Traffic cops waved a motorcade of government sedans through the entrance. Agent Ramirez ran for the elevator. A small plane flew over the roof of the motel with an advertising banner for coconut rum.

Ramirez raced down the fifth-floor landing as coroners wheeled another sheet-covered stretcher the other way. Police met him outside the room.

Only one question on his tongue: “IDs?”

A sergeant checked scribbled notes, rattling off five names gathered from out-of-state drivers’ licenses.

“No Andy McKenna?”

The sergeant shook his head. “But that name sounds familiar.” He called to a corporal. “Ray, where did I hear the name Andy McKenna?”

“That’s who the room was registered to. Or was.”

“Then where is he?” said Ramirez.

“Got kicked out yesterday.”

“What for?”

“We went back and looked at last night’s incident reports. Someone almost killed himself diving into the pool from the balcony,” said the corporal. “It’s a bit of a problem around here. Especially with the more educated types.”

Ramirez felt himself slipping through the looking glass. Another stretcher rolled out the door. He raised the crime tape and ducked inside.

Walls a splatter fest. Local cops among themselves: “… Never seen anything like it…”

Ramirez had. Miami. The good ol’ days. “Only one person could be behind this.”

“Who?” asked his top assistant.

“Guillermo.”

“Guillermo?”

“Madre’s lead boy. Calm, calculating, complete psychopath. No conscience whatsoever.” He quickly called a huddle with his team. “McKenna’s still out there. As soon as the victims’ names hit TV, Guillermo’s crew will know they missed the target and come back. Call every hotel in the city, see which one he switched to. Question all other guests staying here and canvass the staff. Get out an APB on Andy, but for law enforcement eyes only. No press or it’s up for grabs. Go!”

They dispersed.

Ramirez walked onto the balcony and dialed his phone. “… Need you to track a credit card for me… Andrew McKenna, address either Dorchester or Durham… And this is important. Except for you and the chain of command, nobody is to see it but me…” He didn’t say why, didn’t have to. An informant in the house.

“Thanks…” Ramirez hung up and looked down over the railing at an extra-tiny chalk outline on the patio.

Part Two

Chapter Twenty-Five

DAYTONA BEACH

The Challenger drove slowly down route A1A. Serge scanned motels.

No vacancy.

“It’s just like the Panhandle,” said Melvin. “We’re not going to find a place to stay.”

“Something will open up.”

“Breaker, breaker,” said Coleman. “ Why do they call it Daytona, anyway?”

Serge keyed his own walkie-talkie. “Lord of the Binge, keep that childhood wonderment torch burning! Most people sell children short, saying how cutely they notice the little things, when they’re actually noticing big things. Adults can live someplace three decades, and you ask, ‘How’d your town get its name?’ and they say, ‘I dunno.’ Then they shit on the children.”

“So how did it get its name?”

“From Matthias Day, who established the city, 1870. Came this close to calling it Daytown or Daytonia.”

“Where do you find all this junk?”

“Same as Panama City: the books of preeminent historian and local treasure Allen Morris, clerk of the House, 1966 to 1986, papers now preserved at Florida State.”

Serge let off the gas, slowing further as they approached a single-story mom-and-pop motel. “This looks promising.”

“But the sign,” said Melvin. “ ‘No Vacancy,’ like all the others.”

Serge pointed at a dozen students in the parking lot, cursing and throwing luggage in trunks. “Can’t believe we got kicked out.”

The Challenger turned up the drive as the others sped off.

In the office window, someone flipped NO V ACANCY to V ACANCY.

“Where’s my credit card?” said Andy. “I gave it back to you,” said Joey.

“No, you didn’t.”

“Thought I did.”

“You lost it? Great.”

“No problem,” said Serge. “I’ll cover it-pay me when you can.” He got out of the car and came back with sets of keys for two adjoining efficiencies at the Dunes. City and Country took number 25, and the students made another crack deployment in 24. Minutes later, the room was ready for mayhem.

Serge replaced batteries in his digital camera and headed for the door. “I’m going on photo safari.”

Coleman pulled out oven mitts. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

In camera mode, Serge always made absurd time on foot, starting with a dozen shots of the blue-red-and-yellow brick sunburst mosaic in the intersection of Atlantic Avenue and International Speedway Boulevard. Then, rapid succession: Tailgaters Sports Bar and Grill, Bubba’s, two catapult rides like Panama City, Mardi Gras arcade, historic arched entrance for beach driving, the pier, under the pier, aerials from the gondolas, the Space Needle, back to earth again, surfers, traffic signs in the sand:

DO N OT B LOCK V EHICLE L ANES.

He accelerated down the boardwalk through an aroma of carnival food-corn dogs, elephant ears, cotton candy-and the casino-like clatter from inside the dark, open-air game rooms: pinball, Skee-Ball, foosball, fortune-telling machines…

Back at the Dunes. Students gathered ’round Coleman, whipping brown batter in a mixing bowl. “Rule number one: Keep baking supplies in your luggage at all times-and an electric pepper mill.” He left the stirrer sticking straight up in the bowl and opened the top of the grinder. “This is critical.” Coleman pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and dumped a half ounce of killer red-bud in the cylinder. Then he replaced the top, held it over the mixing bowl and hit the power switch. Mechanical whirring began as a fine, sweetly pungent dust fluttered down into the batter. “For maximum release and consistent dosage, the particles must be of weaponized fineness.”

“I still can’t believe this is better than bong hits.”

“Believe it,” said Coleman, stirring again. “Slow-cooking effect and batter medium retains ninety-nine percent potency. Just remember it’s got a delayed kick-in, but well worth the wait. Almost like tripping.” He held out a hand. “Baking tin…”

A student slapped it in his paw. Coleman emptied the bowl’s contents into the pan and slid it inside the efficiency’s preheated oven…

A half mile away, Serge reeled off another burst of roadside photos-swimsuit shacks, pizza shacks, head shops, NASCAR restaurants-until he’d come full circle back to the motel parking lot. He climbed in the Challenger and pulled a map from the sun visor. Across its folded top:

THE L OOP.

“I’ve wanted to do the Loop my entire life! And now the moment’s here!”

He peeled out and sped north.

An oven timer dinged inside room 24 of the Dunes. Coleman removed the tin with oven mitts and set it on the counter. A student reached.

Coleman grabbed the wrist. “Have to let it cool. Got anything you need to do?”

“Hit a pawnshop. We’re almost out of money.”

“Let’s rock.” Coleman threw mitts on the counter. “It’ll be ready when we get back…”

… Serge sped north on A1A, camcorder running on the dash, up along Ormond Beach’s inspired seaside, west through Mound Grove, taking Walter Boardman Road to Old Dixie Highway and south again, down into unblemished old-growth Florida. Nothing but oak-canopy two-lane and marshland overlooks. Serge held the camera next to his face for narration: “The Loop isn’t particularly known, even among Florida residents, but the pristine twenty-two-mile route is nationally famous among the motorcycle community…”