John Locke - Now & Then
D’Augie cursed, and started rolling. It was slow, hot, exhausting work trying to roll two blocks to the inn. Sand had caked on the cuts in his forehead and entered his broken nose. He held his breath and tried to blow the blockage from his nostrils. In doing so, he remembered watching a fight on TV once, where the corner man told his fighter never to blow a broken nose.
But why? D’Augie tried to remember. Oh yeah: because it will swell up and hurt ten times worse.
The corner man had been right.
D’Augie kept rolling. He figured to make it to the gate and use the gate pole to prop himself up. But the gate was a block and a half away, and D’Augie was in serious pain, losing blood, and getting dizzy. His mind was getting fuzzy, and he was stuck amid the sand dunes. He stopped rolling for a minute and took a break, trying to remember what it was about laying on a sand dune that posed a problem.
The fire ants brought his memory back. Ten or twelve of them had gotten in his shirt and began stinging the back of his neck. D’Augie wasn’t about to let them grow in numbers like the last time. He resumed his rolling, and though the dune sand was soft and loose and the going much slower, he made up for it by working harder.
Ten minutes later he found himself not in front of the B&B as he’d planned, but behind and to the side of it. He broke out of the last sand dune and rolled onto the compacted sand behind the inn. He was lying about thirty feet from the boardwalk, near its center. From his vantage point he figured it was a hundred and fifty feet from the beach to the Inn, and he could see the steps at both ends. Eight steps on the left end took you up to the Inn, and however many steps there were on the right end would take you down to the beach. The boardwalk was elevated about two feet above the sand, and there were access points on either side, with three steps each. There were people below him on the beach. He couldn’t see them and couldn’t be seen by them, but he could hear them laughing and playing. He also heard Rachel calling to Creed, hollering for four more Kashenkas, which D’Augie knew to be some sort of drink. He turned his head and saw her standing on the boardwalk, maybe twenty feet to his left. She had her hands cupped around her mouth and was concentrating her attention on the back of the Inn, and hadn’t noticed him lying in the sand.
D’Augie thought about calling out to her, maybe get her to lift him up and help him to the kitchen, but when he heard Creed shout back that he’d bring the drinks to her in a minute, he came up with a better plan, one he’d seen in the movie, Jeremiah Johnson, starring Robert Redford. In the movie, an Indian had buried himself under a layer of snow and jumped out and attacked Robert Redford. It didn’t work, but then again, Redford had been holding a rifle, whereas Creed would be carrying a tray of exotic drinks. D’Augie would simply roll a few feet closer, over to that loose, fresh-raked sand by the boardwalk, bury himself a foot or two into it, and when Creed passed by, he’d jump up and use the edge of the boardwalk to get to his feet. Then he’d come up behind Creed from under the boardwalk and cut the tendon in Creed’s ankle. Creed’s scream would be drowned out by the beach noises, and when he fell, D’Augie would slit his throat and make his getaway.
D’Augie remained perfectly still until Rachel disappeared down the steps to the beach. Then he rolled to the fresh-raked area and positioned the knife in his cast. He began digging the soft sand out from under his body with his left hand. It was easier than he’d expected. Within minutes he scooped out an area about a foot deep and eased his back into it, and started covering himself with the sand he’d dug out of the hole.
After a few minutes of that, he realized it wasn’t going to work. With only one free hand and leg he wasn’t going to be able to cover himself enough to escape detection.
D’Augie would just have to roll out of the hole, make his way to the boardwalk, lift himself up, and intercept Creed from the front. Creed would be probably be taken back encountering the limping, bleeding sand-covered D’Augie, but the last thing he’d expect is to be attacked. So the element of surprise, plus the fact that Creed would be carrying a tray of drinks, would be enough to tip the scales of battle in D’Augie’s favor. So that’s what he’d do.
As soon as he worked his way out of the hole he’d dug.
Which he suddenly didn’t seem capable of doing.
And worse, his back was getting awfully goddamned hot for some reason.
Chapter 19
I WAS ALONE in the kitchen when I heard Rachel shouting a drink order from the boardwalk. I’d served a few of our guests Kashenkas earlier, and knew they’d be ordering them all afternoon.
The Kashenka is a trendy drink invented in Paris twenty years ago to honor a beautiful Polish cabaret dancer who worked near the Ritz hotel. It’s made with pressed strawberries, white castor sugar and Polish vodka and served in a tall glass filled with cracked ice.
I figured if Rachel was calling for drinks instead of sending Tracy to the kitchen for them, both girls were obviously needed on the beach to tend to our demanding guests. My immediate problem was the lack of serving trays. I looked under the sink, in the hutch and even tried the broom closet, but couldn’t find anything suitable for presenting the drinks. Maybe the guests wouldn’t mind if I just used a dinner plate. I had just started trimming the strawberries, when I remembered the picnic basket Beth had taken to her sick friend.
The basket was on the counter, filled with apples. I took the apples out and turned the basket upside down to make sure it was clean, and noticed some scratch marks on the bottom. There was something unusual about them. They seemed to be less random and more of a deliberate design. I took the basket close to the back door to get as much light on it as possible, and realized what I was seeing was not scratches at all, but two distinct Roman numerals. I rubbed my thumb over the woven wood where the scratches had been made, and felt something sharp. I pried apart the area between the weave and discovered something had been wedged in there.
It was that exact moment I heard a man screaming. I cocked my head to the side to listen. It sounded like a Rebel yell, only louder, and more terrifying.
I dropped the basket, tore out the door and raced about twenty feet down the boardwalk and found a man lying in the pig pit. I hopped over the rail and got to him quickly and pulled him out and turned him over. He had a leg and arm cast and his shirt had scorch marks on the back. A few more minutes and this guy would have been burned alive. I turned him on his side and felt his pulse for ten seconds.
Though he was in serious pain, I could see he was going to live. He’d probably have permanent burn marks on his back, and might require skin grafts. His face and hair were caked with blood and sand and something about him seemed familiar. His eyes were wild with pain, and he was grabbing at his sling. I looked around for help and saw that no one seemed to have heard him or noticed me pull him from the pit.
“Don’t move,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”
I ran back to the kitchen, grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911 and gave them the details. I grabbed four bottles of water from the refrigerator and a roll of paper towels and ran back to the burn victim, who was trying to roll toward the sand dunes. I stopped him and turned him on his stomach and began pouring water over his back. I decided not to remove his shirt in case the skin might come off with it. I poured a second bottle of water on his back and then turned him on his side and opened a third bottle and poured it on his face and hair. I got him to drink a few swallows from my last bottle of water, and used the remainder to wet some paper towels. I dabbed at his face with the moistened towels, and though his broken nose threw me off a minute, I finally recognized him as the kid Rachel and I had pulled off the sand dune a couple of weeks earlier.
Only this time he had a broken arm and a full leg cast. And he was digging at his arm cast again, and shouting incoherently. Whatever he’d been trying to do to his broken arm, he stopped doing, and grabbed my throat instead.
I could tell the kid was trying to strangle me, but he was so weak he couldn’t have crushed a grape. He seemed happy doing it though, so I let him keep trying. While he did, my thoughts turned to damage control. If he decided to sue Beth, she’d lose everything. But would he sue her? Of course he would—it’s the American way.
Maybe I could buy him off, I thought. Whatever he hoped to gain from suing Beth would be a pittance to me. So we’d be okay from that angle. I’d take care of his doctor bills and give him double whatever he wanted from Beth.
With that concern out of the way, I wondered about the pig roast. I had a hundred paid guests coming for pork in a few hours. Could I salvage the dinner? I looked around and saw a few people here and there, but no one seemed to be paying attention to us, so sure, I could cover the pit up again and no one would need to know about the kid burning in it.
Unless he told someone.
I looked down at him and wondered if I should just kill him. I mean, I’d probably be doing him a favor, since this had to be the most accident-prone kid who ever lived. He’d die on his own if I’d just stop saving him.
But no, it wouldn’t be right to kill someone just to keep from canceling a pig roast. And anyway the kid couldn’t have known there was a pig roasting under his back. Maybe he’d figure it out later, and I could buy his silence before he blabbed it. In that event, maybe I could salvage dinner after all.
Except that the EMS guys would be on the scene within moments, and they’d have questions about the burn marks on his back. Could I set a quick fire and pretend he’d fallen into it? No. A good cover-up requires planning.
I’d just have to cancel the pig roast.
With that decision behind me, I started wondering a few things about the kid. Like why was he trying to strangle me? And why was he here? How did he break his nose and arm and leg? What had he been doing on the fire ant hill with the buck knife?
I thought about the knife a minute, and how it had fallen out of his pants pocket when the EMS came the last time. I reached into his sling and found a similar knife under his broken arm.
I was beginning to think this kid was trying to kill me.
I thought about his broken bones and wondered if they could have been sustained by falling through the plywood attic access door.
Killing this kid might be a good idea after all, I thought.
But then I heard the sirens from the EMS truck heading our way. I ran to the kitchen, hid the knife, and went out the front door to flag them down.
Chapter 20
THE EMS CREW alerted the Health Department about the roast pig pit to make sure we didn’t serve our guests pork that could be tainted—a ridiculous assertion that made me wonder how we ever became such a pansy-ass country. I mean, a guy burns his back on heated sand almost twelve inches above the rocks that are cooking a pig. The guy never touched the pig, so what’s the big deal?
The Health Department contacted the Humane Society, but since they were busy manning a float in the Fernandina Beach Fourth of July Parade we had to wait until after the ribbons had been awarded. They came in third, in case you care.
Eventually they came and confiscated the pig, which meant that I had everything I needed for the pig roast except the pig. After the EMS crew rushed the kid to the hospital I made a run to the closest Winn-Dixie and bought four large, spiral-cut hams and several pounds of bacon. I couldn’t call it a pig roast, but I could fry up the ham in bacon grease and give our customers a meal they’d never forget.
“How many did we end up with after you offered the full refund?” Beth asked.
We were in the kitchen. It was a half hour till midnight on a long, hot day, and I was exhausted. We all were. “Amazingly, we salvaged them all,” I said.
“Knocking ten dollars off the price helped,” Rachel added.
Beth nodded. “Thanks, guys. You were both great today.” She looked at me. “Any word on that kid they took to the hospital?”
Rachel surprised me by saying, “His name is D’Augie.”
“Doggie?”
“Yeah. But it’s not spelled that way. Anyway, I talked to the doctor. He’s going to be okay. He doesn’t need grafts or anything.”
“You ever figure out what he was doing in your fire pit?” Beth asked.
“Not a clue,” I said.
Beth covered her mouth and tried to suppress a yawn, gave up, and let it run its course without apology. “Okay, I’m done,” she said. “Love you guys.”
We said our goodnights and waited a few minutes for Beth to settle into her bedroom and close her bathroom door. When we heard the water running in Beth’s sink I handed Rachel the picnic basket and told her to turn it over.
“You see anything unusual?” I said.
She passed it back to me. “I’m really tired, Kevin.”
She started for the staircase.
“Rachel,” I said. “It’s important.”
She paused and frowned. “Can we do this tomorrow?”
“Ten seconds. I swear.”
“This has been the longest day ever. I hate waiting on people. I’m tired. I want to go to bed.”
I put my finger to my lips, signaling her to quiet her voice. I whispered, “You wanted to know what’s going on with Beth, right? Why she’s acting so weird?”
Her eyes lit up, and she walked over to me. “She’s got a guy? And what, they went on a picnic?” Rachel cocked her head, putting the pieces together. Her face broke into a wide grin. “Oh my God! Little Miss stick-up-her-ass is getting banged by some local yokel outdoors and passing him off as a sick friend! Who is it, someone we know?”
I was amazed how her mind worked. I motioned her to follow me back to the kitchen. I gave her the picnic basket and pointed to what I’d originally thought were random scratch marks.
“Look at these scratches closely,” I said, “and tell me what you see.”
Rachel gave me a skeptical look, but she squinted to bring the marks into focus. “It’s just a bunch of—wait, it looks like Roman numerals. Fifty-five, right?”
“So it would appear.”
“Beth’s boyfriend is fifty-five?”
I smiled. “Maybe she banged him fifty-five times and wanted to mark the milestone.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“I agree.”
Rachel frowned. “You’re an asshole.”
I arched my brows.
She continued. “You’re standing here, letting me go on and on, but telling me nothing. You know I’m tired and you’re deliberately wasting my time.”
I nodded. “Let me get right to it. I don’t think the L and V are Roman numerals.”
“You don’t.”
“Nuh uh.”
“But for some reason I’m supposed to give a shit why.”
“They’re initials.”
She thought about that a moment, then said, “Beth’s boyfriend?”
“If it is, it should be easy to find him,” I said. “Not too many people around here with a last name that starts with a V.”
