her headlights – red flesh like he’s a kielbasa left too long on the grill. He turns toward her, toothless and drunk, and gives a sloppy wave that almost causes him to ditch the bike in a pothole.
She keeps driving.
Big Torch Key.
Nothing out here. She’s beginning to think this is some kind of joke. Even in the damp, slithering heat she can feel the skin on the back of her neck and arms prick up, the hairs standing at full attention. Worry tickles at her like a rat licking its paws. Out here it’s just road and scrub and mangrove, and it’s then she thinks, This is some kind of game. I drove all the way to Florida to fall prey to some sicko’s amusement.
Of course it’s a ruse. Five grand? Off of Craigslist? Shit. Shit! She thinks, I have to get the fuck out of here – fast, too, before she goes too far and drives over a spike-strip and blows her tires and ends up part of some twisted cannibal game out here in the subtropical nowhere–
But then she sees. Ahead, the flickering of actual torchlight.
Glinting off the metal of a driveway gate.
She sees a mailbox – a faded blue dolphin holding a mailbox, actually, some kind of roadside statue. Ridiculous and tacky, sure.
But also a sign of life.
She eases the car forward.
The number on the mailbox matches the number on her directions.
She’s here.
It’s real.
Well. OK, then.
As if on cue, the gate opens. Mechanized.
It shudders and squeals as it swings wide.
She eases the Fiero into the driveway. White gravel grinds beneath her tires. Ahead, past the half-circle drive, sits a plantation-style house. Bent palms stand on both sides of the house like hands sheltering it. Or perhaps propping it up.
Warm orange light from within. Tiki torches lining the drive, flame licking the air, little vines of white smoke climbing.
The front door opens. A man comes out. Older. Late forties. Early fifties. Hair the color of sand swept down over his ears: long, shaggy, wind-frizzled. His arms are out wide, welcoming. Big smile. White teeth.
He beckons for her to park by the side.
She kills the engine. She gets out, takes the sunglasses off the top of her head, tosses them on the dash.
The man’s already on her. Coming toward her fast, arms up and out–
She’s already ready for it.
Her wrist flicks and the black four-inch lock-blade from her back pocket opens.
She points it, thrusts it at the open air. Swish , swish .
“Whoa, whoa, darling, what the–” He laughs, nervous, taking a couple clumsy steps backward. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then maybe don’t come up on a girl so fast.”
“It’s not like that–”
“I don’t know what it’s like. You invite me out here. Middle of the night. Middle of nowhere . Promise me five grand. Then come up on me like a hungry dog sniffing for treats? That’s a good way to get shanked, Jimmy Buffett.”
He laughs. Still nervous. “Well. I sure don’t want to get shanked.”
“Then take five more steps backward.”
He does.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Steve.”
“Steve what?”
“Steve Max.”
“That’s two first names.”
“I guess it is, yeah.”
She keeps the knife pointed at him. A stabby accuser. “My name’s Miriam Black.”
“Hi, Miriam. I’m glad you came down to meet me.”
“Go,” she says. “Go inside. I’ll follow you.”
“Are you going to rob me?” he asks.
“Are you going to rape me and kill me?” she asks him. “Or kill me and rape my dead body?”
“That wasn’t my plan.”
“And robbing you wasn’t mine. Like I said, go. I’ll follow.”
He smiles. Nervous. Then does as she asks.
Her gaze flits through the scrub and the trees. Looking for shadows. Nothing. Still, something here feels wrong. Paranoia crawls over her like a colony of ants.
With a deep breath, knife in hand, Miriam goes inside.
FOURTEEN
HEMINGWAY’S SPIRIT
The inside of the house is full of dark timber and tan bamboo. Palm fronds. Tiki mugs on shelves.
She keeps driving.
Big Torch Key.
Nothing out here. She’s beginning to think this is some kind of joke. Even in the damp, slithering heat she can feel the skin on the back of her neck and arms prick up, the hairs standing at full attention. Worry tickles at her like a rat licking its paws. Out here it’s just road and scrub and mangrove, and it’s then she thinks, This is some kind of game. I drove all the way to Florida to fall prey to some sicko’s amusement.
Of course it’s a ruse. Five grand? Off of Craigslist? Shit. Shit! She thinks, I have to get the fuck out of here – fast, too, before she goes too far and drives over a spike-strip and blows her tires and ends up part of some twisted cannibal game out here in the subtropical nowhere–
But then she sees. Ahead, the flickering of actual torchlight.
Glinting off the metal of a driveway gate.
She sees a mailbox – a faded blue dolphin holding a mailbox, actually, some kind of roadside statue. Ridiculous and tacky, sure.
But also a sign of life.
She eases the car forward.
The number on the mailbox matches the number on her directions.
She’s here.
It’s real.
Well. OK, then.
As if on cue, the gate opens. Mechanized.
It shudders and squeals as it swings wide.
She eases the Fiero into the driveway. White gravel grinds beneath her tires. Ahead, past the half-circle drive, sits a plantation-style house. Bent palms stand on both sides of the house like hands sheltering it. Or perhaps propping it up.
Warm orange light from within. Tiki torches lining the drive, flame licking the air, little vines of white smoke climbing.
The front door opens. A man comes out. Older. Late forties. Early fifties. Hair the color of sand swept down over his ears: long, shaggy, wind-frizzled. His arms are out wide, welcoming. Big smile. White teeth.
He beckons for her to park by the side.
She kills the engine. She gets out, takes the sunglasses off the top of her head, tosses them on the dash.
The man’s already on her. Coming toward her fast, arms up and out–
She’s already ready for it.
Her wrist flicks and the black four-inch lock-blade from her back pocket opens.
She points it, thrusts it at the open air. Swish , swish .
“Whoa, whoa, darling, what the–” He laughs, nervous, taking a couple clumsy steps backward. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Then maybe don’t come up on a girl so fast.”
“It’s not like that–”
“I don’t know what it’s like. You invite me out here. Middle of the night. Middle of nowhere . Promise me five grand. Then come up on me like a hungry dog sniffing for treats? That’s a good way to get shanked, Jimmy Buffett.”
He laughs. Still nervous. “Well. I sure don’t want to get shanked.”
“Then take five more steps backward.”
He does.
“What’s your name?” she asks.
“Steve.”
“Steve what?”
“Steve Max.”
“That’s two first names.”
“I guess it is, yeah.”
She keeps the knife pointed at him. A stabby accuser. “My name’s Miriam Black.”
“Hi, Miriam. I’m glad you came down to meet me.”
“Go,” she says. “Go inside. I’ll follow you.”
“Are you going to rob me?” he asks.
“Are you going to rape me and kill me?” she asks him. “Or kill me and rape my dead body?”
“That wasn’t my plan.”
“And robbing you wasn’t mine. Like I said, go. I’ll follow.”
He smiles. Nervous. Then does as she asks.
Her gaze flits through the scrub and the trees. Looking for shadows. Nothing. Still, something here feels wrong. Paranoia crawls over her like a colony of ants.
With a deep breath, knife in hand, Miriam goes inside.
FOURTEEN
HEMINGWAY’S SPIRIT
The inside of the house is full of dark timber and tan bamboo. Palm fronds. Tiki mugs on shelves.
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