“Billy, we’re friends of your father.”

“Where is he?”

“Taking you to him right now.”

Then unstoppable crying, no matter how many lollipops.

The cars whipped into the parking lot of a run-down motel off Southern Boulevard near the West Palm airport.

Crying dovetailed to sniffles as the convoy stopped, and the child pressed himself against the glass. Lots more men, same suits. They stood along a row of rooms and in various spots across the lot. Billy’s head swiveled back and forth. No Dad.

Then a burst of action. Five men ran to the car. One grabbed a door handle but didn’t open it. Others stuck hands inside jackets.

Someone gave the signal.

Out of the car. Nothing gentle. One of the men grabbed Billy under the arms. The rest surrounded them, sprinting for a middle room. Billy thought they were going to crash into the door, but at the last second it opened from inside. More men. This time he saw guns.

The door slammed behind him. In front, an agent opened another door, the one to the bathroom. Someone came out.

“Daddy!”

Billy hit the ground running for the tearful hug. His father rubbed his sandy hair and squeezed him tighter than ever before. “You okay, son?”

“Daddy, I’m scared.”

“That’s all over now. You’re with me.”

“Are we staying in this hotel?”

“No, we have to be leaving soon.” He held the boy out by the shoulders and tried to calm him with a false smile. “ Guess what? We’re going on a vacation!”

“Where?”

“You’ll get to see snow!”

“Snow? I’ve never seen snow before!” Billy realized something and looked around. “ Where’s Mom?”

“Already there waiting for us.”

Five hours of motel room life. An uneventful evening in eventful circumstance. They watched TV and ate McDonald’s the agents brought in. “Son, I know this won’t make any sense to you now, but it’s very, very important. From now on, your name is Andy.”

“Andy?”

“Andy McKenna.”

“I don’t understand.”

The father pulled the boy to his chest again. He saw one of the agents give him a look.

“Son, it’s time to go…”

At the end of a long day, a Boeing 737 touched down in Detroit. “Andy” had a window seat. “Wow, snow!”

A hand shook Andy’s arm and he jumped. “What?”

Serge gave his passenger a double take. “Didn’t mean to startle, but you were zoning. Like it was something distressful.”

“Just tired.”

PANAMA CITY BEACH

“Think!” yelled Agent Ramirez.

“Told you, I have no idea,” said the real estate man named Kyle. A breathless field agent ran into the room. “Think we got something.”

“What?” asked Ramirez.

“Call from the hospital in New Hampshire. Oswalt talked to the kid again.”

“What kid?”

“Pet feeder.”

“I remember.” Ramirez nodded. “Madre’s boys paid him a visit. Surprised he’s still alive.”

“Still a basket case, but coming around. He remembered something. You know how he gave us the name of this hotel and Kyle’s name?”

“Yeah?”

“The hotel info was a call he got from the road.”

“Right, from Andy.”

“Not from Andy. Kyle Jones of Boston College…”

“Who doesn’t exist?” said Ramirez.

“The kid back at campus never heard of this Jones before, just got a call out of the blue from a guy who said he’d met his friends at a rest stop. Upon further questioning, turns out he never spoke to anyone known personally.”

“But I thought he spoke directly to Andy about feeding fish.”

“That was the first call.”

“First?”

“Second was from our mystery man who said they switched hotels to this one.”

“Don’t tell me there’s another hotel.”

“Alligator Arms.”

Memory flash. “Son of a bitch!” Ramirez ran onto the balcony and stared up the strip. An older, unsleek building stood in the distance. Out front, a neon alligator smiled at him.

A walkie-talkie squawked. A local sergeant guarding the room grabbed it. “… Ten-four, Alligator Arms.” He looked at Ramirez. “Sorry, something’s come up.” Then to other officers: “Need to roll pronto.”

They sprinted for the elevators. A growing chorus of sirens approached in the distance.

“Wait!” Ramirez ran after them. “Did you say Alligator Arms?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

DAYTONA BEACH

A Andy.” Serge shook his shoulder again. “How can you be tired? You’re a kid.”

“I’ve been up all night.” He leaned back against the door. “Let me sleep.”

“You can sleep tomorrow, or the next day,” said Serge. “That’s when I plan to. But not now-I’ve got a super-special adventure planned. Anything can happen.”

“Like what?”

“Daytona! It’s crazy! Twenty miles of beach you can drive on, right where they used to hold the old races and land-speed record attempts. Want to go for our own attempt?”

“Not really.”

“Maybe you’re right, because the speed limit on the sand is now ten miles an hour. But we could always shoot for eleven and set the modern record.”

“Why are we going to Daytona, anyway? We could have just hit another Panhandle town.”

“Time travel!” Serge stuck his camcorder back out the window. “You’ve already had the Panama City experience. Daytona was the previous hot spot. A few students had been going there for years, but it seriously took off in 1985. That’s when the birthplace of spring break, Fort Lauderdale, drove kids out of town with draconian laws, and they migrated north. The next year, MTV held its first spring break jamboree in Daytona, and visitor estimates hit four hundred thousand. Then the place got cash-fat and gave students another heave. Today it’s back down to barely a trickle, which means plenty of driving room on the beach. I’m definitely going for eleven!”

“But how are we supposed to have fun if the city doesn’t want us?”

“Wear biker shirts.”

“Biker?”

“Town shakers now woo two-wheelers because they spend more insanely than students. If you check the chamber of commerce home page on the Internet, there are two huge motorcycle fests but not a single word about spring break. For that, you have to go to a local-merchant site angling for the wholesome crowd with something called ‘Spring Family Beach Break,’ which is like radiation to college students. And since the kids aren’t coming in effective numbers anymore, there’s no money or reason to update the old beach arcades and boardwalk, inadvertently preserving them in their original historic state, like a mini Coney Island, not to mention the venerable band shell, Florida’s version of the Hollywood Bowl. I’m getting a diamond-hard boner just thinking about it. That was probably too much information.”

The sun rose high as the convoy grew closer to its destination. Palm Coast, Flagler Beach, Ormond Beach. It was quiet in the Challenger. Too quiet.

Serge glanced in the rearview. “Melvin, you haven’t been saying much lately.”

Melvin stared straight ahead, blinking and breathing rapidly.

“Melvin? You all right?… Melvin?…”

Then something else. Something out of place.

Serge leaned for a different angle in the mirror. “Where’d Country go?… Country?…”

Her head popped up into view. “I’m still here.” She disappeared again.

“Melvin, you sly dog!” said Serge, smiling in the mirror. “I didn’t know you were into road-trip tradition.”

PANAMA CITY

A mass of students from the beach moved into the parking lot of the Alligator Arms. Beer, music, rumors, emergency vehicles and flashing lights. Everyone looking up at crime tape across an open door on the fifth floor.