Atomic Lobster (14 page)

GULF OF MEXICO

D
anielle shook Johnny Vegas’s shoulder. “You okay?” “M-m-m-m-m-…”—pointing up at the captain’s hat. She reached for the top of his shirt. “Now I undress you….”

“B-b-b-b-b-…”

Danielle finished the last button and licked his stomach down to the belt buckle. Then the zipper.

“Whoa! Guess you
do
like the hat.” Johnny moaned and involuntarily arched his back. A rousing dance beat pounded down from the ballroom directly over them.

She saluted again. “Captain, permission to come aboard.”

Finally! The day he’d been waiting for his entire life! Lucy wasn’t going to pull the football away from Charlie Brown this time!

The sophomore squealed as she prepared to wiggle on down. Something blurred at the edge of her vision. Danielle’s head snapped toward the balcony. “What the hell was that?”

“I didn’t see anything. Go back to what you were doing.”

“What do you mean you didn’t see anything? Something huge flew past the window.”

“Oh,
that
,” said Johnny. “Just one of the Brimleys.”

“Someone fell overboard?”

“The ship’s barely moving.”

“You’re the captain!”

“I’m off duty.”

Danielle ran naked onto the balcony and leaned over the railing. “He’s screaming for help.”

“I’m sure someone else will hear him.”

She jerked a life ring off the outside wall and slung it with accuracy.

Johnny joined her at the railing and watched the bobbing man hook his arm through the float. “Problem solved. Now where were we?”

“You’re a pig!” She ran back into the suite and practically jumped into her clothes. “I’m out of here!”

The door slammed.

A deep, long horn sounded. A powerful spotlight pierced the fog. A mile ahead, flashing red warning signs. Two more loud blasts as the train clacked toward another rural intersection without crossing-guard arms.

The engineers peered out the diesel’s windshield, looking for another fool driver trying to beat the odds. The frequency still amazed them.

But no idiots this time. The engineers relaxed as they sailed through the crossing and back into the empty night. Conversation returned to sports.

“They’ll never trade him because of the salary cap.”

“His knee goes out every year like a clock.”

These were the cliché milk runs. Another empty cargo backhaul. The rest of the state had its share of rail traffic, but nothing like the central Gulf coast, stuck in the golden age of the iron horse. The reason was phosphate, an essential fertilizer ingredient, and this particular part of Florida was the world capital. Giant cranes called draglines quarried vast tracks across Hillsborough and Polk counties. The industry was so weight-intensive that trains were the only viable method to get it to port. They also found a ton of prehistoric fossils down in those pits. They called it Bone Valley.

The diesel’s horn blew through another intersection.

“At least we get to play Green Bay at home in December.”

Taped below the instrument panel was a faxed bulletin from Miami. Central Florida may still be in the golden age, but Miami had just revived the era of the Great Train Robbery.

Another ungated crossing. The crew concentrated. Safely through again.

A rookie engineer pointed at the bulletin. “Should we be worried? I mean, we don’t have weapons or anything to defend us.”

The others laughed. “You new to Florida?”

He nodded.

“Whole ’nother world down Miami way,” said an older engineer. “They can’t even keep utility lines from getting dug up for copper and aluminum, and now junction boxes are disappearing from street corners. These morons don’t know anything about those boxes except they fetch fifty bucks in South America.”

The rookie peeled the bulletin off the control panel and read it again: Bandits hanging concrete blocks from overpasses at windshield level. Engineers saw them and stopped, or didn’t and shattered the safety glass and
then
stopped. Either way, thieves hopped aboard and robbed the crew.

Another crossing. Flashing red. Doppler effect:
Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding…

The rookie taped the bulletin back on the panel. “I’d still feel better if we had a gun.”

“I told you: That’s just Miami. Before concrete blocks it was voodoo chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“Few years back, we started noticing unidentifiable debris on the tracks. Turned out to be a bunch of smelly voodoo shit: chickens and goat heads and little dolls. The iron rails represented some kind of connection to dead relatives. The low guy on the train’s totem pole had to clear the mess off the tracks. Until they realized the ceremonies involved stuffing valuable jewels in the chickens. Then the top guy got the shovel….”

The train was on a long, dark stretch of track near the county line, far between crossings. Nothing to worry about.

“If it’s just Miami,” said the rookie, “why’d they send us the bulletin?”

“Insurance. The whole state got them—”

“Holy Jesus!” The rookie pointed out the windshield.

“What the hell’s that doing out here?”

“Hit the brakes!”

Screeeechhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

“Oh my God!”

The train continued grinding and sparking down the rails. Hearts pounded. No time to stop before hitting the convertible Trans Am parked across the tracks.

“Grab something!” Everyone braced. At the last second, the car scooted out of their path and down into a ditch.

Everyone exhaled with relief.

Crash.

Windshield impact. They ducked after the fact, but the safety glass had held. They slowly stood back up as the train squeaked to a halt.

“What on earth?”

They all leaned for a closer view of the blood splatter. “Is that an eyeball?”

BEFORE SUNRISE

T
he fifty-car phosphate train would not be on time this morning. Nor would all the others stacked up for miles behind the crime scene.

A detective’s face glowed in the flickering string of railroad flares. His name was Sadler. “Let’s go over it one more time.”

“What’s to go over?” The engineer sat on a pile of spare wooden ties next to the tracks. “We saw the car. Then, out of nowhere, splat.”

They looked back. An evidence team on ladders tediously scraped the locomotive’s front glass. More investigators down in a ditch, swarming the Trans Am.

The engineer wiped his forehead with a bandanna. “Any idea what happened?”

Sadler jotted in a notebook. “Still trying to figure that.” He stopped writing when he noticed a familiar FBI agent standing off to the side. “Bureau taking over the case?”

“Just observing.”

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with those other nine unsolved deaths….”

The FBI agent gave him a look that said the subject was off limits.

Sadler’s partner, Detective Mayfield, was down at the sports car.
He climbed back up the embankment and walked along the edge of the tracks between the train and the flares.

“Anything?” yelled Sadler.

“Yeah,” said Mayfield, looking back at the Trans Am. “Sickest thing I ever seen.”

FOUR HOURS EARLIER

Three men in spotless linen suits walked across a dark yard of weeds and dirt.

The last one gestured with his Uzi toward the driveway. “Bodine’s car’s gone.”

“For his sake, he better not be in it.”

They reached the front of a rotting mobile home in southern Hillsborough County. The leader was about to knock when he noticed the door ajar. He pushed it open. “Bodine?…”

The three split up.

“He’s not in here….”

“Not in here either….”

They regrouped in the bedroom.

“What a mess.”

“Where’d all this blood come from?”

One picked up a deck of playing cards. “Here’s his crap from the cruise ship.”

“Statue?”

“Nope.”

“Damn,” said the leader. “Find that statue. Tear the place apart!”

The leader circulated through the trailer in deep thought. Around him: dresser drawers and ceiling tiles in flight, cabinets cracking off walls, pillows sliced, mattress disemboweled.

The leader worked his way back to the bedroom. He swatted floating feathers away from his face. “Stop.”

The destruction was too loud.

“I said
stop
!”

The others became still. “What’s the matter?”

“It’s not here. Either Bodine’s gone into business for himself, or someone beat us to him.”

“What do we do now?”

“Find Bodine. Or whoever took the statue.”

“Hold it.” One of them reached down next to the dresser. “Look what I just found.”

“What is it?”

“A sticky note. Says, ‘Get Davenport.’”

“Think it has anything to do with the statue?”

EIGHT MILES AWAY

Coleman drove through the empty countryside on an unmaintained dirt road. At least he
thought
it was still a road, but the passage through the woods had grown narrower and bumpier. He’d long since lost orientation, except for the taillights of the car Serge was driving up ahead.

They were another ten minutes deeper into nowhere when Coleman saw the Trans Am’s brake lights come on. He watched the Firebird angle up a steep incline before easing to a stop.

Serge leaped out of the car. “Make it snappy!”

Coleman walked up with coils of rope over his shoulder. “Serge, you’re parked on railroad tracks.”

“Just hand me the rope.”

“I forgot where I left it.”

“On your shoulder.”

Serge took the line and walked to the front of the car.

Coleman pulled a joint from behind his ear. “How’d you know about this road?”

Serge stared straight up. “I poke around a lot. Been planning this one for years, and there couldn’t be a more perfect spot.” He heaved the rope into the air. It fell back without results. “Just never found the right transgressor. Didn’t want to be unfair and have the punishment not fit the crime.” He gathered the rope and threw it hard again.

Coleman flicked his lighter. “How’s this the perfect spot?”

The rope fell impotently at Serge’s feet. “That sturdy tree branch. Usually they cut ’em back over the tracks but this is too remote…. Maybe if I stand up here.”

Serge climbed onto the hood. He heaved again. This time the rope made it over the branch. “There we go.” He caught the other end as it came back down, and fashioned an intricate knot.

Coleman exhaled toward the stars. “Choo-choos ever come this way?”

“All the time. That’s why we have to hurry.” Serge finished his knot and removed the Trans Am’s smoked T-top. He darted to the back of the car, gun in one hand, key in the other.

The trunk lid popped and hands instantly went up in surrender. “Please! Don’t! Whatever you’re thinking—”

“Get out of the fucking trunk!”

A leg went over the side. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Oh, you don’t want to miss this.”

Fifteen minutes later, Serge was in the zone.

“I’m begging you!” said Bodine, bound in the driver’s seat. “There’s still time to stop!”

“Should have considered that before you threatened Jim’s family.”

“But I thought we settled it with the statue.”

“That was just for Jim’s sake. His stomach isn’t built for this.”

“I’ll never go near him!”

“You’re just saying that because I’m here, and you’re sitting there, like…what’s the technical term? Oh, yeah, completely fucked. But I can’t always be around Jim in case you change your mind.”

“I take it all back! I swear!”

“Sorry,” answered Serge. “You said burn up his whole family. That threat’s out there forever. It’s a bell you can’t unring.”

“I’ll leave the state! I’ll leave the
country
!”

Serge shook his head. “Threats must be dealt with according to severity, and a decent, law-abiding family is near the top of my NATO strategic defense protocol.”

The man whimpered.

“Time for the safety checklist!” Serge leaned over the driver’s
seat and examined the tautness of two straps. “Seat belt and shoulder harness fastened—check!” He tested cuffs locking the man’s wrists to the steering wheel. “Hands at the approved ten-o’clock, two-o’clock driving position—check!” He hit the horn and turned on the lights. Nothing. “Fuses pulled—check!” He inspected his knot and slid it tighter. “Noose around neck—check!” Serge reached into the car and turned the ignition key, then grabbed the stick shift. “I’d strongly advise you to put your foot on the brake.”

Bodine did.

Serge threw the car into drive.

“Give me one more chance!”

“One more chance? Sure, I’ll give you one more chance.”

“Thank you! You won’t be sorry!”

“Here’s your chance: I’m going to leave now. If you can figure a way out, you’re free to go. Let’s see. Handcuffs prevent you from getting at the noose, seat belt or gearshift. So you better keep that foot on the brake. But then you’ll get hit by the train, which can’t see or hear you because I pulled those fuses, so you better step on the gas. But then the seat belt and shoulder strap will hold you in the car and your head will pop off. Therein lies the dilemma. When you hear that train a-comin’ round the bend, what will you do? Brake? Or gas? Deal, no deal?” Serge scratched his head. “Shit, you’re in a real jam. But I’m sure you’ll figure something. I got the impression you thought you were a lot smarter than me….” Serge walked back to his own car, starting to sing.

Bodine struggled vainly against the cuffs. “Don’t leave!”

Coleman climbed in the Comet’s passenger side, and Serge got behind the wheel.
“…Let the Midnight Special…shine its ever-lovin’ light on me…”

The man watched over his shoulder as the Mercury’s taillights disappeared back into the woods. Completely quiet and dark again. Actually quite peaceful.

Then a rumble. Bodine turned. A blinding white beam hit his eyes.