machines, lords of the highway, top of the food chain.

It was that kind of day, the open road, wind in their faces, the words “Alive” and “Freedom” written in tall letters across the sky. A sticker on the back of one of the bikes:
Honk If You’ve Never Seen A Gun Fired From A Moving Harley.

Serge took pictures. Coleman clung for life.

“Loosen up,” Bacon yelled back. “I can’t breathe.”

“I’m scared.”

They took River Road south until picking up the Tamiami Trail in North Port.

“Quarter mile,” Serge said over Skid’s shoulder. “That’s our turn.”

The bikers eased off the throttle and swung left in unison like an airplane formation.

A half minute later, a convertible T-Bird slowed and looked down the road the bikers had taken, then sped up again. At the next light, the redhead made a U-turn . . .

Back up the street, two Harleys sat parked outside a ticket pavilion.

Inside: People stared.

It was not a common sight at this particular tourist stop. Serge, Coleman and two hairy, barrel-chested, tattooed bikers stood waist-deep in a pool. Surrounding them were no fewer than a hundred other people, all with at least three decades on the new arrivals. The gawking senior citizens eventually got used to their younger companions and resumed low-impact water aerobics. Some wore out-dated swim caps with stick-on plastic flowers. They spoke German and French and Italian.

It wasn’t exactly a regular pool. Actually a large artesian-fed pond. People across Europe believed it had spiritual powers.

“Look at all the old people,” said Coleman.

“It’s Warm Mineral Springs,” said Serge.

“It’s warm,” said Coleman.

“Constant eighty-seven degrees year-round. They come from across the globe to cure what ails ’em.”

“But why are
we
here?”

“First, it’s the perfect place to hide out. Low police hassle factor because of the remoteness.” Serge waved around at all the octogenarians in the pool. “And these people are generally behaved. Just the occasional dustup with canes and walkers.”