The sun rose high as the convoy grew closer to its destination. Palm Coast, Flagler Beach, Ormond Beach. It was quiet in the Challenger. Too quiet.
Serge glanced in the rearview. “Melvin, you haven’t been saying much lately.”
Melvin stared straight ahead, blinking and breathing rapidly.
“Melvin? You all right?… Melvin?…”
Then something else. Something out of place.
Serge leaned for a different angle in the mirror. “Where’d Country go?… Country?…”
Her head popped up into view. “I’m still here.” She disappeared again.
“Melvin, you sly dog!” said Serge, smiling in the mirror. “I didn’t know you were into road-trip tradition.”
PANAMA CITY
A mass of students from the beach moved into the parking lot of the Alligator Arms. Beer, music, rumors, emergency vehicles and flashing lights. Everyone looking up at crime tape across an open door on the fifth floor.
Traffic cops waved a motorcade of government sedans through the entrance. Agent Ramirez ran for the elevator. A small plane flew over the roof of the motel with an advertising banner for coconut rum.
Ramirez raced down the fifth-floor landing as coroners wheeled another sheet-covered stretcher the other way. Police met him outside the room.
Only one question on his tongue: “IDs?”
A sergeant checked scribbled notes, rattling off five names gathered from out-of-state drivers’ licenses.
“No Andy McKenna?”
The sergeant shook his head. “But that name sounds familiar.” He called to a corporal. “Ray, where did I hear the name Andy McKenna?”
“That’s who the room was registered to. Or was.”
“Then where is he?” said Ramirez.
“Got kicked out yesterday.”
“What for?”
“We went back and looked at last night’s incident reports. Someone almost killed himself diving into the pool from the balcony,” said the corporal. “It’s a bit of a problem around here. Especially with the more educated types.”
Ramirez felt himself slipping through the looking glass. Another stretcher rolled out the door. He raised the crime tape and ducked inside.
Walls a splatter fest. Local cops among themselves: “… Never seen anything like it…”
Ramirez had. Miami. The good ol’ days. “Only one person could be behind this.”
“Who?” asked his top assistant.
“Guillermo.”
“Guillermo?”
“Madre’s lead boy. Calm, calculating, complete psychopath. No conscience whatsoever.” He quickly called a huddle with his team. “McKenna’s still out there. As soon as the victims’ names hit TV, Guillermo’s crew will know they missed the target and come back. Call every hotel in the city, see which one he switched to. Question all other guests staying here and canvass the staff. Get out an APB on Andy, but for law enforcement eyes only. No press or it’s up for grabs. Go!”
They dispersed.
Ramirez walked onto the balcony and dialed his phone. “… Need you to track a credit card for me… Andrew McKenna, address either Dorchester or Durham… And this is important. Except for you and the chain of command, nobody is to see it but me…” He didn’t say why, didn’t have to. An informant in the house.
“Thanks…” Ramirez hung up and looked down over the railing at an extra-tiny chalk outline on the patio.
Part Two
Chapter Twenty-Five
DAYTONA BEACH
The Challenger drove slowly down route A1A. Serge scanned motels.
No vacancy.
“It’s just like the Panhandle,” said Melvin. “We’re not going to find a place to stay.”
“Something will open up.”
“
Serge keyed his own walkie-talkie. “Lord of the Binge, keep that childhood wonderment torch burning! Most people sell children short, saying how cutely they notice the little things, when they’re actually noticing
“
“From Matthias Day, who established the city, 1870. Came
“
“Same as Panama City: the books of preeminent historian and local treasure Allen Morris, clerk of the House, 1966 to 1986, papers now preserved at Florida State.”
Serge let off the gas, slowing further as they approached a single-story mom-and-pop motel. “This looks promising.”
“But the sign,” said Melvin. “ ‘No Vacancy,’ like all the others.”
Serge pointed at a dozen students in the parking lot, cursing and throwing luggage in trunks. “
The Challenger turned up the drive as the others sped off.
In the office window, someone flipped NO V ACANCY to V ACANCY.
“Where’s my credit card?” said Andy. “I gave it back to you,” said Joey.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Thought I did.”
“You lost it? Great.”
“No problem,” said Serge. “I’ll cover it-pay me when you can.” He got out of the car and came back with sets of keys for two adjoining efficiencies at the Dunes. City and Country took number 25, and the students made another crack deployment in 24. Minutes later, the room was ready for mayhem.
Serge replaced batteries in his digital camera and headed for the door. “I’m going on photo safari.”
Coleman pulled out oven mitts. “I’ll hold down the fort.”
In camera mode, Serge always made absurd time on foot, starting with a dozen shots of the blue-red-and- yellow brick sunburst mosaic in the intersection of Atlantic Avenue and International Speedway Boulevard. Then, rapid succession: Tailgaters Sports Bar and Grill, Bubba’s,
