James Smith - The Flock

"I hope you enjoyed your stay," he said from behind Dodd as they'd gone in.

Dodd had not even had the time to reply. Just as he heard the door click soundly shut behind them, the door to the bedroom had moved slowly open and two men, men who looked exactly like some stereotype of the northern tourist in sunny Florida appeared before him. They were all decked out in floral prints with white shorts that showed pale legs and ruddy knees. But their faces were expressionless, their eyes hidden by dark shades over fatless cheekbones. They came swiftly in and grabbed for his arms, one on each side. These were certainly no harmless tourists accidentally admitted to the wrong room. They knew where they were and just what they were going to do. The reporter tried to escape, tried to back away.

But the bellboy was behind him, to prevent his retreat.

Of course.

The reporter started to yell for help, and was quickly gagged by the application of a rag held over his face by a strong hand. He gasped, smelling something with a powerful chemical odor, and wondered if this were the legendary chloroform rag. Whatever it was, he blacked out during the second inhalation.

He never felt them take his laptop out of his rubbery, drugged grip. He never heard any of the things they said to one another after the bellboy had asked him if his stay had been a nice one.

And, some hours later, after they'd beaten his story out of him, Dodd never heard anything again. Not ever.

It was the ringing of his phone that woke Ron. For some reason, even in his sleep, he'd been thinking of the remainder of the previous day. He was thinking of it even as he reached for the receiver.

After he and Mary had informed Tatum of their suspicions, even handing over the severed dog foot, the two had figured their jobs were over, as far as this little problem was concerned. Ron had enjoyed seeing Tatum's expression when he'd unwrapped the towel to reveal the plastic bag with the rotting canine paw inside. Mary had made some comment about eating it there or taking it home.

"Still the joker, Ms. Niccols?" Tatum asked. He had not been amused at her humor.

Ron was a little surprised to see that the security cop and Mary knew one another. "You two have met?"

"My other visits," Mary had told Ron.

Ron was growing certain of one thing-Mary Niccols would be a frequent visitor in the future, as the village quickly expanded to take up more and more of that prime wilderness. Such was life.

And then he had gone to the Eyesore, to try to see if Ms. Kwitney was there. He was growing more and more disappointed that she had not called him, and the prospect that he was just not her type was beginning to bother him. Maybe she just hadn't been as enamored of Ron as he had been of her. If so…oh, well, he told himself. But, truly, he hoped that was not the case.

He took the single sandy track leading out to the Eyesore. Finding it had proven to be something of a chore. The road was not marked, of course, and it was such an ephemeral avenue that it was nearly invisible in the wall of pines from which it emerged. He'd had to make two passes in his truck before he'd spotted it. Others must have had the same problem, for as he had turned off the paved road and into the forest; he had spotted a small yellow flag of nylon fabric tied to a pine sapling, close to the ground. That was Holcomb's idea of a road sign, he supposed.

Ron kept expecting to encounter someone else along the way. An employee headed out for supplies, or maybe one of Holcomb's people out spotting wildlife. But there had been nothing to encounter except for the ever-present buzz of central Florida's insect population screaming wildly in the yellow sunlight, and an occasional bird flitting from tree to tree. It had really been too hot for anything but the liveliest of Mother Nature's progeny. He'd watched clouds of sandy dust billowing up in his wake as he had driven down the road, perhaps moving just a bit faster than he should have. But it was the thought of talking again to Kate that drove him to push the pedal too close to the metal.

At last he had come out of the woods and into the clearing where Holcomb's compound sprouted out of the ground like a gigantic set of building blocks. Ron had pulled up to the front gate, shut the motor off, and had climbed out. For a minute or two he had stood in the golden light, feeling it press down on the crown of his scalp like a hot, but weightless hand: God caressing the hair of yet another of his children.

Ron had stood there, waiting. He had looked to the gate, expecting to see someone come out of the guardroom, which stared at him with a great, reflective eye of a window. No one came. He expected to see someone moving around, doing work, going from one building to the next, carrying boxes or equipment. He thought that he might see one of the four-wheelers come putt-putting out of the garage, or maybe one of the trucks.

But all was still. All was silent.

After a few minutes, Ron had called out.

"Hello!" Silence. "Anyone here? Anyone home?" Cicadas screamed at one another, yelling out their lust for all to hear. "Mr. Holcomb! Adam Levin?" A pair of Love Bugs floated on a hot current, joined genitally, one to the other, locked in a moment of reproductive passion. "Kate," he had screamed. "Kate! It's Ron Riggs!"

Only the bugs replied.

He'd reached into the cab of the truck, honking the horn once, twice, again. No one called. No one came. No one moved.

Ron had stood there for a moment or two more, thinking that he could feel that he was being watched. He knew that a number of people worked in Vance Holcomb's weird little compound. Ten or fifteen at least, just to keep it going. There were windows looking out at him, gilded filters of golden film making mirrors of them. Ron could see himself reflected in them; he was small and vulnerable as he leaned against his truck. He wondered who might be in there, seeing him, looking at him as if he were a specimen to be studied. Levin, perhaps, laughing at him. Or not laughing.

It was then that a chill had passed down his spine. This was not right. He was not wanted here. Not now, at least. Shivering away the gooseflesh, he had broken his gaze from the buildings and had climbed back into his truck, finding not a small amount of comfort when the engine fired right up. Perhaps he had turned around a little too quickly, had gunned the engine a tad too much, and had left the place in just an embarrassing bit of a hurry.

The way out was longer than he had thought, driving in. He kept expecting to see the paved blacktop of Salutations around each curve, but met only more of that sandy roadway and more pines and more palmettos and more oak. Once, he thought he saw someone, a dark figure behind a tall growth of bear grass, but he couldn't have been certain. And he hadn't cared really. All he had wanted to do at that point was get out of there, get back to the road, get on his way back home so that he could wash and dress to meet up with Dodd back in Orlando.

When he had come out of the woods and onto the asphalt, he had left a good hunk of rubber there, heading out.

At home he had checked his mail and his answering machine. Nothing but a few bills in the former, and, at last, a message from Kate on the latter.

"Ron. This is Kate," the machine said, accentuating her husky voice. Ron smiled. "Since I guess you're out chasing gators or teaching kids, I'll just leave a message. We'll be busy here today, so I won't have time to get up with you, but maybe this evening. Why don't you give me a call? I'm going to give you my number, so write it down and call me back later." He had scrambled through the mild jumble that was his house, and had found a pad and pen and soon had her number jotted down for posterity.