John Locke - Now & Then

“We drink it almost every morning. It’s really good for you. I wouldn’t have brought it if it wasn’t.”

“Show me,” he said.

“What?”

He handed her the cup. “Show me how good it tastes.”

Rachel took it and shrugged. “Seriously?”

“Unless there’s some reason you’d rather not.”

Rachel made a face that would have been adorable had she not been trying to poison him. Then, to D’Augie’s surprise, she drank half the cup, paused, then placed the cup carefully on the table and smiled.

“See?” she said. “Delicious, nutritious, and healthy.” She suddenly made a face, grabbed her throat and said, “Wha…what…Oh, my God, I…I don’t feel so good…I—” then she fell to the floor.

D’Augie jerked himself to a sitting position and peered over the edge of the bed. Rachel jumped up, yelled “Boo!” and nearly scared the shit out of him.

“Sorry,” Rachel said, “but you deserved that.”

She seemed to study his face a moment. “You’re pale,” she said. “Hey, I didn’t mean to frighten you. Are you okay?”

He nodded.

Rachel moved around the side of the bed and, to D’Augie’s utter amazement, she kissed his forehead. Then she stroked his hair a moment before reclaiming her seat. She picked up the cup and drank some more and said, “You sure you don’t want some?”

“I’ve got...” she looked at the plastic bottle on the hospital table. “Half a bottle left. You want to watch me drink that too?”

“I’ll split it with you.”

D’Augie drank while Rachel talked. She told him that she and Creed were on vacation, and had traveled the eastern sea coast for two weeks. That wasn’t news to D’Augie, since he’d been hunting Creed for months, showing his photo to all the private jet operators and airports around the country. A couple of weeks ago a Louisville baggage guy remembered a man who fit Creed’s physical description, who had demanded strict secrecy. But he said the man used a different name and the photo was all wrong. The guy he’d seen looked like a movie star and didn’t have a jagged scar on the side of his face. D’Augie decided Creed must have changed his appearance. He’d heard Homeland Security assassins could do that, but D’Augie’s informant gave him a critical piece of information: the guy who might be Creed was traveling with a young lady named Rachel Case. So regardless of the name Creed was using on the manifest, Rachel was using her real name, and they had left Louisville for Atlantic City a few days earlier. D’Augie had Googled Rachel Case, from Louisville, found her photos, learned her background information. Then he scoped out the nicest hotels in Atlantic City until he saw Rachel lounging at the pool drinking Kashenkas with a guy that had to be Donovan Creed. Sure enough, when he called the front desk, they confirmed a Donovan Creed was registered there.

So D’Augie began following them, and had followed them ever since.

As Rachel talked, D’Augie allowed himself to wonder if the “Red Drink” could be one of Creed’s secret weapons. He’d heard all his life about how Creed seemed impervious to pain, and how he had a miraculous ability to heal after receiving the most savage blows and wounds. His father had known Creed, and had considered him to be superhuman. D’Augie had always assumed Creed’s mysterious powers were more hyperbole than fact. But after drinking this red concoction, he was beginning to change his mind. There was no arguing the way this drink made him feel. He was gaining strength and energy. He was getting better.

“Rachel,” he said, “This Red Drink is to die for!”

“I told you you’d love it!”

They spent the next fifteen minutes chatting about fire ants (neither liked them) and how D’Augie was feeling (much better, thank you). The doctors said he might be able to get out in a couple of weeks, but if she brought him some more Red Drink it might only take a couple of days, he speculated. She agreed to come back the next day.

Rachel wasn’t what D’Augie would call smokin’ hot, but she had plenty going for her. High on the list, she seemed to care what happened to D’Augie, which was something he wasn’t used to. He wouldn’t feel the slightest regret for killing Creed, but he decided he would spare Rachel’s life, if at all possible.

The next morning, Thursday, Rachel brought him two bottles of Red Drink and a book. Even better, she told him that she and Creed had taken jobs at The Seaside to help out the lady who owned the place. Rachel laughed at the idea she was going to be a waitress. D’Augie laughed at the idea Creed was going to start cooking breakfast for the guests. They spoke a bit more, and then Rachel said, “I guess I better head out.”

“Why the rush?”

“I’m going to catch some rays on the beach.”

“With Kevin?”

“I wish! No, Kevin’s going to start getting rid of the tree squirrels today.”

“Tree squirrels?”

“In the attic. At The Seaside.”

She rambled on about how the squirrels had nested in the attic and were making noises, and how Kevin had decided not to climb up there for a few more days, and...

…And that’s how D’Augie figured out how to kill Creed without hurting Rachel.

Ninety minutes after Rachel left, D’Augie finished his second bottle of Red Drink, grabbed his clothes and snuck out of the Medical Center. He walked to the public parking area on Front Street where he’d left his car before following Creed and Rachel down A1A a couple nights earlier. He retrieved a shirt and hat from the trunk and put them on, then drove to a supermarket and bought some peanut butter meal replacement bars, a half-dozen bottles of water, and a boning knife. He put these items and a 9mm Glock in a small carry bag in his trunk and drove to the public beach parking lot. He parked his car, got the carry bag from the trunk and slung it over his shoulder. Then he walked the beach a quarter mile until he saw Rachel fifty yards in front of him, lying on a chaise lounge.

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&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.

Chapter 11

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.”