Coleman grunted as he struggled to open Gertrude’s prescription bottle again.

“Having problems?”

He passed the vial to Serge. “It’s childproof.”

“Here you go.”

“Thanks.” Coleman popped a tablet in his mouth like a peanut. “Which one’s our hotel?”

“Right up there. The Alligator Arms.”

BIRD CREEK

A dozen police cars parked every which way on a tiny bridge in Levy County.

A corporal looked over the side. “Isn’t this where they shot that Elvis movie?”

The detectives arrived.

“Where’d you find him?” asked the lead investigator.

The corporal pointed. “Top half above the navel washed up in those reeds…” He turned. “Tide took the rest downstream.”

“What’s with those people?”

They looked toward a Buick with Mississippi plates and a damaged grille, where another officer consoled a retired couple on vacation.

“Pretty shaken up,” said the corporal. “Claim the rope just came out of nowhere.”

“Rope?” said the detective.

“Wrapped across the front of their car, and they pulled it to the end of the bridge until it finally snapped and the Buick spun out.”

“Is it connected to the homicide?”

“Our forensic guy’s still working on it.”

“Where is he?”

“Under the bridge.”

The detective examined a frayed piece of fishing line tied to the railing. “What the hell are we dealing with?”

The forensic tech climbed up the bank in rubber boots. “Think I got it solved.”

They waited.

Boots squished across the bridge. “Rope was wrapped around his stomach and held in place with a D-clamp so it wouldn’t slip.”

“You saying rope cut him in half? How’s that strong enough?”

“More than enough,” said the tech. “Human body’s some of the most fragile material on the planet. This was like wrapping a string around a banana and pulling the ends. Banana slices right in two.”

“That’s disgusting,” said the detective.

The corporal looked back at the Buick. “But what’s with those people saying the rope came out of nowhere?”

“That was the trigger,” said the tech.

“Trigger?” asked the detective.

The tech nodded. “This is where it gets… fancy.” He swept an arm behind him. “Whoever’s responsible wired the bridge like a giant guitar.”

The corporal nodded. “Death by Elvis.”

“This isn’t for your amusement,” said the detective.

“Sorry.”

The tech pointed down. “Killer looped the rope in a complete circle over the bridge’s railings and down to the victim, with the extra coils I mentioned around his stomach. But he left enough slack so the part across the top of the bridge just lay unobtrusively on the ground where a driver wouldn’t notice it or give a second thought. That’s how it came out of nowhere.”

“How did it come out of nowhere?”

“This is a pretty remote road,” said the tech. “Dead end. Almost no traffic, but a car passes by every now and again. That’s where the fishing lines come in, tied to the crab traps the victim was forced to stand on under the bridge.”

“That’s weird.”

“Gets weirder. The assailant was thorough, didn’t know which direction the next car would come from, so, twenty yards on each side of the big rope, he stretched clear, hundred-pound-test monofilament lines across the bridge at radiator level, invisible to motorists.”

“Starting to sound like the roadrunner and coyote show.”

“Fitting analogy,” said the tech. “The thick nylon rope would remain flat on the road as long as the victim stayed on top of the traps. Then a car comes along, hits the fishing line he doesn’t see, jerking the traps out from under the deceased, dropping him in the water, pulling the rope tight around his waist, which suddenly jerks the rest of the rope up off the roadway-again, to radiator level-just as the car reaches it and… two halves of a banana.”

“Holy Jesus,” said the detective.

“What are those things in your hand?” asked the corporal.

The tech looked down at gerbil dispensers. “Haven’t figured that part yet.”

The detective stared across the marsh. “What kind of monster is out there?”

Chapter Nine

PANAMA CITY BEACH

The lobby of the Alligator Arms was jammed and loud. Gal-vanized-steel parade barricades separated lines of students at the check-in.

Coleman dragged luggage and huffed. “What’s with the barricades?”

“A hint,” said Serge.

“About what?”

“If you ever want to be treated like shit by the hospitality industry, check into a spring break hotel. That’s why I booked four nights.”

“We’re staying that long?”

“No, the reservation is for four. But we’re only staying three.”

“Why?”

Serge nodded toward a sign: Checkout 8 A.M.

“Eight?” said Coleman. “I never heard of such a thing.”

“Welcome to Give-Us-Your-Money Town. Population: You suck.”

They eventually reached the desk. “Reservation, Storms, Serge.” He winked at Coleman. “Eight A.M.? Is that sign correct?”

The receptionist relished firing another routine bow shot. “Look, I got two hundred rooms and it’s the only way we can turn them around in time.”

“Really?” said Serge. “I’ve stayed in five-hundred-room Marriotts, and they seem to manage. But you must know better, because the pay at a dump like this can only attract the best and brightest.” A grin.

Glare in return. “Fill out this form. And we need a twenty-dollar deposit for the phone.”

“But you have my credit card.”

“We need cash.”

“Can I get a receipt for the deposit?”

“Don’t have any.”

“What a shock.” Serge scribbled a false address, then tapped the desk with his pen. “I don’t remember my license plate. Sheraton lets me slide with just the make and model. Is it okay?”

“No.”

“That was a test.” Serge leaned over and scribbled. “I know my plate number.”

“Test?”

“Quality check to ensure no leaks in your exquisite business model: Making us feel like family… the Gambino family.” Another grin.

The receptionist’s face turned bright red. “Your keys!” Slapped on the counter.

Serge grabbed them and raised his video camera. “I’m shooting a documentary. May I capture the recreational rudeness that is the high-water mark of your existence?”

“No! Turn that off!”

“More!…” Serge beckoned with his free hand. “Give me more!”

“Turn that thing off right now!”

Serge raised a clenched fist. “Now with feeling!”

“I said turn that goddamn thing off!”

“Excellent!” Serge lowered the camera and gave her another iridescent grin. “You take the ‘service’ out of ‘customer service.’”

They hit their fifth-floor unit.

Coleman dropped bags. “It’s huge.”

“I got the one-bedroom suite. You snore… Here, take this.”

“Another video camera?”

“I picked up a second for you to film the ‘making of’ documentary. Can you handle that responsibility?”

“Which way does it point?”

Unloading routine: Serge with his usual electronic gadgets, souvenirs and weapons. Coleman’s paraphernalia: an endless assortment of clips, glass tubes, circular metal screens and hypodermic needles.

Serge stared at the last items. “Coleman, please tell me you’re not riding the white pony.”

“Heck no. That’s dangerous.” He pulled something else from his bag.

“Oven mitts?”

“Needles and oven mitts are the cornerstones of commercial-grade partying.”

Serge darted one way with a small zippered bag, and Coleman went another for the TV. He pointed the remote and channel-hopped, stopping on a beach backdrop.

“Hey, Serge, look! It’s that cool new show Ocean Cops.” Coleman got an odd sensation. He looked at the television, then off the balcony. “I think they’re filming here… Yeah, they’re definitely filming here. Just said on the screen, ‘Spring Break Special, Panama City Beach.’”