Author: Margaret Lashley
Category: Humorous
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/margaret-lashley/page,14,588309-scatman_dues_freaky_florida_mystery_adventures_book_6.html
I grimaced. “You mean, like, a time portal?”
Grayson looked up and grinned. “Given the data, we can’t rule it out.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“That’s the one,” Grayson said as I maneuvered Bessie down the narrow, rural road. He pointed at a prim and proper trailer home surrounded by a yard full of colorful whirly-gigs. “Stop here.”
I shifted the monster truck into park. Grayson rolled down the passenger window and slipped the yellow oscilloscope into a battered mailbox shaped like the head of a deformed manatee.
“Okay,” he said, slamming shut the unfortunate sea cow’s mouth. “Let her rip.”
“Ugh,” I said. “Do I have to?”
Grayson turned and stared at me. “It’s imperative.”
I rolled my eyes and began mashing the truck’s horn, honking out what Grayson called, “the secret code.” I glared past Grayson at a family of pink pigs with whirligig wings as I tapped out, Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits.
Curtains moved in the front window of the trailer. The face of what I took to be a French bulldog appeared. A meaty hand rose beside the round, jowly face and shot us a thumb’s up, then disappeared behind a drape of flowery chintz.
My upper lip hooked skyward.
“Sherman?” I asked.
Grayson shook his head. “His mother.”
Grayson blew out a breath as if a giant weight had been lifted from him. “The o-scope’s back home in one piece,’ he muttered, sinking into the seat. “Thank God.”
This from a man who chased down Mothman and Bigfoot?
I smirked inside.
I guess nobody ever truly resolves their mommy issues.
I opened my mouth to ask Grayson what Sherman’s mother had done to put the fear of God into him, but decided to spare myself the idiotic details. Given we’d already discovered a clandestine donut cult, Earl half-dead in a ditch, and a rip in the time-space continuum, I’d experienced enough weirdness for one twenty-four hour period.
WHEN WE ARRIVED BACK at Garth’s, no one answered the intercom button at the security gate.
“Hmm,” Grayson said, rubbing his chin. “We can’t call Garth on his cellphone. It’s still with Jimmy, wherever he is.”
I bit my bottom lip. “You really think it’s possible Jimmy could’ve been abducted, or swallowed up by that hole-in-time thingy?”
Grayson glanced at me, his left eyebrow an inch higher than his right. “Of course, Drex. Why else would we be here?”
I turned away and stared through the windshield at the mountains of garbage heaped high in Garth’s redneck prepper compound. “Good point.” I reached over and mashed the intercom button again. No reply.
“We could try calling Earl,” Grayson said. “But he may not answer in his current state.”
“I’ve got an idea,” I said.
“What?”
I placed a palm on the steering wheel and began tooting out a rousing round of Shave and a Haircut, Two Bits.
Garth came flying out of the RV like he’d just kicked a wasp nest.
“Ha!” I said. “It worked!”
I laughed triumphantly—until I saw Garth’s face.
“Hurry!” the little mullet-head hollered as he skidded to a stop by the gate. He slammed a fist on the control board. The gate began to open.
“What’s happened?” I yelled, rolling down the window. “Is Earl okay?”
“I don’t know,” Garth gasped, out of breath. “He woke up and went berserk!”
Chapter Thirty-Three
After screeching through the gate of the compound, I slammed Bessie into park. Grayson and I jumped out of the monster truck and ran with Garth toward the RV.
“What do you mean, Earl’s gone berserk?” I asked, the back of Garth’s greasy mullet flapping like a dog’s ear as he ran along beside me.
“I don’t know,” he gasped. “He just woke up and started eating everything he could get his hands on!”
My mind screeched to a halt.
Wait a minute. That’s not so unusual...
But Earl playing the bongos was.
I burst into the RV. My cousin was passed out on the couch, his belly the size of a washtub. Every single kitchen cabinet and drawer was wide open. Even the stove was ajar.
My eyes darted to the family-sized bag of Reese’s Pieces on the counter. It was empty.
“Good grief, Garth!” I yelled. “How many of those did he eat?”
He winced. “All of them.”
I glanced around at the carnage. “Geez! I haven’t seen Earl this out of control since he discovered Pamela Anderson was real!”
“Did he say anything while he was conscious?” Grayson asked.
Garth shook his head. “Nothing intelligible.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But did he make words? Form sentences?”
“No. Just grunts. Then he started rampaging through the kitchen. What’s happening to him?”
“Uncertain,” Grayson said. “We should move him to the bedroom.”
“Aw, geez, Grayson,” I said. “You really think that’s a good idea? He already broke my sofa bed.”
Grayson shot me a look. “I’m aware of that.”
“Don’t let him ruin the bed, too,” I pleaded. “Where will we sleep?”
“We’ll worry about that later,” Grayson said. “But if Earl wakes up and starts rampaging again, we need to be able to contain him. Now help me lift him into the back bedroom.”
The three of us each grabbed a leg or an arm, but in his current unconscious state, Earl flopped and wallowed around like a king-size waterbed mattress. We couldn’t budge him. During the struggle, the sofa caved in. Lying prone on his back, Earl sunk down between the sagging couch cushions like some sad, redneck stiff in a makeshift coffin.
“It appears we’ll have to leave him on the couch for now,” Grayson said, sweating from exertion. He dropped Earl’s leg like a slab of ham, picked up his laptop, and scooted into the banquette.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Researching Earl’s symptoms,” he said. “I’ll take the animal scratches. You take excessive overeating.”
I scowled. “Why’d you give me overeating? Are you implying—?”
“Uh, excuse me Pandora and Mr. Gray,” Garth interrupted.
I looked over to see him staring at Earl. “Do you think this is what happened to Jimmy, too?”
“Uncertain,” Grayson said. “But we’re going to find out.”
“That’s right,” I said, not totally convinced. I struggled for words to comfort Garth, but just then, my cellphone pinged.
I fished it from my pocket and read the text message on the display. Despite the sweat on my forehead, chills went up my spine.
I saw you last night. STAY AWAY!
Chapter Thirty-Four
“I think we can rule out rabies and cat-scratch fever,” Grayson said, looking up from his laptop.
“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t think diseases send threatening text messages.”
“What are you talking about?” Grayson asked.
I read the text message on my phone again, then handed it to Grayson.
I saw you last night. STAY AWAY!
“Hmm. Whoever it is must be affiliated with KFC.”
“Uh ... I wouldn’t use that acronym in public,” I said. “Besides, it could just be a crank text.”
“Unlikely,” Grayson said, looking up from my phone. “No one else knew about what we were up to last night.”
“Uh ... that’s not entirely true,” Garth said, and cleared his throat.
I shot him a death stare. “You didn’t say anything to your ham radio dweebs, did you?”
“Uh ... I only mentioned it to Sherman.”
My molars collided. “Why?”
Garth shriveled. He turned to Grayson. “I had to. You know, to get the oscilloscope.”
“And how did Sherman get my number?” I asked, snatching my phone from Grayso
n.
Garth winced. “Uh ... It might’ve been part of the barter.”
“Super,” I said. “That means any crackpot on your prepper list could’ve sent me this text.” I tossed my phone onto the table. Earl let out a moan.
I cringed and locked eyes with Grayson. “I really think we need a doctor.”
“I’m a homeopathic physician, remember?” Grayson said.
I frowned. “I mean a real doctor.”
Grayson stood and raised himself to his full six feet, two inches. “I think I know what’s wrong with him.”
“What?” I asked.
“I think Earl’s suffering from hypoactive delirium.”
My nose crinkled. “Hyperactive what?”
“Hypoactive delirium,” Grayson repeated. “It’s when internalized visions and confusion cause a patient to become withdrawn and incommunicative.”
“How’d he get it?” Garth asked, glancing fearfully at Earl in his sofa-coffin. “Is it contagious?”
“No,” Grayson said. “Usually, HD is brought on by psychological trauma. But a severe allergic reaction might also trigger it.”
“Well, he did think he was going to make first contact with aliens last night,” I said. “Could that’ve done it?”
“Doubtful,” Grayson said. “Given Earl’s outstanding ability to maintain high levels of alpha waves, I don’t believe fear was a factor for him.” He tapped a spidery finger on his chin. “There must be an underlying environmental cause.”
“Wait!” I said. “Earl ran through those hot coals last night. Maybe he burned his feet and has an infection!”
“Good thinking,” Grayson said. “Pull his feet out and let’s check.” He glanced at me.
I turned and glared at Garth until he shriveled.
“I’ll do it,” Garth muttered.
He padded over to the broken sofa-bed, where Earl lay wedged inside it like a giant white grub in a plaid-upholstered cocoon. Garth winced, closed his eyes, and tugged out one of Earl’s size 13 clodhoppers.
“Appears normal,” Grayson said. “Let’s see the other one.”
Garth bent over the end of the sofa and yanked on Earl’s other leg. Ultimately, the bottoms of both feet turned out to be as pink and smooth as bubblegum.
“Hmm,” Grayson said, examining Earl’s legs. “None of the scratches look infected either. Perhaps we’d better just let him sleep it off.”
AFTER LISTENING TO Earl snore until late afternoon, worry got the better of me. “Grayson, what if he doesn’t sleep it off?”
“I’m sure he will,” Grayson said. “Since he appears otherwise healthy, Earl’s delirium must’ve been brought on by something he ingested. All that candy, most likely.”
“Oh my word,” I said, slapping my forehead. “I almost forgot. Those Cruller people! The skinny one in the golden robe ... he put something on Earl’s tongue!”
“What did it look like?” Garth asked.
“I didn’t get a good look at it,” I said. “I think it was round.”
“A donut hole?” Garth asked.
“Highly doubtful,” Grayson said.
I frowned at Grayson. “Why not? Another case of your stupid ‘weapon focus’?”
“No,” Grayson said. “Crullers don’t have holes.”
A pain shot through my temple, amplified by the ring of Grayson’s cellphone.
He glanced at his phone’s display. “I better take this.”
Grayson stepped out of the RV and returned less than a minute later, smiling. “Good news, troops. Help is on the way.”
“You called a doctor?” I asked.
“No. That was the Uber Eats driver. He’s at the gate with my tacos.”
LIKE A JELLYFISH, EARL had no discernable brain, but was somehow able to time his hatching to coincide with a good feeding opportunity.
As soon as Garth, Grayson and I sat down to eat, Earl began to stir inside his sofa-bed sarcophagus.
“I told you it would work,” Grayson said, then shoved half a taco into his mouth.
“Right,” I said sourly. “Ordering tacos was all about Earl.”
“Margldisalable,” Earl grunted from inside the couch cushions.
I glanced over just in time to see a Frankenstein arm emerge from the sunken sofa frame.
Then another.
Suddenly, Earl’s head popped up from between the cushions and turned slowly to face us.
The three of us stared, tacos frozen in midair, as Earl slowly hauled himself out of the broken-down couch.
“Earl?” I asked, dropping my taco. “Are you all right?”
Earl’s glazed eyes were pointed in my direction, but they didn’t focus on me. Instead, Earl let out an ungodly wail, then stomped clumsily toward the RV door like a zombie in Fruit-of-the-Loom tighty-whities.
“Earl!” I hollered. “Stop!”
He didn’t respond, but kept clomping toward the door.
“We need to stop him,” I said, trying to scramble out of the booth. But Grayson wrapped his arms around me and held me back.
“Let him go,” he whispered in my ear. “We’re going to follow him.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Grayson shifted the RV into second gear and we stared through the windshield into the dark, butt-end of Earl’s monster truck as it crept down the road, lights off, at the dust-bunny-stirring rate of eight miles an hour.
Garth was on his knees on the floorboard between Grayson and me, hands clasped as if praying for a healing. I hoped he was. Earl was caught up in a strange, zombie-like stupor—and yet somehow managed to get behind the wheel of Bessie and was now weaving the huge truck back and forth across lanes like he’d polished off a fifth of Johnnie Walker.
“Do you really think we should we let him drive in this state?” I asked.
“The roads are empty this time of night,” Garth said. “Besides, haven’t you seen the folks driving around here? This is Central Florida, you know.”
“Even if Earl crashed, he’s not going fast enough to cause much damage,” Grayson said, glancing down at the speedometer. “At his current speed, the only thing in danger of being run over would be a blind, geriatric gopher.”
Grayson was probably right. Still, I chewed my lip and held onto the door handle as we tailgated six feet behind Earl’s truck. He drove slowly and determinedly along the narrow asphalt lane, the tractor tires pinging like pinballs between the centerline reflectors and the rumble strips lining the road’s edge.
Suddenly, Earl’s brake lights flashed.
“Aha!” Grayson exclaimed. “Just as I suspected. He’s returning to the scene of the crime.”
“What crime?” I asked.
“Look over there.” Grayson pointed out the windshield toward an all-too-familiar glow emanating from the woods.
I bit my bottom lip. “Crap. Not the KFC again. What do we do now?”
But I already knew the answer.
Follow Earl.
Like a mummy who forgot his wrapping, my cousin had climbed out of Bessie and was slowly tramping across the muddy clearing on the side of the road, straight toward the woods where we’d been last night. His tighty-whities glowed like a bobbing beacon in the moonlight.
“Let me grab my galoshes from the back of the truck,” I said, flinging open the RV door.
“Good thinking,” Grayson said. “We’ve got time, given his sluggish rate of ambulation.”
We donned our rubber boots while Garth kept an eye on Earl.
“He just went into the woods right over there,” Garth said. “By that big cypress tree.”
“Good,” Grayson said. “Stay here and keep watch over the vehicles.”
“Roger that,” Garth said, looking pensive, but relieved.
“He’s moving faster than we thought,” I said, and took off toward the cypress tree.
I could hear Grayson sloshing in the ankle-deep muck a few paces behind me. As I reached the rough, red trunk of the cypress, a pointy branch scratched my
arm. I wasn’t falling for another stupid Medusa tree alien, so I swatted at it angrily.
“Ouch!” a voice said.
Cold adrenaline shot through my spine.
I jumped and pivoted toward the voice. But before I could reach my Glock, a hand grabbed my arm.
“I told you to stay away,” a voice hissed—from beneath the hood of a white, terrycloth robe.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“Let go of me!” I screamed at the jerk who’d grabbed my wrist. I tried to knee him in the groin, but the white robe he was wearing made it hard to locate my target.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said, tightening his grip on my arm.
He reached across me, trying to grab my other wrist.
“Forget you!” I yelled, and reared back and kneed him in the gut.
The creep grunted, let go of me, and stumbled backward, crashing into the cypress tree.
Suddenly freed from his grasp, I lost my balance and went tumbling to the ground. But what I landed on didn’t feel like dirt.
It was Earl, lying prone in the mud.
“What did you do to him?” I yelled, struggling to grab my Glock as the man in the robe came boomeranging back toward me.
“Freeze!” another voice sounded.
My attacker stopped dead in his tracks.
“Hold it right there,” Grayson said.
Dressed in black from head to toe, Grayson looked like a shadow come to life as he stepped out of the underbrush and into the scant moonlight. I spotted the glint of his Ruger against the robed-guy’s ribs.
“Don’t shoot!” the man said. “It’s me.”
“Me who?” I grunted.
“Jimmy Wells! Garth’s brother!”
“Geez!” I gasped. “What are you doing here? And what did you do to Earl?”
“There’s no time to explain,” Jimmy said, pulling down his hoodie so we could see his face. “Help me. We need to get Earl out of here now, before it’s too late!”
Chapter Thirty Seven