John Locke - Now and then

He paused for a moment to look at her. Rachel's body looked better in the bikini than he'd thought it would a few hours earlier, when she'd come to visit him in the hospital. He allowed himself to imagine her naked. From there it was a short hop to think about making love to her, and he wondered if, after killing Creed, he should contact her and help her get through the grieving stage. After a suitable period of being her emotional tampon, D'Augie could make his move.

Speaking of moves, it was time to decide his next one. D'Augie shook the image of naked, grieving Rachel from his mind and glanced behind her, intending to check out the rear entrance to The Seaside. But what he saw instead was Creed walking on the boardwalk, coming from the B amp;B, heading toward Rachel, carrying a wrapped up towel.

D'Augie abruptly turned toward A1A, climbed over some sand dunes and slogged his way a hundred yards through shifting sand until he got to the highway. He propped himself against a telephone pole that had a poster nailed to it. He looked at the picture and skimmed the words about a missing girl named Libby Vail. From this position he had a clear view of the side and back of The Seaside. After a few minutes he saw Creed heading back. Then he was out of view for a moment. Then he reappeared in the parking lot, where he got in a car and drove away.

Moments later, D'Augie entered The Seaside, calling out, "Is anyone here?" If someone had answered, he'd ask for a brochure and leave. But he knew there was no one inside because he counted four mice running around on the main floor, and a wharf rat. Rachel had told him that Creed planned to board up the attic, so he'd probably already done it and the rodents were fleeing through interior openings and floorboards.

He headed up the stairs and located the attic entrance in the ceiling above the hallway. He pulled the draw cord that opened the attic door, unhinged the attic steps, pulled them to the floor, and then tested them. Then he reversed the process and closed the attic and checked the floor to make sure there were no tell-tale signs on the carpet, like dust or insulation. Satisfied with the result, D'Augie opened the door again, lowered the stairs, and climbed into the attic.

THE FIRE ANTS hurt like a son-of-a-bitch!

From the time I pulled the kid off the ant hill I'd been dying to experience the sensation. Don't get me wrong, I didn't plan to get swarmed like the kid, but I figured a couple dozen or so would give me the buzz I'd been missing these past weeks. Though I had an EpiPen in my pocket, I wasn't worried about anaphylactic shock, since Dr. Carstairs had said it's usually the second attack that gets you, not the first.

I let them feast on my flesh a few seconds before standing up and crushing them. A few got into my crotch and bit me hard enough to make my lower lip twitch. I figured to let the bites heal and come back every few days to see if I could build up a resistance.

By the time I got to the car I was feeling dizzy. It wouldn't take too many bites to go beyond the point of no return, so I made a mental note to be extra careful the next time. According to Dr. Carstairs, each exposure is exponentially more dangerous than the previous one.

I checked my watch; figured Rachel wouldn't care if I made a quick detour. I drove to the hardware store on Sixth and Coastal, got three feet in the door before the owner asked, "You the one taking over for Rip at The Seaside?"

"Was Rip the old caretaker?"

"Yep."

"Then, yep."

The owner was big and burly, with enormous fiery red mutton chops that covered the entire space between his nose and lower lip. He wore a red flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Had a tattoo of a ship's anchor on one forearm, and a dancing girl on the other. Wore his pants low, beneath his beer belly, with no belt. He sized me up. "You don't look much like a caretaker, you don't mind me saying so."

"I'm more of a cook with a squirrel problem."

"You guys serve squirrel over there? Fried squirrel, milk gravy?"

The assistant manager sauntered over. He was tall and gaunt, with facial skin so leathery you could strop a razor on it. He wore a patch on his work shirt that told anyone who cared that he was Earl. It had been quite a while since I'd seen anyone saunter, and I took a minute to watch him. It's kind of a lost art and Earl was good at it.

"Let's start over," I said. I put out my hand. "I'm Donovan Creed."

The big man took it. "I'm Jimbo Pim, this here's Earl Stout."

I nodded at Earl and concluded the handshake and said, "I'm the caretaker and breakfast chef at The Seaside. I've got the breakfast part down, but I need some kind of bomb or spray to kill the squirrels and other varmints in the attic."

Jimbo rubbed his beard in a practiced manner with his thumb and index finger.

"Is Beth planning to shut the place down a few weeks?"

"No."

"Then I'd recommend against the bomb. Put's one hell of a sulfur stink in the air, takes about two weeks to get 'er gone. Not only that, but sprays and mothballs and the like can cause breathing problems for your customers."

"In that case, what do you recommend?"

"You been up in that attic?"

"Not yet."

"Then you don't know what the hell's up there. Them live oak branches hang way over the roof. You could have five species of snakes in there, maybe some raccoons to boot. The bomb and spray don't work on all critters. You kill the snakes you'll be overrun with rats. You kill the rats, the snakes will work their way into the living areas, and nothin' says 'leave' faster than snakes on a doorknob."

"Is that a local saying?"

"It should be. A few years back I found a corn snake wrapped around my bed room door knob."

He waited for me to ask about it, and I was convinced nothing would happen until I did.

"What did you do?" I said.

"Stuffed him in a shoebox, put a bible on it and took him to the woods the next day."

"You weren't worried he'd get out in the middle of the night?"

"Snakes don't mess with The Word."

I looked at Earl. He nodded and said, "Goes back to Adam and Eve."

"Something else," Jimbo said. "It's against Florida law to kill tree squirrels."

Thinking Jimbo might be having sport with me, I looked at Earl again. But Earl nodded solemnly, so either they were both joshin' or they shared the same opinion about the killing of squirrels.

"But, they're basically rodents, right?"

"In Florida they're game mammals," Jimbo said, "so they're protected under state hunting regulations."

I shook my head.

Earl said, "I know. What's the world coming to, right?"

"Any legal way around it?"

"Squirrels chew wires," Jimbo said. "They're a major fire hazard. You're probably close to a serious problem already, so you could go to a state wildlife damage control agent and apply for a depredation permit."

I frowned. "That sounds lengthy. You got any quick and easy solutions? I'm not hung up so much on the legality."

"Have you discussed these plans with Beth?"

"She's turned the squirrel problem over to me. Getting rid of them had been her husband's pet project, the one he hadn't been able to solve, and I'd like to do this for her."

"She's a hell of a woman," Earl said. "Charlie was a lucky man."

Jimbo said, "It pains me to see her so broken-hearted. They had the perfect marriage, far as the rest of us could tell."

Earl added, "She used to laugh all the time. That's what she was known for, friendly smile, big laugh."

"Don't see her doing much of either these days," Jimbo said.

We fell silent a moment.

"The squirrels?" I said.

"Look," Jimbo said. "There's about five ways to get rid of squirrels in an attic. But none of them work."