Electric Barracuda Read online

  Electric Barracuda

  Tim Dorsey

  For Nat

  People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be.

  —ABRAHAM LINCOLN

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part I

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Part II

  Chapter 7Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Part III

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Part IV

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Tim Dorsey

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  Present

  Orlando.

  Tourism on steroids. Florida’s mutant chromosome with mouse ears.

  One of the newer attractions is an air-conditioned dome over a sprawling, man-made replica of the state’s natural landscape.

  They bulldozed nature to build it.

  Outside the dome, a dragnet tightened.

  An endless string of harsh, red brake lights stretched to the horizon. Evening traffic snarled on Interstate 4 through theme park country. An unmarked Crown Vic with police antennae whipped into the breakdown lane and sped past crawling minivans and station wagons. Its passenger-side tires slipped off the shoulder, kicking up a cloud.

  A cell phone rang.

  “Agent White here.”

  “We got him!” said Agent Lowe. “We finally got him!”

  “Serge?”

  “That’s the man.”

  “Don’t mess with me.”

  “I can’t believe it either. After all this time.”

  “I’m more amazed he hadn’t been nailed earlier. How many years? How many murders?”

  “Dozens.”

  “Years or murders?”

  “Take your pick.”

  “I still don’t see how it’s possible he could remain so active for so long, with nearly every agency in the state after him.”

  “It’s Florida. He blended in—and had a lot of luck. But now it’s finally run out.”

  “Who broke the case?”

  “Agent Mahoney.”

  “Mahoney? That nut job?”

  “Apparently he got better. How far away are you?”

  “Twenty minutes. I’ll be there in ten.”

  My name’s Serge.

  The LSD just kicked in.

  I can tell because my legs are walking away. Come back here! Legs don’t listen for crap.

  This isn’t my first trip. And I don’t even do drugs.

  My name’s Serge.

  Last time I accidentally got dosed by Lenny. This time Coleman.

  And what am I doing in handcuffs? Have I been arrested? Dear God, they’re taking me to jail! . . . Or maybe it’s just this drug—fight the hallucination.

  My name’s Serge.

  Damn you, Coleman! That boob must have gotten it in the onion dip again. And I can’t resist potato chips. Ruffles. Wise. Lay’s. Cheetos, Fritos, Doritos. Aren’t snacks fucked up? . . . Snack, snack, snack, snack . . . What an unnegotiably aggressive sound. The Roman Empire invented snacks, right after the aqueducts. Irrigation flowed, food plentiful, people munching between meals in the city-states. They ate these little, sun-dried meaty things, highly distasteful and falling out of favor until olive oil. I just made all that up. The key to life is making shit up. Everyone does it or society would unravel, like, Gee, your hair looks great! Or: God told me you’re wrong . . . Here come my legs—I’ll try to grab them. Rats, too fast. Why do we even need snacks? More important, why do we need anything else? Do they make Bugles anymore? Bugles were really fucked up. When I was six, I’d bite the tips off and play “Taps,” like I’m doing now, except I just have my fingers in front of my mouth with a tiny invisible bugle . . .

  . . . People are staring. Act normal.

  That’s how I know it’s LSD. People tend to stare. They also stare at me the rest of the time, and I’ve become humbly accustomed to the limelight. But currently they’re staring from a picture in the newspaper on my lap. Some kind of country fair holding prize pig races to celebrate the local yam harvest. Now they’re running around, yelling and pointing at me. They’ve got a bunch of torches and pitchforks! They’re charging! Right off the page, right at my face! Here comes the first pitchfork in my eyes! Hold freak-out! Quick, close the newspaper! . . . Speaking of politics, what’s happening to America? All vital signs spell collapse: unemployment, environment, national security, energy dependence, world respect, violent riots escalating into town hall meetings—our entire population completely polarized, half the country ready to kill the other half. And over what? For a week it was the Dixie Chicks. Things sure have changed. FDR tried to calm us: “Nothing to fear but fear itself.” Now politicians encourage the jitters. Panic is the new patriotism. “Today’s Threat Level: Duck!” But you don’t even want to think of fear on an acid trip. Fear, fear, fear, FEAR! My body is decaying! I can feel it! I can hear it! I can smell it! And it smells like . . . liver treats. Who would have thought? I need gum. It’s in that pocket and . . . Wait, what’s this plastic tube? An empty prescription bottle? And it has my name on it.

  My name is Serge.

  The medication on the label is some serious stuff. That’s weird. But what does this Byzantine puzzle mean? The Byzantines liked snacks, to go with their puzzles . . . It’s slowly starting to come back— . . . Of course! Lenny didn’t drug me back then—and Coleman didn’t this time. I’m just out of pills. My brain must have finally rid itself of their mind-blunting effects. This rampaging, all-over-the-road psychotic nightmare is just my normal thought-party. Excellent.

  I’m looking out a window. We’re moving fast. Florida nightscape whizzing by. Lights blink at an intersection. A screaming comes across the sky. It’s some kind of loud horn. We’re going to crash! Flames soon lapping my flesh! . . . Another illusion. Resist. Close your eyes, think positive thoughts . . . A song. It’s pretty, I’m smiling and singing along in my head: “What’s so funny about peace, love and understanding?” Exactly: I’m totally re-dedicating my life to getting along with everyone. But who wrote that marvelous tune? Elvis Costello? I hate that fuck . . .

  Ouch.

  What’s this hurting my wrist? A handcuff again? Sure looks real. Wait, it is real. But where did it come from? Maybe this guy sitting next to me knows . . . Excuse me, sir . . . Holy
cripes, it’s Agent Mahoney! Now I get it—I’ve finally been captured. And that horn is a train whistle. Mahoney’s taking me somewhere on a choo-choo, probably the Big House, just like in The Fugitive. I know: I’ll use this unfortunate downtime to pretend I’m in that TV show. “Serge A. Storms . . . A man wrongly convicted (wink) . . .” We’re coming around a bend. I see lights ahead. Another crossing gate. But what’s that idiot in the pickup truck doing on the tracks? The horn’s blaring nonstop, steel grinding, sparks showering. We are going to crash! Hang on! . . .

  . . . How long have I been unconscious? Whoa, my head, my wrist . . . The handcuffs broke! I’m free! The train’s on its side, so I’ll just climb out the shattered window that’s up on the ceiling . . . Therrrrrre we go. Trot along the top of the car, leap off the side, tumble down this ditch—ow, ooo, ow, ooo, ow—nothing to it, and that’s basically how you escape. Now I just walk to the nearest truck stop, hitch an eighteen-wheeler to Texarkana, reinvent myself as an audience-favorite horseshoe champion who’s a committed pacifist yet expert in jujitsu and ragtime piano and is finally pushed too far when the bank forecloses on a sixth-generation dairy farm and hires goons from the traveling midway to menace a soft-spoken widow who is the only person in town unaware of her own smoldering sexuality . . . Oops, spoke too soon. There’s a flashlight in the distance. A voice. Someone’s coming! Quick! To the bottom of the ditch! Cover yourself with branches and trash!

  “Serge!”

  A flashlight swept the bottom of a ditch.

  “Serge, where are you? Yell if you can hear me.”

  A head poked up from a pile of ripped-open garbage bags. “Coleman?”

  The flashlight beam hit a face. “Serge, what are you doing at the bottom of that ditch with rotten food all over your head?”

  “Isn’t that what I usually ask you?”

  “Everything okay?”

  “Couldn’t be better.” Serge hopped up and brushed himself off. “I just escaped.”

  “Escaped?”

  “It was touch and go, but I slipped Mahoney’s grasp again.”

  “Mahoney?”

  Serge pointed. “The big train derailment— . . . where’d the wreck go?”

  Coleman turned around and looked at the dark side of a building. “Nothing but our motel.”

  Serge squinted at his sidekick. “What’s going on?”

  “Beats me.” Coleman clicked off the flashlight. “We were back in our room watching an old rerun of The Fugitive, and during the train crash in the opening credits, you ran out the door yelling, ‘I’m free! I’m free.’ ”

  Serge slowly smiled and nodded with understanding. “I must have gone into a fugue state.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hard to explain.” Serge climbed the muddy embankment. “But remember that time you were really ripped on peyote and passed out in that motel bed where the sheets were tucked in super tight, and somehow you got turned around in your sleep so your head was trapped at the foot of the bed, and you woke up trying to fight your way out, screaming that bugs had encased you in a cocoon, and you were turning into a giant winged insect?”

  “That wasn’t a cocoon?”

  “Your variation on the fugue state.”

  “I get it now.”

  Serge began walking back to the motel. “Think The Fugitive is still on?”

  “Yeah, you’ve just been gone a few minutes.”

  “Let’s watch the rest. Maybe they’ll catch the one-armed man.”

  They went back inside their room as a convoy of unmarked cars cut their headlights and quietly rolled into the parking lot of the budget motel.

  Coleman glanced toward a banging sound from the closet. “What about the guy you’re keeping tied up in there?”

  “Oh,” said Serge, looking up from the TV. “Almost forgot about him.”

  A Crown Vic with blackwall tires arrived at the motel. Agent White rushed over to Agent Lowe.

  “Where’s Serge?”

  “Get down!” Lowe whispered. “He might see you.”

  White stared curiously at his colleague, crouched behind a car, dressed completely in black, pulling a black hood over his head.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked White. “I thought you said on the phone you had Serge.”

  “We do.” Lowe pointed over the trunk of the car. “He’s in that last room.”

  White’s head sagged. “When you say you have someone, that means in custody. Back of a squad car. Maybe even handcuffed.”

  “Not all the time.”

  “Yes, all the time.”

  “He’s just as good as in custody.” Lowe fitted night-vision goggles over his eyes. “We’ve got him pinned. See?” He gestured to his left at the black-clothed SWAT team squatting next to him. “Now, will you get down before he sees you?”

  White stayed standing with hands on hips, watching his partner apply black face paint. “You’re still hung up about not making the SWAT team?”

  Lowe’s goggles remained fixed on the motel room. “I’ll make it the next round of tests. I was this close.”

  “But you still can’t do a chin-up. And you collapsed again during the mile run. They had to use a stretcher.”

  “I’ve been working out. Huge progress on chin-ups.”

  “How many?”

  “I bought a chin-up bar.”

  Something nagged at White. “The parking lot . . .” He looked around. “. . . The entire block. Why is it so dark?”

  “Had the power company cut all outside lights.” Lowe removed the goggles and pulled a black ski mask down over his painted face. “For our ninja strike.” He turned to the nearest SWAT member and gave him a spirited thumbs-up. “Ready to rumble?”

  “Just stay out of our way, limp-dick, and don’t fuck this up.”

  Lowe smiled at White. “That’s how SWAT brothers talk.”

  Out of the darkness, a human form materialized on the far side of the parking lot, casually walking toward them.

  “Jesus!” Lowe whispered. “He’s going to ruin everything.”

  The form took shape, wearing a tweed jacket and rumpled fedora. A toothpick wiggled in his teeth. His necktie had a pattern of vintage Las Vegas casino signs. He walked around behind the car.

  White nodded in recognition. “Mahoney.”

  Mahoney tossed the toothpick over his shoulder. “It’s my collar. I peeled the banana.”

  “No argument,” said White. “But how’d you find him?”

  “Serge has been slipping for years.” Mahoney dramatically fit a fresh toothpick in his mouth and stared back at the last motel room, where the outline of a lampshade glowed behind a moth-worn curtain. “Screwed the pooch and registered under his own moniker.”

  “So why don’t we take him?” said White. “What are we waiting out here for?”

  Mahoney glanced down at Lowe. “Ask the Green Hornet.”

  A series of ripping sounds. Lowe tested various empty Velcro pockets on his tactical jacket designed to hold tactical equipment he wasn’t authorized to carry. “We’re waiting for the lamp to go out so he’ll be more off guard during our lightning breach with flash-bang grenades.” He produced a waterproof, spiral-bound book from a zippered pocket. “It’s in the manual.”

  White rolled his eyes.

  They waited.

  The lamp stayed on.

  Next to a lamp sat a snowy TV set. Serge slapped the side. A black-and-white episode of The Fugitive came into focus. “This is the one where he’s shot by police and takes refuge in an orphanage at a Navajo reservation outside Puma . . .”

  Muted screams from next to the bed.

  “Do you mind?” said Serge. “I’m trying to watch this.”

  The desperation grew louder.

  Serge sighed. “Everyone wants attention.” He got up and walked over. “Okay, you ruined my show. Now what’s the issue?”

  The bound and gagged hostage looked up from his chair with pleading eyes.

  Coleman
killed a Schlitz and crumpled the can. “So who is this guy anyway?”

  “Ever see the TV show To Catch a Predator?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I caught one.”

  “Where?”

  “At the playground. He was lurking in his car with porn.”

  “What were you doing at the playground?”

  “Just driving by this time. I used to love playgrounds, but jeez, I haven’t played in one in at least, what? Three months?”

  “Why not?”

  “If you’re an adult without a kid, it draws looks, even if I’m just going for the Guinness record on the monkey bars. And parents hustle their tots away every single time I stand on top of the jungle gym, beating my chest and roaring like a silver-back gorilla, even though I’m only trying to show them how it’s done.”

  “They don’t appreciate it?”

  “You’d think I was a red-ass baboon.”

  “What about the teeter-totter?”

  “One is the loneliest number.”

  Coleman stubbed out a roach. “Too bad.”

  “It’s all right,” said Serge. “We’re living in new times. Parents are understandably nervous these days. I’ve decided to stay away from the swing sets and not to add to their anxiety over, well, guys like this.”

  “How’d you catch him?”

  “Child’s play. He was too engrossed, and I flanked the car on foot—at his driver’s window before he knew it. First he thought I was an undercover cop and tried to hide the porn, but I said I was just a concerned citizen and wanted to have a little chat, emphasizing community fabric and maybe direct him to some treatment programs. You know, real polite and reasonable like I usually am.”

  “You’re always caring.”

  “But sometimes it turns ugly anyway. He’s a pretty big dude, as you can see. Jumped out his car and knocked me down. No biggie, I’ve been knocked down before. I get up and explain he hasn’t committed a crime yet—there’s still time to get help, but he just knocks me down again.”

  “And that’s when you captured him?”

  “No, I thought of what my psychiatrist said and stayed calm, because this wasn’t about me; it was for the children. I kept getting up, over and over, doing my best to win the heart and mind, but he’d just slam me to the ground again. After a while, I’m brushing dirt out of my hair and thinking: This really isn’t a conversation.”