Coconut Cowboy (11 page)

Coleman stood and opened a flask. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Serge was marveling that nobody is doing drugs,” said Matt.

Coleman involuntarily snickered.

“What's your problem?” said Serge.

“Nothing.” Still giggling. “Didn't mean to laugh at you.”

“Yet you are.”

“It's just that you said nobody is doing drugs.”

“That's right.”

“Ever heard of Molly?”

“My estranged wife?”

“Not her,” said Coleman. “It's short for Molecule, specifically MDMA, the latest craze with a more purified strain of ecstasy. Up till now, it's been too adulterated to attain the common spiritual unification that is now being widely reported. In one of her recent concerts, Madonna asked if anyone had run into Molly tonight, and the crowd went wild. All the kids know about it.”

Serge looked back at the blissful, swaying crowd. “No way! I don't believe you!”

“Serge, the glow sticks are the big tip-­off. You really don't know anything about the drug culture, do you?”

“That's a bad thing?”

“Not good or bad. But if you won't listen to Madonna . . .”

Serge looked the other way. “Matt?”

He put up his hands. “I'm just here to observe.”

“Then I'm standing by my initial findings,” said Serge. “These are some of the most decent kids I've met in a long time, so don't you go saying they're all on drugs.”

“Suit yourself.”

“And glow sticks!” Serge scoffed. “That's your evidence? I got one at the circus when I was a little kid. Look at how pretty and childlike they are, leaving tracers in the starry sky. And that excellent light show onstage, with a tight band playing hypnotic rock-­techno-­funk-­jazz-­dance fusion. It's the most excellent show I've ever experienced. In fact, this entire scene fills me with hope for our nation's future. I must discuss this at length with the kids . . .” He stepped forward into the crowd.

Matt glanced sideways. “Is he always like this?”

“You get used to it.” They followed him.

Serge faced a group that had hitchhiked down from Valdosta, then shouted over the music: “Thanks for everything you're doing!”

“It's all good, man.”

“You couldn't be more right. It
is
all good.” Serge waved his arms to the side. “Give me some space.” Then he made a shrill whistle with two fingers in his mouth. “May I have your attention, please! I am here to bring you the Big Message. Your anti–spring break is a complete triumph, and the impending national collapse has been averted. No amount of gratitude is too much! I feel a special bond with all your souls, like I've known each and every one of you since we were part of the prebirth universal self . . .” He began pointing individually. “ . . . I love you, and you, and you, you, you, you, especially you . . . I—­I think I'm going to cry . . .” Inconsolable sobbing.

Coleman whispered out the side of his mouth. “Matt, how much Molly did you slip in his water?”

“Just a little pinch. You said it would be all right.”

“Thought it would take the edge off all the coffee.”

“It's done that.”

Serge wiped away tears and clawed toward one of the youths. “How much do you want for that awesome glow stick? I'll pay anything! I must have it or I'll die!”

“Jesus, take it, man.”

“This is the best glow stick ever!” Serge spontaneously hugged the youth. “I love you so much my heart aches!”

“It's cool, let go of my neck.”

He grabbed the next person. “You're my brother!”

“Dude, maybe you need to sit down a minute.”

Coleman broke through the crowd. “I got this.”

“Coleman? Is that you?” Serge spotted him and ran over for another big embrace. “Coleman, you complete me. I never told you that before. There's so much I've kept inside! Do you realize we're star pilots standing on the surface of a big round spaceship?”

“I want you to tell me all about it back at the cabin,” said Coleman. “Matt, give me a hand with his other arm.”

“Yes, the cabin,” Serge said as they led him away. “After we stop for more glow sticks.”

The kids from Valdosta watched standoffishly as the trio departed.

“What the hell was that about?”

“It's such a drag when old hippies bring drugs to these things.”

“But he has short hair.”

“That makes him more radical.”

Twenty yards away, Coleman tugged Serge's shoulder. “No, the cabin is this direction.”

“There's something I forgot to do! It's the most important mission ever! . . .”

“Matt, grab him!”

“He's too fast and slippery.”

Serge disappeared into the crowd. The other two charged in after him. Matt was taller and got on his tiptoes.

“See him?” asked Coleman.

“Nothing.”

Coleman shrugged and got out his flask again. “He'll turn up.”

“But you said he doesn't do drugs, and I've never seen anyone have such a severe reaction,” said Matt. “You sure he's going to be okay?”

“What's the worst that can happen?”

Behind them, a familiar voice boomed from the giant speakers up onstage:
“May I have your attention, please?”
Serge tapped the microphone.
“Is this thing on? . . .”

“Oh no . . .”

 

Chapter
FIFTEEN

SOMEWHERE IN NORTH FLORIDA

S
hortly after midnight, a red beacon blinked atop a hill. The cell-­phone tower silently relayed sweet talk, arguments and recipes. Down on the road, a vulture picked at what used to be an alligator. Headlights hit the bird and it took flight.

The black Mercedes continued speeding through the woods until it approached a “Reduce Speed” sign. The driver dutifully set cruise control on the exact number.

Another blinking light, this one yellow. It flashed over a remote intersection in the forest. Three corners of the crossroads were thick with pine trees. The fourth held a white clapboard convenience store with a sagging roof. Burglar bars, completely dark. Signs indicated that when it opened in the morning, they would sell chopped firewood, fishing bait, fried chicken and “fresh produce Wednesday to Saturday.” It didn't elaborate whether there wasn't produce the rest of the week, or just not the best time to buy.

The Mercedes reached the light and hung a left. The driver checked his GPS. “Half mile to the turn.” The passenger got out his phone, set it to clock mode and hit the stopwatch function. The sedan swung onto a dirt road and the passenger pressed the start button.
One second, two, three . . .

They arrived at a farm, and the pair unloaded the trunk, wearing functional sneakers and black Under Armour gym outfits. They jogged briskly across the field behind the barn, in the same direction but thirty yards apart.
One minute forty, forty-­one, forty-­two . . .

The men simultaneously completed setting up identical rows of battery-­powered fluorescent camping lanterns at exact intervals. Just as the last light was in place, a motorized drone came from the darkness at the end of the field. A twin-­engine Beechcraft King Air cleared the trees and touched down on the grass. The lanterns were urgently collected as the plane rolled to a stop near the edge of the pasture.
Four minutes ten, eleven, twelve . . .

The pilot of the still-­running craft opened his door and handed down a weighty suitcase. Then turned around and taxied back across the field for takeoff. Just as the men returned to the Mercedes, another car arrived. A Chrysler Valiant with a stuck odometer. Choreography continued. The driver got out and popped the trunk with no discussion. The suitcase went in.
Seven minutes twenty-­three, twenty-­four, twenty-­five . . .

A passenger in the older car switched to the Mercedes. Both vehicles departed down the dirt road. They reached the pavement. The Valiant went one way and the Mercedes the other. The man keeping time with his phone pressed stop.

The driver glanced in the backseat. “How'd we do?”

“Nine-­thirty-­eight-­point-­one.”

“Under ten minutes for the first time. Not bad.”

The car's new occupant sat up front on the passenger side. “So what did you want to talk about?”

“The next drop. Monday.”

“That soon?” He took a heavy breath in thought. “Might not be enough time. I know you guys don't like to use the same place twice, and I'm not sure I can secure another strip.”

“We'd be willing to expand our range. Ideas?”

“I know this one guy with a spread toward the coast, but it's near a civilian airport with good radar . . .”

The man in the backseat opened a briefcase. Usually it would be filled with packs of hundred-­dollar bills or bricks of white powder. This time, it held a polished metal box that didn't reveal its purpose. The only control was a single toggle switch. The man flipped it, and a green power light came on.

A short distance away in the government surveillance van, a man with headphones grabbed his ears in pain.

“What is it?” asked the agent in charge.

“They're using a jammer.”

“And the homing device?”

“Gone, too.”

“Our guy's been made.” The agent slapped the driver on the shoulder. “Speed up! Don't lose them, and don't worry about being spotted.” Then, into the radio, “All units respond! Cover's blown! Take 'em!”

The driver of the Mercedes cut the lights and skidded onto the narrowest dirt road yet. The woods became dense. The front passenger watched branches scrape his window. “Where are we going?”

“You haven't ridden with us before,” said the driver. “We also never take the same
route
twice.”

“No routine, nothing to piece together,” added the backseat voice. “We're not fond of risk.”

“No kidding . . . Why are we stopping?”

Back on the paved road, a surveillance van pulled over: “Why are we stopping?”

“We lost them . . .”

A half hour later, ten unmarked government vehicles rolled slowly down every back road and turnoff they could find. Search beams swept the forest, illuminating shafts of fog and illegally dumped garbage.

The radio. “Anyone got anything yet?”

No news was bad news.

At the end of an abandoned logging road, a pair of men in black gym clothes leaned against the hood of a Mercedes.

“We need to rethink this.”

“But it's the perfect plan. We've got our timing down.”

“Any plan is only as good as its weakest link, and ours is the human element. In this business, everyone you deal with is potentially facing forever in prison and can be flipped.” Steve stomped his foot down redundantly on an already smashed mini-­microphone and transmitter lying in the dirt. “Informants are becoming too big a part of the equation.”

Ahead in a small clearing, muted attempts to scream.

Martin glanced beside the car at a forty-­eight-­gallon cooler that would need a thorough hosing out. Then at another item rarely seen in Florida. “I was wondering what you were going to do with that snow shovel.”

“You know, maybe varying the routine is the wrong approach.” Steve stared up at the stars. “Maybe we need to tackle this from the opposite direction. Establish the foundation of a completely predictable routine.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“To hide in plain sight.”

“What about the human element?”

“Use ­people not in the business.”

“You aren't actually thinking of your new neighbors in that hick town,” said Martin. “The landings are a precision operation.”

“Why not?” said Steve. “They've handled everything else just fine. And they know far more about the backcountry than we could ever hope to learn. It's in ten generations of their family tree.”

The muffled shrieks of desperation grew louder.

“How'd you know a snow shovel was the best way to collect roadkill?”

“Just seemed logical.”

“At first I thought you had overplanned, but it turned out we needed every bit of that shovel for that last armadillo.”

“They get surprisingly big. Couldn't even close the cooler lid.”

The pair gazed ahead at the filleted remains from their scavenger hunt, draped liberally over the gagged informant, who was staked down to the forest floor.

“Vultures get big, too,” said Martin.

“They possess a philosophy not unlike ours.”

“How's that?”

“Let others do all the real work. We just want to get paid.”

“But they're not very accurate in collecting accounts due. They're just in a pecking frenzy.”

“Possum, informant, what do they care?”

“That biggest bird on the left.” Martin pointed. “What's it pulling out of him? That's not—­ . . .
ewwwww
.”

“I think they have it from here. Let's get going.”

They headed back out on the logging road.

“I'm still shaky about these new ­people you want to use,” said Martin. “Letting those hayseeds move money through their bank is one thing, but turning the landings over to them? I mean it's such a tight window. That's why you said you didn't trust the drops to anyone but ourselves.”

“I don't need more close brushes like tonight,” said Steve. “It's time to step back and allow someone else to insulate us.”

“But these morons?”

“Don't let looks deceive you,” said Steve. “Ever known ­people who have lived in the boondocks their whole lives? They develop almost paranormal instincts for the terrain. I wouldn't be surprised if their management of the drops is so precise that it makes
us
look like the morons.”

MEANWHILE . . .

Coleman and Matt guided Serge up a wooded path until their cabin came into view.

Serge began to sway. “
Love shack baby
. . .”

“Make sure he doesn't trip on these steps,” said Coleman.

They got him onto the screened porch and into a hammock.

“Look how fast he conked out,” said Matt. “That usually doesn't happen.”

“Got any more of that stuff?” asked Coleman.

“Sure, here.”

Serge surprised them by jumping up in alarm. “I can't sleep. I'm too hot.” He ran inside and cranked the cabin's air conditioner all the way up.

“Could have sworn he was crashed,” said Matt.

Coleman claimed the vacated hammock. “Sometimes he keeps closing and opening his eyes and jumping out of bed twenty times or more before he finally nods off. Can last hours.”

“Why?”

“To check on his wallet and car keys and make sure he hasn't left anything burning, then look up stuff on the Internet, check wallet and keys again, floss teeth, wallet, make sure the door's locked, keys . . .”

Matt looked inside through the sliding glass door. “What's he doing now?”

“Taking off all his clothes,” said Coleman.

“I can see that,” said Matt. “He's wiping his neck with a wet towel.”

“Sometimes he gets hung up on temperature.”

“Must really be hot,” said Matt. “Molly does that to some ­people.”

Serge stuck his face against the air conditioner vents.

Matt pulled out a notebook. “Mind if I ask a few questions? I'd like to interview you, too, for my thesis.”

“You want to interview
me
?”

Matt clicked his pen. “Serge is doing some groundbreaking studies, and since you're his research assistant . . .”

Coleman sat up and tried to look important. “Why yes, I am his research assistant.”

“What do you think of Serge's methods?”

“He claims he's misunderstood,” said Coleman. “Doesn't like how some of the newspapers have described him.”

“So his work is well covered by the media down here?”

“There have been a few articles.”

Matt glanced inside the cabin, where a naked Serge was shivering with chattering teeth. “Seems pretty intense. Has his passion for Florida ever taken him too far?”

“Many times,” said Coleman. “But he's always the first one to admit it.”

Serge turned off the A/C, then set the heater on full blast. He began putting on layer after layer of clothes.

“Back at Prince­ton, there's tremendous competition and jealousy among the faculty,” said Matt. “Does Serge have any rivals?”

“Most of them aren't around anymore,” said Coleman. “I could tell you some bizarre stories.”

“So Florida got too strange for them?”

“In the end, definitely.”

The sliding glass door flew open. Serge ran onto the porch, inflated to almost twice his regular girth—­“I'm burning up!”—­frantically peeling off apparel until he was nude again. He ran back inside and jacked up the A/C.

Matt stared a moment before returning to his notebook. “Serge's website seems extremely engaging. Any insight about how he keeps ­people's attention when teaching a lesson in person?”

“Let me think.” Coleman got out of the hammock and took a seat on the ground. “Oh! During most of his lessons, Serge likes to give a bonus round.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“For Serge it is.”

Inside the cabin:
“Freezing again!”

“Give me an example of a bonus round.”

“Well, this one time he was really determined to kill these ­people—­” Coleman cut himself off. “Uh, hope I didn't just say anything wrong. Serge wants me to be quiet about certain things.”

“Don't worry about humility,” said Matt. “At Prince­ton we're always getting great academic speakers who absolutely slay the audience.”

“The whole audience?” said Coleman. “Jesus!”

Serge ran outside.
“I'm roasting . . .”

The night eventually wound down, and the trio found their sleeping spots as other kids slowly drifted back to their dome tents in the forest.

Just after daybreak, Serge awoke and slung his legs over the side of a hammock. “Ooo, my head. I feel so weird. What happened last night?”

“Uh, we might have, you know . . .” said Matt.

“ . . . Put just a little something in your water,” said Coleman.

“You drugged me?”

“And I also might have given you a little bad information yesterday,” said Coleman. “It now appears that you were the only person at the entire concert doing Molly.”

Serge covered his eyes. “This is so embarrassing. How did I behave? Did I do anything inappropriate?”

“Oh, no, no, no!” said Coleman.

“You were perfectly fine,” said Matt.

Another youth migration, this one morning-­style. Flip-­flops slapped the dirt trail. Packs of kids in swimwear headed down to the river with inner tubes and rafts. As each group passed the cabin, they all pointed at the porch.

“Why are they laughing?” asked Serge.

“Guess they're just having a good time,” said Coleman.

“Yeah, that must be it,” said Matt.

Another bunch of kids came by. They raised Bic lighters toward the porch. “
Encore!
”