Bobby Akart - Armageddon

Hank nodded as he raised his glass to toast with the others. They clinked their glasses and took a generous first sip to start the evening.

He was appreciative of Phoebe’s thoughtfulness and thanked her several times before she finally told him to hush. After she left, he expanded on Jessica’s comment.

“Even though we operated a fairly quiet hotel, you could always feel the energy of the guests around us. They were here for a good time, and we never had to pull them back by the reins. I don’t think there was a single instance since I took over that we’ve had to ask someone to leave due to bad behavior.”

Mike laughed. “I remember when Mom and Dad were running things. There was this rock-star guy who wanted to book the entire property for his entourage. They moved other reservations around and made him pay in advance. Do you remember what happened?”

Hank threw his head back and let out a hearty laugh. “Yeah. The kid was swimming in money, I guess. It makes me think I missed my calling.”

“Being a rock star?” asked Jessica.

“No, country. But the same thing.”

Mike laughed so hard he snorted. “Hank, there’s a big difference between having star power and singing karaoke down at Bobby’s Monkey Bar.” A local haunt frequented by locals, inside Bobby’s Monkey Bar one would find dozens of Velcro-handed monkeys dangling from chandeliers and rafters while others were perched on virtually any flat surface, smiles plastered on their faces and multicolored lights reflecting off their plastic eyes.

“I could’ve been good,” said Hank somewhat seriously. He was a beach crooner, but so were thousands of other people in the Florida Keys.

Mike continued the story. “Well, anyway, mister rock-n-roller parties with his bros and hos in the W hotel in Miami and tore the place up. They had to send the SWAT team to empty the suites he rented. He was taken to jail, held for several days without bond on some drug-related charge, and never made it to Driftwood Key.”

“I remember,” said Hank. “Mom decided not to book the rooms since they were paid for times two, right?”

“Yep,” answered Mike. He took a sip of his drink. “It was the one and only time we went to Disney World as kids.”

Hank sighed. His parents had been married to the inn. There was never a time that the two of them could be away together for more than a day. Hank and Mike had accepted that. They’d made the islands their playground.

The sun set over the Gulf of Mexico. The normally turquoise and orange hues were displaced by gray, drab clouds with a hint of burnt orange. The operative word being burnt .

Being situated directly between two bodies of water, the Atlantic and the Gulf of Mexico, was a benefit, as the winds blew continuously. The soot-filled air was present but less noticeable. Thus far, none of them had experienced the coughing fits taking place around other parts of the country.

“Did you guys learn anything new today?” asked Hank.

“Yeah, people hate cops,” said Jessica with a hint of snark.

“Nah,” said Mike. “They hate us right now because we’re making them leave. When they need us, they can’t wait to call and yell for help.”

“You know, at times it feels like a thankless job,” said Jess. “Then you make a rescue at sea. Or Mike solves a case. A life is saved or, at the very least, not ruined by some criminal. You become heroes again.”

Hank realized Mike hadn’t spoken about his serial murderer case since the bombs struck the mainland. “What about the killer? Do you think he left with the others?”

“My gut tells me no,” replied Mike. “Here’s the thing. Many of the facts point to a local, as hard as that is to believe. This guy knows the Keys. He’s dumped bodies where they can’t be found until decomposition has set in. His victims have been carefully selected, indicating he meets them in a setting that allows them to become intimate with one another.”

“Intimate?” asked Hank. “The victims have all been male. Is the killer gay?”

“That thought has crossed my mind,” replied Mike. “We do have a lead up in Key Largo that actually relates back to Miami. That vic was taken out of a bar by a well-dressed, supposedly attractive woman.”

Jessica joined in. “I told Mike it might be a cross-dresser. Or a transvestite.”

“There’s a difference?” asked Hank.

Jessica sipped her mojito and shrugged.

“Not really,” replied Mike. “Honestly, we don’t have enough to go on. It could be a guy who’s working with an accomplice. Maybe the two get their jollies killing?”

“Sick puppies,” quipped Jessica.

“No doubt,” said Mike. “In any event, at least so far, knock on wood, no other bodies have turned up. Also, we don’t have any new missing person reports for locals other than people wanting to find their loved ones on the mainland.”

“I know that feeling,” said Hank. “Are you still able to monitor the civil defense communications through Homeland Security?”

“They are at the main station,” replied Mike. “Jess and I are getting information secondhand through conversation with the deputies. The northeast is a hot mess. The west from the Rockies to the coast is on fire. There are parts that haven’t been affected yet, like Northern Nevada, Utah, and Southern Colorado. The rest … It’s pretty bad from what I’m hearing.”

Hank was sorry he asked, and Mike was sorry he answered. The topic put a damper on the evening, and minutes later, Hank poured himself another drink and told them he was going to turn in for the night even though it was barely nine o’clock.

For nearly thirty minutes, Mike and Jessica sat in silence. It was becoming colder, and Mike dug out a firepit with his feet. He approached the tiki bar that was normally surrounded by guests at that time of the evening. He pulled out a Duraflame fire log and a Bic stick lighter.

He rose from behind the bar, and a flash of light on the water caught his eye. He gently set everything on the bar top and listened. The faint sound of a boat engine idling close offshore captured his attention. He closed his eyes to block out the sound of the palm fronds rustling in the wind so he could focus.

He was certain now, as the inboard engines put off a distinctive sound when idling. He stood and cupped his eyes to prevent any ambient light from behind him interfering with his field of vision. The sound of a boat was confirmed. But there were no running lights to be seen. This meant only one thing to Mike.

Somebody was sneaking up on Driftwood Key.

Monday, October 28

Driftwood Key

Mike eased from behind the bar and walked in a low crouch back toward Jessica. He felt his right hip for his weapon, knowing full well he’d left it on the bed along with his clothes when he’d returned home. He stealthily approached his wife and whispered to her, “Do you have your sidearm?”

“Yeah. Strappin’, too. Why?” Jessica had made the decision to carry her service weapon on her hip as well as a smaller, concealed weapon strapped to her ankle under khaki pants. She’d been concerned about the reactions of the nonresidents to being removed from the Keys. She’d compared every encounter to walking into the middle of a domestic dispute.

“There’s a boat pretty close offshore. They’re idling, and they’ve turned off their running lights. It’s almost like they’re sizin’ us up.”

Jessica stood and pulled her service weapon. She handed it to her husband and then retrieved the Sig Sauer P365 from her ankle holster near her bare feet. With dimensions and weight almost identical to a subcompact, the Sig P365 had a ten-plus-one capacity that gave her added protection in a potential shoot-out.