Electric Barracuda (42 page)

“The fishpond and those other stones are about all that’s left,” said Lucky. “Hard to imagine today, way out here in the boondocks, but what a scene this was eighty years ago.”

Serge got down on his knees and rubbed the blocks. “Capone’s old place. I never would have found it without you.”

“Guess you’ll want to take some pictures like usual,” said Lucky.

“Just a couple.”

“Couple hundred.”

Everyone else waited back at the truck until Serge finished his photographic safari.

He returned with his camera. “I need to crash. Long night with the chase and everything—and what we have ahead. Plus Mikey’s yawning.”

“Me, too,” said Coleman.

“Take my trailer,” said Lucky.

They drove back to the compound. Fifty yards past the gate sat a yellow DeVille.

“Expecting anyone?” asked Lucky.

“It’s that guy again,” said Serge.

“Cop?”

Serge shook his head. “He’s the mystery man.”

As they approached, the DeVille turned around in the road and sped away.

Lucky drove through the gate. They went to the main trailer, and soon three people were dead asleep with their shoes on.

Chapter Forty-two

Lucky’s Place

A
helicopter whapped over the compound.

Serge sprang up in bed and ran to the window. The chopper kept going toward Miami. He looked around the inside of Lucky’s trailer. Coleman and Mikey were still down for the count. Serge crept outside. “Lucky? . . .” He circled the outhouse and shower. “Lucky? . . .”

He came back around. “Luck—” He stopped. Up the driveway, the gate was open a crack. Lucky never left the gate open unless he was holding court on the porch. And nobody on the porch. This wasn’t good. Serge tiptoed across the yard. He reached the gate and peeked through the opening. Still no Lucky.

Serge slowly pushed it open a foot and winced at the creaking of hinges. He poked his head outside.

“What the—”

Even from behind, it was a sight. Smack-dab in the middle of the Loop Road: legs in a wide stance, a statuesque redhead wearing nothing but ruby cowboy boots and a gunfighter’s belt with a pair of .45-caliber Peacemaker revolvers on her hips. And just beyond was Lucky, crouched low behind a tripod, clicking away with a large-format Hasselblad camera.

Lucky stood. “Serge, you’re awake.”

The woman turned around.

“Serge,” said Lucky, walking toward them. “I’d like you to meet Cynthia, my afternoon appointment.”

The woman made no attempt to cover anything. “Hey there, Serge. You’re kinda cute.”

Lucky noticed Serge’s eyes shift to the right. He turned around and saw a black Beemer slowly pull up and park on the side of the road fifty yards away.

“Cynthia,” said Lucky. “We better go back inside and finish at the tub . . .”

They headed toward the porch.

Serge whispered. “It’s time.”

“Now?” said Lucky, glancing toward Cynthia climbing the tub’s ladder.

“Everything set?”

“Final details wrapping up as we speak,” said Lucky. “I set it in motion while you dozed.”

“I’ll go wake Coleman.” Serge headed back to the trailer. “Can you babysit Mikey for me?”

Five minutes later, Lucky waved from the driveway, and Cynthia waved from the bathtub. A pickup truck rolled out of the compound.

Serge turned east. He looked in the rearview. A black Beemer started up and began following. Serge hit the gas and raced around a corner. At each bend, another glance in the mirrors. Beemer far behind but picking up speed.

A final turn. Serge saw the old Pinecrest gas pumps up the road. And a parked car.

“Look,” said Coleman. “Someone’s coming out of the woods . . . I recognize him.”

“Charles Knight,” said Serge. “Right on schedule.”

Knight got in his car and drove off. Serge pulled up and parked in the just-vacated spot. They got out wearing rubber boots. “Don’t look back,” said Serge. “A Beemer should be just arriving . . .”

Coleman pointed. “There it is!”

“Thanks. Let’s go.”

They slipped through some trees and walked across a grassy clearing. Serge passed the remains of a fishpond, then climbed the steps of the old Capone place. He reached the back of the foundation where the porch had been, leading Coleman down a slight, moist embankment.

Into the swamp.

The dry season had just ended. Water returning. Shallow at first . . .

Coleman’s head kept swinging back and forth at every sound. “I’m getting the creeps again.”

“Just stay close to me.”

“What’s that you’re looking at?”

“A map.” Serge held out his other hand: “And a GPS.”

Clouds rolled in, adding to the already increasing darkness of the unchecked growth.

Serge pushed through branches and negotiated roots. Water bugs danced in puddles. The terrain sloped lower. Boots splashed. A python slithered down a trunk into the mud. Dragonflies and wasps. Coleman swatted in front of his face and bumped into Serge.

“Not that close.”

“I hear something behind us.”

“I know.”

Reeds and more roots. An inch or two of water was now above their ankles. Serge tracked the changing digital number on his handheld unit. “Back up a few feet.”

“Why?”

“We need to watch our step from here on. You can be walking along forever in shallow swamp, then suddenly go down over your head in a ten-foot gator hole.”

“Gator hole!”

“If I go under, just stop where you are. I’ll be right back. I can get out easily, but if we go in together, it’ll be too interesting.”

More splashes. A cottonmouth wiggled away in the water. Getting darker. Tree frogs, tree snails, algae, lily pads. A soft-shelled turtle on a rotting log.

Coleman looked back. “Serge, the sound’s getting closer.”

“Good.” The ground sloped up. The GPS said another twenty feet. Serge trudged through saw grass to a small dry hammock of land with a cluster of hardwoods. He checked the number on the small screen and stopped.

So did the sound behind them.

Serge looked at his feet. “Here we are.”

“Where?”

Serge squatted down and brushed away leaves and twigs. He began digging. But not for long. Six inches down, fingertips hit a flat surface. He ran his hands across the top until he found the edges of a large rectangle, then dug a trench around the sides. “Coleman, I need your help. There’s a handle on that end.”

“What is it?”

“Just lift.”

Out it came. Coleman wiped his hands on his shirt. “Heavier than it looks.”

Serge crouched in front of the old steamer trunk. He flipped a pair of latches. “It’s unlocked. We’re in luck.”

“Luck just ran out!”

They turned around.

Someone with the wrong shoes for the job splashed toward them. Pointing a gun. “Step away from the trunk.”

“Let me guess,” said Serge. “You drive a Beemer.”

“Smart guy.” He waved them aside with the pistol. “But I’m smarter. I knew you’d lead me right to it.”

“Serge,” said Coleman, trembling. “Is he going to kill us?”

“Kill you?” The man walked sideways toward the trunk, keeping the gun aimed. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m a respectable attorney.”

“Brad Meltzer,” said Serge.

“So you know.”

“I know you swindled my grandfather’s old gang.”

A devious smile. “Those were legitimate billable hours. But I deserved more. They knew about this chest but played dumb . . .” The smile dissolved to red-faced anger. “They owed me a cut! After all those years! Keeping them out of jail, setting up their measly estates! Now I get it all!” He bent down in front of the steamer and took a deep breath. “No, I don’t have to kill you because who are you going to tell? You got a million warrants and every cop in south Florida after you. If you’re real nice, I’ll give you a head start before I call a tip line that you were at Lucky’s place.” He reached for the latches.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” said Serge.

“Oh, you wouldn’t?”

“This was all a setup to get you out here,” said Serge.

“You’re only saying that now because I’m holding the gun.”

“Think about it,” said Serge. “Those letters. The confidential one you opened that mentioned me finding the map in my late grandfather’s possessions. Bank account numbers and instructions to deposit. There never was a map.”

“Really?” said Brad. “And yet you led me right to this old chest. I suppose that’s an illusion, too.”

Serge raised his palms. “People always think I’m lying when I’m telling the God’s honest truth.”

“Shut up!” said Brad, reaching again for the latches. “No more talk!”

Serge shook his head. “I wouldn’t open that.”

“I’m not you.”

Serge whispered sideways to Coleman. “Start backing up . . .”

Chapter Forty-three

Behind Capone’s

T
he attorney smiled again. “It’s
Geraldo
time!” He flipped the latches and raised the lid . . .

. . . Which triggered a quick aerosol burst of spray in his face and chest.

“My eyes!” He dropped the gun and began wiping. As he did, little bumping sensations from his waist to the top of his head.

Serge winked at Coleman. “I attached a little booby-trap string.” Then he turned back to Brad. “Don’t worry. It’s non-acidic, won’t hurt your vision—in the long run.”

Brad blinked in blurriness. “What is this shit?”

“Just attracts them—and makes them aggressive, courtesy of Lucky.”

“Makes who— . . . Ow!” The first sting of pain. Then dozens came in waves. The lawyer’s vision began clearing, and he found his head in the middle of a swarm of honeybees. “Jesus! Mother!” Arms flailing, running in circles. More stings. “Get them off me!”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “What’s to stop them from attacking us next?”

Serge watched calmly with folded arms. “One thing that calms them down is smoke.”

Coleman lit a joint.

Brad ran screaming, straight into a tree. He fell on his back.

Serge cupped his hands around his mouth. “In the water! Roll around in the water! It’s only a foot deep.”

Brad dove and rolled.

“Snake!” said Serge.

“Ow!”

“The bees are flying away,” said Coleman.

“Because they’re not Africanized killer bees. They only swarm to protect the hive.” Serge walked over to the steamer trunk, where a few stragglers buzzed around a beekeeper’s honey tray. He closed the lid.

Coleman strolled up, puffing his joint rapidly for added protection. He looked at Brad, panting at the base of a tree, scratching his body. “So the stings are going to kill him?”

“No,” said Serge. “Just make him unattractive.”

“His face,” said Coleman. “Yuck. It’s all covered with bumps.”

“But he probably
is
going to die.”

“Cool!” said Coleman. “You brought one of your really complicated death contraptions?”

“Yes.”

Coleman looked left and right. “Where is it?”

“All around us.”

“I don’t see anything.”

“It’s the Everglades.”

“The swamp?”

Serge spread his arms. “The glades are an infinitely complicated mechanism of life far more elaborate that anything I could rig together.” He knelt and looked in Brad’s eyes, swelling to slits. “The stings won’t kill him, but he’s going to get a fever and become pretty disoriented.” Serge looked up. “And this far from the road, with that kind of tree cover, compass directions will be tricky for a city boy . . .” He leaned over Brad. “Tried to warn you. But I forgot: You’re so smart. Now do you believe it’s all a bullshit myth?”

Brad started to sob.

Serge leaned closer. He reached behind his back and pulled a large brown legal envelope from his waistband. “I just have a few documents for you to sign.”

“Th-th-then will you let me go?”

“Absolutely.” Serge held out papers and pen. “Just scribble next to the little stick-on arrows.”

“I can barely see.”

“Let me help you.” Serge stuck the pen in his hand and positioned it at the appropriate spots. “. . . And sign here, and here, initial here . . . you’re doing great, just a few more pages . . . and here, and here, more initials, one last baby here,
annnnnnd—
we’re done! Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I—I—I can go now?”