Guillermo took aim. The gauge’s needle hung steady at the low end. “One question, Madre.”

“What is it?”

“Did he pass the test?”

“He didn’t do what I asked.”

Bang.

The smile disappeared. Ricky looked down incredulously at the broadening stain in the middle of his chest.

A crash to the floor.

Juanita checked the gauge again. No movement. “Interesting. You can take that off now.”

Guillermo ripped it from his arm.

She stuck the gun back in her purse. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry.”

“Good boy. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

THE PRESENT

Luxury suite number 1563.

Near panic.

Students pounding beers as usual. Except this time it was self-medicating.

“You don’t know who this Serge character is?” said Spooge.

“Thought he was with you.”

“He’s not with us. I thought he was with you.”

“Holy God. Maybe everything he’s said is bullshit. Maybe he’s the killer.”

“But he left Panama City with us before that mess in our old room.”

“That just means he’s working with someone else. Remember, he’s the one who started all this talk about assassination.”

“Spooge is right. We never saw anyone in our room at the Dunes. He could have closed those curtains himself.”

“We’ve got to get out of here!”

They all jumped up at once, stuffing what was left of their luggage. Melvin walked out of the bathroom. “What’s going on?”

“We just realized nobody knows who Serge is.”

“I know Serge.”

They stopped and stared at Melvin.

“You do?”

“Yeah.”

“So you trust him?”

“It’s really my father who knows Serge.”

“But your dad will vouch for him, right?”

“My dad’s scared shitless of him.”

“Screw this. We’re out of here!”

“Why?” asked Melvin.

Joey said, “We think he might be the killer.”

“Serge?” said Melvin. “No way.”

“How can you be sure?”

“Serge may be a lot of things, but I guarantee he’s not the killer,” said Melvin. “Bet my life on it.”

The students half relaxed.

“Still feel better if we moved. I’m getting nervous staying in one spot so long.”

“I’m with Joey,” said Spooge. “Even if Serge is legit, those bodies in Panama City were for real.”

The other students picked up bags and headed for the door.

It flew open.

“Hey, everyone! I’m home!”

Serge strolled in with Coleman, City and Country. He headed for the coffee machine. “What’s with all the packed bags? You going somewhere?”

“Uh, yeah,” said Spooge. “I mean, we know you said to stay put, but we hadn’t heard anything from you in so long…”

“… That’s right,” continued Doogie. “Figured we’d use the time to pack and be ready when you said to split.”

“Excellent thinking,” said Serge. “In fact, we do need to roll.”

“When?”

“Immediately. I’ve made contact with the assassins and baited them, so they could be kicking in the door any second and spraying the place with bullets. We leave right after my coffee’s ready.”

They began to unravel again.

“Look on the bright side.” Serge poured water in the back of the machine. “We’re going to a most righteous place. It’ll be a blast!”

“Where?”

“Come on, use your brains. You can figure this out. Guillermo probably has.”

“Who’s Guillermo?”

“That will only upset you. Maybe you’ll meet him, maybe you won’t. But if you do, what good is it to die a thousand deaths in the meantime?”

“I feel faint.” Cody grabbed a chair.

“Remember I told you it’s all about history?” Serge switched the machine on. “We started in Panama City. Now we’re in Daytona. What’s the next logical progression? Anyone?”

They stared.

“The birthplace of spring break in America!” said Serge. “Guaranteed to be a killer!”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

TAMPA BAY

The single-floor Rod and Reel Motel hangs on as one of the great old Florida holdouts, resting on the shore of Anna Maria Island, just inside the southern lip of the bay. A small seawall and narrow ribbon of white-sand beach…”

Agent Mahoney didn’t realize he was talking to himself, which meant off the meds.

“… Behind the motel stands a short, weathered fishing pier- also called the Rod and Reel-and at the end sits a small, boxlike, two-story wooden building. Run-down, in the good way. Its top floor houses a casual seafood restaurant. The bottom sells live shrimp from large, aerated tanks giving off that unmistakably salty bait-shop funk. Inside is a cozy, rustic bar. The doors stay open. And through the great tidal surges at the mouth of Tampa Bay come some of the largest fish in the world. Without this knowledge, it seems improbable that from the tiny pier, just a few swimming yards from shore, on June 28, 1975, a then-record 1,386-pound hammerhead shark was landed. The jaws used to hang on a plaque in the bar, but now they’re at a museum up the street…”

Mahoney sat on the wraparound deck behind the bar, the only person in a tweed coat and rumpled fedora.

He wasn’t shark fishing.

Wasn’t fishing at all, even though he had a pole and a line in the water. It was therapy. He was dangling for the natural approach because, like Serge, he found medication to be a thick glass wall between him and Florida. Mahoney removed his hat and relaxed on a splintered bench, casting his line again without design. “… And pelicans floated down by the pilings, hoping for toss-aways, as I absentmindedly bobbed my pole and scanned the wide, soothing view over water. Sunshine Skyway bridge in the distance, and Egmont Key in the middle of the mouth. The 1858 lighthouse still stood, but defensive fortifications from the Spanish-American War lay in ruins…”

Mahoney let a smile escape. Heart rate at a six-month low. His decade-long clinical obsession tracking Serge appeared to have gone latent. The detective was on indefinite sabbatical, with an open-ended reservation for room 3 of the Rod and Reel Motel.

DO NOT DISTURB.

“… The sun tacked high at the hottest part of the day, and I retired to the bar. A trough of iced-down longnecks had my name. Nautical maps, oscillating fan, TV on a Weather Channel tornado report with overturned cars. Lacquered into the countertop were yellowed newspaper photos of anglers posing with catches…”

Mahoney chewed his toothpick and thumbed a morning paper. He reached the State section and read a lengthy wire report of the since-dubbed Spring Break Massacre in Panama City Beach. The toothpick went in the trash.

“So they threw the midget off the balcony,” he said ruefully. “Isn’t that how it always starts?”

A cell phone rang.

“Mahoney. Speak to me.”

“Mahoney? This is Agent Ramirez with the bureau.”

“To what do I owe the federal pleasure?”

“Just read your psychology article on profiling. Good stuff.”

“You must have a very old pile of magazines.”

“Found it on a computer search.”

“Search for what?”

“Serge.”

Mahoney winced.

“Hear what happened in Panama City?” asked Ramirez.

“Nasty business. Must have your hands full.”

“Interviewed all the guests and staff-almost everyone came up clean.”

“Almost?”

“One guy whose name wasn’t in the registration book turned up on a number of surveillance tapes around the same time. Our database got a six-point facial recognition match.”

“You’re not looking for Serge,” said Mahoney. “This isn’t his signature. Innocent kids, and he likes to get complex.”

“He was staying on the same floor at the same time. Then I saw his file…”-Ramirez whistled-“… subject of interest in at least two dozen homicides.”

“I’m telling you, it’s the wrong tree to bark at.”