The Riptide Ultra-Glide (8 page)

“I'm wide-awake,” said Bar. “What am I going to do in an empty house? We can talk.”

Pat slipped on a shirt, then pointed out the window in the general direction of a silo. “But I have to go to the school first, and that's in the opposite direction.”

“You're going to the school
and
the Arsenaults'?”

“I know her favorite books. If I read to her . . .” said Pat. “A lot of driving; you don't want to go.”

“Now I definitely want to go.”

“Why?”

“So we can talk. I like it when we can talk.”

A seventeen-year-old Geo Metro headed east out of Waunakee on Highway 19. It wasn't a typical car for a Wisconsin winter. Or even spring. But the drive was peaceful. No streetlights. A full moon lit up rolling hills of snow through dairy land. It was the only car they ever owned, which they bought slightly used just before getting married, which was twelve years ago.

They talked about early Hemingway, late Picasso, the Middle East, a new movie they were dying to see but would wait for the rental because money was tight. They realized they hadn't had Chinese food in a while. The kind of destination-free conversation that bounces all over the place when two people just enjoy each other's company. Still in love.

Forty minutes later, they pulled up at a shoveled-out driveway at a small farmhouse with all the lights burning.

“She's the sweetest child in the world,” said Bar. “It's so sad.”

“The good news is it's one of the mildest forms of autism,” said Pat. “But since it mainly manifests in crying, it just tears at your heart.”

They got out and walked up the front steps with their best game faces.

Jack Arsenault already had the door open. “Get in, you'll freeze.”

He led Patrick to the bedroom. The women went in the kitchen. “Can I get you something? Danish, coffee?”

“I'm fine.”

They both sat at the table and smiled, but their eyes were in another emotional room.

“You really didn't have to come,” said Gabby Arsenault.

“Are you kidding?” said Bar. “We love Courtney.”

“She's always talking about Patrick. You both have such a way with the students. You'd be great parents—” Gabby stopped. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean . . . I mean I forget.”

“Don't worry about it . . .”

A half hour later, the men joined them in the kitchen.

Gabby looked up. “How is she?”

“Asleep,” said Patrick.

“I don't know how he does it,” said Jack.

“You're the ones who do it all,” said Pat. “She was practically asleep when we got here. I just gave the jar lid a final twist.”

A heavy pause in the room. Jack formed tight lips. “Uh, I . . . me and Gabby, we want you to know that we feel absolutely horrible about what's going on with the teachers.”

“Everything will work out.” Pat smiled, and it was sincere.

“But I can't believe I voted for those greedy bastards.” Jack shook his head. “It was supposed to be about government responsibility. Who knew they were going to raid the candy store?”

Bar got up from the table as Pat put a hand on Jack's shoulder. “The important thing is you have a wonderful daughter.”

Chapter Seven

MEANWHILE . . .

I
t had been one of those killer Keys sunsets. Just a few hours earlier, a wavering scarlet ball melted into the Gulf of Mexico, silhouetting countless uninhabited mangrove islands scattered across the quiet water.

Then it was gone, but the show continued. Streaks of wispy clouds fanned out from a point in the distance, glowing rose and crimson underneath from the hidden sun. Below the clouds, drivers turned on headlights, creating a string of bright beads up U.S. 1. It was especially magical if you had a wide-angle view.

“Can we go now?” asked Coleman.

“I'm using my wide-angle,” said Serge. “It's magical.”

The final cloud faded to dark.

Serge tossed his camera in the '76 Gran Torino that was backed up in the driveway of a dead man's house on Key Largo.

Coleman followed him inside the residence. “The car's been packed for the last hour. You promised I could go to that bar.”

Serge made a quick recon sweep for anything they might have forgotten. “We had to wait for night anyway.”

A beer cracked. “What for?”

Serge gave him a “stupid question” look, then tilted his head across the room toward the closet.

“
Oh,
that.” Coleman realized he now had an open beer in each hand. “But we're still going to that bar, right?”

“Of course.” Serge checked wall sockets for left-behind electronics chargers. “You can't stop often enough in the old Florida bars because many will be converted into gentlemen's clubs before you know it.”

“I like to go in those, too,” said Coleman. “I can always spot them from the neon.”

“Because that's the rule. They don't even need a sign. Any building with pink or purple neon: They're required to have strippers in quantity.” Serge locked the front door and headed back through the dining room. “And I can't get enough of that name. Gentlemen's club. It's Orwellian for the new chivalry: ‘Please, let me hold the door for you, right after I finish staring at your snatch for a dollar.' That's the exquisite psychology of advertising, like calling a fried-chicken buffet restaurant ‘Skinny Boys.' ”

“Or, you know, like partying,” said Coleman, nodding and smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“You know, partying. Supposed to be birthday cards and brightly wrapped presents and pin the tail on the donkey. But, man, instead you're really getting seriously fucked up, completely hammered, ripped to the nuts, shit-faced and puking all over furniture and lawn statues, paralyzed, grabbing people—‘What are these fucking frog statues doing here?'—but then you snort some radioactive coke and come back stronger than ever, man, first-string all-star team! More bong hits and lines and tequila, and you give each other shotguns with a real shotgun barrel until you're blind and forget how to speak and can't go to the bathroom right, like when you're a veteran and really know what you're doing.” Coleman stopped and nodded again. “The word ‘partying.' What you were just talking about. Get it?”

“Uh, yeah, that's exactly what I was talking about.” Serge rolled his eyes. “Very insightful.”

“So what are we doing now?”

“Road trip!” Serge walked over to the closet door.

“He's making those noises again,” said Coleman.

“Probably heard me say ‘road trip.' Some people get excited.”

Serge turned the knob and pulled the door open quickly. “Ready to rock?”

A bound and gagged man slumped in the corner. A little smiley-face Band-Aid on an earlobe. Still screaming under the duct tape across his mouth.

Coleman finished the beer in his left hand. “I think he wants to say something.”

“Probably itinerary requests for our trip.” Serge leaned down and ripped the tape off.

“Owwww!”

“Where do you want to go?” asked Serge. “I can't make any promises because of my zany schedule. Unless they sell souvenirs. My weakness, but it could be worse. Actually it will be. Suggestions?”

“Please don't hurt me! I'm so sorry!”

Serge glanced at Coleman. “Haven't we heard that before?”

“Many times.”

Crying now. “I'll give you money,” said the man. “We can go to an ATM.”

“Oooo, bad memories there,” said Serge. “Remember last time?”

“I was wrong! I apologize!”

“You're just saying that now because you think I'm not a patient person.” Serge grabbed a roll of duct tape and pulled out a long stretch. “But back when you thought I was patient, you took advantage and dumped all your negativity on me. And you knew it was going to stick in my stomach, and then my day's ruined. Not to mention the broader implications for the national fabric.”

“I was just in a bad mood. I didn't mean it.”

“Of course you did,” said Serge. “You were still yelling as I patiently walked away, thinking you were home free. But that was just because ATMs have surveillance cameras. You never guessed that I'd outflank you to your car and wait. Because I'm patient.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Stand up,” said Serge.

“I think my kneecap's broken.”

“You'll soon forget all about that. My promise to you.”

“But I—”

Serge swiftly wrapped fresh duct tape across the captive's mouth. “Coleman, help me get him out to the car.”

Moments later, the trunk slammed on the Gran Torino. The muscle car screeched backward out of the driveway and tore east on U.S. 1.

They reached Mile Marker 104. Coleman's head turned as they went by. “You're passing the bar.”

“We'll be back.” Serge pointed over his shoulder at the thuds coming from the trunk. “This one kicks a lot. I can't leave him in the saloon parking lot like some of the others who went limp. Banging sounds from trunks in parking lots tend to raise questions because some people don't have enough to do.”

“Then where are we going?”

“It's a surprise.”

It didn't take long. Around Mile Marker 107, just after the fork to Card Sound, Serge pulled onto an unmaintained dirt road and plunged into the darkness of the mangroves.

Soon the car stopped. Crickets and frogs.

The trunk popped open.

Serge reached in and sat the hostage up. “Surprise!”

Coleman fired a joint onshore, scanning the dark water. “So this is the surprise?
Lake
Surprise?”

“Good recall.” Serge jerked his guest out of the car and threw him to the ground.

“He's shaking like crazy,” said Coleman. “And just wet himself.”

“Better now than later. Seriously.”

“Why? Does that have something to do with what you're planning?”

“It always fits together.” Serge swept an arm across the natural vista. “Everything's connected. The Hindus know all about this.” He stood and slowed his breathing.

“Are you thinking of round things?”

“Yes. They're coming through like a vision. And I'm seeing . . . peanut butter cups? Hmm, the path to enlightenment isn't what I expected.”

The hostage noisily flopped in the muck, attempting to escape like a landed fish trying to work its way off a dock.

Serge blinked rapidly a few times. “Damn, made me lose the peanut butter cups.” He walked back to the trunk and began unloading supplies.

“Coleman, grab these ropes.”

“What do I do with them?”

Serge seized the man by the hair and dragged him screaming back to the designated spot onshore. “Tie one stretch of rope to each hand and ankle.”

More equipment came out of the car. Serge got down on his knees and hammered giant tent stakes.

“Serge, I finished tying the ropes.” He stood proudly. “How did I do?”

Serge stared a moment with his mouth open. “Coleman, I meant
his
hands and ankles.”

“Oh.” Coleman looked down at his own wrists and feet. “But you didn't say that.”

“Jesus Christ.” Serge resumed hammering. “Him this time. And please ask any questions along the way.”

Coleman loosened a knot. “Serge, why are you hammering?”

“Apparently for nothing.” He stood up and looked around. “This muck is too soft. We'll have to lash him to the mangroves.”

“Then what?” asked Coleman. “Alligators will eat him?”

“This is salt water.”

“Little crabs will swarm and pick his bones clean?”

“Not the right species on this island.”

“I was kind of hoping for crabs.”

Serge found a large root of a red mangrove grabbing down into underwater silt. Tied a double hitch. “We won't be here to see anyway.”

Coleman sagged. “I knew you were going to say that.”

Serge secured another line. “What's with you always wanting to watch? I told you how sick and abnormal that is.”

Under Coleman's breath: “You're the one waxing the dude.”

“I heard that,” said Serge. “We're not going to get into this discussion again.”

Coleman stretched out his arms with dangling ropes. “I need a little help.”

Serge sighed, then went over and untied his buddy. They connected the lines to the ones he had already fastened to the mangroves, and tied the captive spread-eagled on the bank.

Coleman fidgeted. “Is the part where we go to that bar coming up soon?”

Serge headed back to the trunk. “Almost there.” He loaded up his arms and started walking back.

Coleman scratched his head. “How are those things going to kill him?”

Serge turned on his camcorder. “Patience.”

CATFISH, PART II

A
fter landing his prize horned owl, Catfish never got another whipping from Cecil and took up in his father's boot prints. A natural trajectory of local tradition. They were all God-fearing, hardworking people of the earth, good providers for their kin. But not slick like those eastern boys who made all the rules. So they navigated around them. First was the moonshine, then tobacco, which was legal unless you ducked taxes, which they did at every turn; then toward the end of Cecil's days, growing some of the wickedest bluegrass marijuana in the state. Until the next thing came along, which was just around the corner. They called it the Kentucky way.

Cecil died quietly around '83, and was buried under a lone oak on a bluff overlooking the gold dome of the state capitol in Frankfort. Cecil bought the plot thirty years back and told his son that Daniel Boone's tombstone was a rock's throw away. After the funeral, Catfish actually threw a rock, and his father was right.

The Kentucky State Police bought some new helicopters with fancy thermal-spotting equipment. Pot groves were set ablaze everywhere, and the growers burrowed deep into the hills. Catfish temporarily wrote off the weed trade as too risky, and eventually surfaced an hour north with a rusty single-wide wedged deep in Woodford County behind the vine-covered ruins of an eighteenth-century bourbon distillery. Deep thickets made the trailer invisible, which wasn't on the Realtors' list of high points. But it was on Catfish's. He began with the marijuana again, but low-key, only a few scattered plants in each location, which could be written off to nature because, well, it was a weed. The helicopters buzzed on by.

The old distillery lay ten miles northwest of Lexington and in another universe.

Extremes.

Appalachian poverty and international Thoroughbred wealth.

There were many such run-down trailers strewn about those hills, and people got used to the recreational, liquor-fueled gunfire at the moon that echoed across the horse pastures of many current and former Derby winners. Familiar names: Claiborne Farm and Calumet and Three Chimneys. Brookshire Farm had chandeliers in all the stables. The barns of a sheikh from the Arabian peninsula featured copper roofs, and a 747 jumbo jet with Arabic lettering sat on standby along a modest runway of the nearby Bluegrass Airport. A Florida connection would soon form in the hills around that airport, except there already had been one. Little known, but documented: In the immediate hours after the 9/11 attacks, when all aircraft in the nation were grounded, one small private plane was secretly in the air with the president's blessing—a flight into the Bluegrass Airport carrying young members of a royal family who were students in Tampa and who immediately boarded a well-guarded jet for their homeland. And that weekend, more bullets at the moon.

William Shatner lived there.

Catfish's trailer technically lay on the outskirts of a small hamlet called Versailles. But don't walk into a bar and pronounce it correctly like the French, or you'll be stared down as a damn communist or, worse, a fed. It always has and will be
Ver-sales
. The police found most of Catfish's pot plants and burned them in a big pile on a Saturday night and drank beer and stood close, but it didn't matter. The newspapers had already begun reporting emergency room ODs from some newfangled drug called Oxy. Catfish found two specific nuggets deep in one article. The pills were going for up to eighty dollars each on the street. And an unusual number of the prescriptions had been filled in Miami and Fort Lauderdale. He gassed up the Durango. Time to dip a toe in that raging river of tropical drug cash. It was the Kentucky way.