Tim Dorsey: Gator A-GO-GO

Serge closed the door and headed back to the Challenger. “Shit!”

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

“Not sure, but I’m guessing I just made things worse image-wise.” Serge climbed in the car and sagged. “If only there was some way I could make it up, so he’ll forget all about the gun and go back to thinking Florida is fairyland.”

Serge stared at the center of the steering wheel in concentration. An index finger suddenly rose. “Got it!” He grabbed a baseball off the dashboard. “I’ll give him an authentic souvenir-this one was hit by David Ortiz, I think. Fuck it; I’ll just say it was. He’ll be so tickled to see me!”

“But I don’t think-”

Serge was already out of the car, running across the lot. Without breaking stride, he kicked the door in again and thrust the treasure over his head. “Have I got a surprise for you!”

Silence.

The ball bounced on the terrazzo floor, rolling through scattered playing cards and spilled soda cans.

Serge whipped the gun from under his shirt. “Don’t make any sudden moves. Now slowly, take the knife away from his throat.”

BOSTON

Patrick’s face was practically against the computer screen when the knock came.

His boss walked in. “Usually when people want to see me, they come to my office.”

Patrick waved him over without looking up. “Check this out.”

“What am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Know the missing freshman?”

“Of course. Been all over the news.”

Patrick spun his chair toward the TV.

“Where’d you get a VCR?”

“Barney had one.” Patrick hit play. “They’ve been running the surveillance tape every half hour.”

“I saw that thing. Chilling.”

“They actually recorded her being grabbed.”

“Can’t imagine what her parents are going through. What’s it got to do with us?”

Patrick switched the grainy, black-and-white footage to slo-mo. “Okay, this is it. She walks around to the driver’s door and gets out her keys…”

“Patrick, is everything all right?”

“… Keep watching. Here’s where the passenger door on the next car opens, and the guy grabs her and pulls her out of view.” He stopped the tape.

The boss waited a moment. “So?”

“Police caught a break. Or half of one. The edge of the surveillance camera’s perspective is right next to her vehicle. The only thing we see of the abductor is his arm. If the camera had been turned just a few degrees to the left…”

“That’s what everyone’s talking about,” said the boss. “Again, what’s it got to do with us?”

Patrick spun back to the computer and pulled up an image. “Remember the Kitchen and Linen account?”

“Yeah, it’s late.”

“I knew the shopping center on TV looked familiar.” He pushed his chair out to create room.

The boss leaned closer. “Don’t tell me a satellite got the kidnapping.”

“No. Odds would be astronomical.” Patrick tapped a spot on the screen. “But right here. The satellite pass was an hour before the time stamp on that surveillance video.”

“And?”

“Here’s her Sonata. Our software confirmed it. The vehicle next to hers is an ’05 Ford Ranger.” Patrick zoomed the image back and pointed at the top of the screen. “Shopping center’s right by this entrance ramp to the turnpike. That would be the logical getaway. Toll booth probably has a picture of the license plate.”

“What are you, Columbo now?”

“I know it’s a long shot. He could have left a different way. And the Ford might not even have anything to do with it. Maybe it was just in the same parking space and left before the kidnapper arrived.” He picked up the phone. “Still, if I was her parents, I’d want the police to know.”

FORT MYERS

Six A.M.

A ’73 Dodge Challenger with a keyed driver’s door took an underpass to the east side of I-75.

Bulldozers and mounds of burned trees lay on one side of the road; a golf course was already in business on the other.

No traffic at this hour. The Challenger rolled through woods with FOR S ALE signs offering five hundred acres and up. Another bulldozed clearing. Then a dense thicket of identical houses and screened-in pools around a man-made pond. A fountain that sprayed during daylight was still.

Developer world.

Serge turned off the highway and wound through residential streets that weren’t on the map yet. Only one completed house for every dozen lots. In between, fire hydrants, concrete footers and new streetlights waiting to be wired into the power grid.

Someone was awake in one of the homes, reading a book upstairs. Others had cars in driveways. Serge studied each passing residence. Nothing he liked. The Challenger drove on. More isolated homesteads. More checkmarks in the negative column.

The Challenger reached the back of the future subdivision and rounded a broad cul-de-sac with surveyors’ stakes. Serge parked and studied the last house three lots up. No cars or other signs of life, but the porch light was on, which meant electricity, essential to his science project. A rolled-up garden hose hung from its cradle by the back fence. The mailbox: THOMPSON.

Owner-occupied. Excellent.

Just one last thing. Serge got out of the car without closing the door and tiptoed to the mailbox. He opened it. Full.

Serge ran back, started the car and whipped up the driveway. “Coleman!” Shaking his pal’s shoulder with a hand holding a pistol.

“We’re here!”

Snoring.

“Wake up!” Serge jabbed him in the cheek with the gun.

A groggy Coleman startled. Another jab with the pistol. A loud groan. Coleman’s eye blinked and stared into the barrel of a huge gun. He grabbed his heart. “Thank God! I was having a nightmare I was out of dope.”

Thuds from the trunk.

Coleman found some potato chips in his pocket. “I wish they’d stop all that racket.”

“It will soon be peaceful in the jungle.” Serge aimed a rectangular plastic box at the house.

“What’s that?”

“Garage door opener.” Serge turned a knob.

“I didn’t know garage openers had dials. Or were that big.”

“Mine’s the only one.” More intricate twisting. “I bought a regular opener, extracted the gizzards and made a trip to my beloved RadioShack. Then I rebuilt the components inside a blank electronics box. All other openers have a button you temporarily press, so I soldered the power circuit to this on-off toggle switch, allowing continuous transmission. Also, openers only broadcast on a single, fixed frequency, which I bypassed with a variable gang capacitor attached to this dial, permitting me to tune it like a radio across the entire garage bandwidth.”

“Variable gang?”

“Long explanation.” The dial rotated farther. “But a childhood of building crystal radios put me in the kill zone.”

Crunch, crunch. “The door isn’t opening.” Crunch.

“What are you eating?”

“Potato chip pieces and lint.”

More careful tuning. “If my guess is correct…”

A quiet mechanical grinding in the night.

“It’s opening,” said Coleman. “It works.”

Serge grabbed his drugstore shopping bags and a broom. “Justice is afoot.”

The trunk lid popped open. Whining from two bound and gagged hostages.

“My manners,” said Serge, reaching over them for a small toolbox. “Forgot the formal introduction… Tourist-robbing motel dirt-bag, meet not-pulling-over-for-fire-truck horn-honking car-keyer, and vice versa… Eeny, meeny, miney, mo-which social goiter has to go?”

“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

“Choosing.”