residents. Time
to reenter the jungle. Nothing scary—just an overgrown tangle of vines. Who’s
afraid of inky blackness or slithering snakes?
While my internal pep talk failed to psych me, it shamed me
into launching my patrol car down Beach West’s rutted logging lane. After
bouncing along for a few hundred yards, my headlights caught the open door of a
red Mercedes wedged into a small clearing in the swampy bramble. The bumper
sticker read: “My Other Car is a Broom.”
Bea Caldwell’s car. My mental antenna put me on full
heebie-jeebie alert. She’d pitched a hissy fit about the sticker last night,
screaming at Chief Dixon about some vandal’s vile sacrilege of her vehicle.
When the chief asked if Bea could think of possible
suspects, he’d almost choked on his inhaled laughter. The pitiful truth: Bea
had nothing but enemies on Dear. I figured high-spirited college interns
working at the Dolphin as the probable bumper-sticker culprits. But a sinking
feeling told me Bea’s abandoned luxury ride was no prank.
I pulled up behind the vehicle. No occupants were visible in
my headlights. I called in. “Hey, Chief, it’s Marley. If you don’t hear from me
in ten minutes, send the cavalry, will you? I just drove into Beach West and
Bea’s Mercedes is ditched in the swamp. It looks abandoned; the driver’s door
is wide open.”
“Want to wait for backup to check things out?” Dixon asked.
“Nah,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Just stand by
while I take a peek.”
I took a deep breath and checked my Taser and Glock. My
heartbeat quickened as I grabbed a flashlight and opened my door. My shoes sunk
a couple of inches in the mushy ground as I tiptoed toward the Mercedes. Cold
water seeped through the seams in my shoes. I shivered.
My flashlight beam swept the car’s interior. Nothing. Then I
painted the surrounding landscape with my beacon. Fifteen feet away, my light
ricocheted back.
“Oh no.” My flashlight lit up Bea’s silver-spangled pantsuit
like a beacon.
“Mrs. Caldwell?” I called. “Bea? Are you all right?”
No answer. I inched closer to the sprawled body. “Sweet
Jesus.”
Bea was anything but all right. Her face was grossly swollen
and covered with angry red welts capped by white pustules. Tiny red ants
crawled in and out of her staring eyes. I watched mesmerized as they exited a
mouth that must have opened in a final scream.
Check for a pulse. I leaned forward and picked up a limp
wrist.
No pulse. My fingers grasped her wrist for an extra beat to
be sure.
She’s dead, I told myself. Mouth to mouth will do no good.
Get the flock out of here.
Still, I lingered, trying to decide if there was something,
anything else to be done. Bea lay on a huge fire ant mound, and her tongue
protruded slightly. Something rested on it. The object, small and round like a
quarter but darker, appeared to be ant nirvana, the center of a swarm.
A burning pain seared my hand. My proximity had tempted a
few of the tiny enemy to forage for fresh meat. Dammit to hell. The ants
marched across my hand and wrist, piercing my flesh at will. I beat my hand
against my pant legs to squash the suckers.
As I backed away, I viewed Bea’s neck from a different
angle. Telltale stun-gun burns decorated her skin. Based on the pattern, it
appeared the killer opted to incapacitate his victim with a hand-held stun gun
this time.
Bea’s wrist—the one encircled by an allergy alert bracelet—was
flung at a bizarre angle. It looked as if her arm had been posed to point at an
open patch of mud.
I drew my gun and crept toward the mini-clearing. Capital
letters were scratched in the damp earth: “TO BEA OR NOT TO BE.”
Nausea hit me. Get back to the car. NOW .
Frantically, I splashed my flashlight high and low, a
360-degree sweep. Nothing.
I ran to the car and slammed the door shut.
“Marley, you there?” the chief’s voice boomed out of the
squawk box.
“Yeah, I’m here. Send the cavalry. Bea’s
to reenter the jungle. Nothing scary—just an overgrown tangle of vines. Who’s
afraid of inky blackness or slithering snakes?
While my internal pep talk failed to psych me, it shamed me
into launching my patrol car down Beach West’s rutted logging lane. After
bouncing along for a few hundred yards, my headlights caught the open door of a
red Mercedes wedged into a small clearing in the swampy bramble. The bumper
sticker read: “My Other Car is a Broom.”
Bea Caldwell’s car. My mental antenna put me on full
heebie-jeebie alert. She’d pitched a hissy fit about the sticker last night,
screaming at Chief Dixon about some vandal’s vile sacrilege of her vehicle.
When the chief asked if Bea could think of possible
suspects, he’d almost choked on his inhaled laughter. The pitiful truth: Bea
had nothing but enemies on Dear. I figured high-spirited college interns
working at the Dolphin as the probable bumper-sticker culprits. But a sinking
feeling told me Bea’s abandoned luxury ride was no prank.
I pulled up behind the vehicle. No occupants were visible in
my headlights. I called in. “Hey, Chief, it’s Marley. If you don’t hear from me
in ten minutes, send the cavalry, will you? I just drove into Beach West and
Bea’s Mercedes is ditched in the swamp. It looks abandoned; the driver’s door
is wide open.”
“Want to wait for backup to check things out?” Dixon asked.
“Nah,” I said with more bravado than I felt. “Just stand by
while I take a peek.”
I took a deep breath and checked my Taser and Glock. My
heartbeat quickened as I grabbed a flashlight and opened my door. My shoes sunk
a couple of inches in the mushy ground as I tiptoed toward the Mercedes. Cold
water seeped through the seams in my shoes. I shivered.
My flashlight beam swept the car’s interior. Nothing. Then I
painted the surrounding landscape with my beacon. Fifteen feet away, my light
ricocheted back.
“Oh no.” My flashlight lit up Bea’s silver-spangled pantsuit
like a beacon.
“Mrs. Caldwell?” I called. “Bea? Are you all right?”
No answer. I inched closer to the sprawled body. “Sweet
Jesus.”
Bea was anything but all right. Her face was grossly swollen
and covered with angry red welts capped by white pustules. Tiny red ants
crawled in and out of her staring eyes. I watched mesmerized as they exited a
mouth that must have opened in a final scream.
Check for a pulse. I leaned forward and picked up a limp
wrist.
No pulse. My fingers grasped her wrist for an extra beat to
be sure.
She’s dead, I told myself. Mouth to mouth will do no good.
Get the flock out of here.
Still, I lingered, trying to decide if there was something,
anything else to be done. Bea lay on a huge fire ant mound, and her tongue
protruded slightly. Something rested on it. The object, small and round like a
quarter but darker, appeared to be ant nirvana, the center of a swarm.
A burning pain seared my hand. My proximity had tempted a
few of the tiny enemy to forage for fresh meat. Dammit to hell. The ants
marched across my hand and wrist, piercing my flesh at will. I beat my hand
against my pant legs to squash the suckers.
As I backed away, I viewed Bea’s neck from a different
angle. Telltale stun-gun burns decorated her skin. Based on the pattern, it
appeared the killer opted to incapacitate his victim with a hand-held stun gun
this time.
Bea’s wrist—the one encircled by an allergy alert bracelet—was
flung at a bizarre angle. It looked as if her arm had been posed to point at an
open patch of mud.
I drew my gun and crept toward the mini-clearing. Capital
letters were scratched in the damp earth: “TO BEA OR NOT TO BE.”
Nausea hit me. Get back to the car. NOW .
Frantically, I splashed my flashlight high and low, a
360-degree sweep. Nothing.
I ran to the car and slammed the door shut.
“Marley, you there?” the chief’s voice boomed out of the
squawk box.
“Yeah, I’m here. Send the cavalry. Bea’s
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