Now & Then Read online

  At least that’s what I planned.

  Unfortunately, none of those things happened.

  Except for the memorable part.

  Chapter 18

  IT HAD BEEN a rough couple of weeks for D’Augie.

  First, he’d nearly died on a sand dune swarming with fire ants. Then he’d been saved by Donovan Creed, the man he tried to kill, a situation made no less mortifying to D’Augie after hearing that Creed and his girlfriend stripped him naked during the rescue. And of course Creed had stolen his prized knife, the only gift D’Augie had ever gotten from his father.

  Then Rachel told him that Creed took a caretaker’s job at The Seaside Bed & Breakfast, where he planned to rid the attic of squirrel infestation. So D’Augie snuck out of the hospital and hid in The Seaside’s attic, hoping to catch Creed by surprise. But the surprise turned out to be on D’Augie, who broke an arm and leg after being attacked by angry attic snakes and hungry squirrels.

  After dragging his broken body a quarter mile to his car, it took a super human effort to make the forty minute drive to Jackson Memorial, where ER personnel set his fractures and re-treated his festering fire ant bites.

  During the course of his treatment, D’Augie had an allergic reaction to one of the antibiotics they administered, and nearly died again. He spent more than a week mildly sedated as they pumped him with steroids and pain killers. Eventually they got him back to normal, if you can call an arm and leg cast normal. Worse, both casts were on the right side, which made it impossible for D’Augie to drive a car.

  But D’Augie was nothing if not determined, and he aimed to kill Creed. He’d traveled more than a thousand miles over two years to get the man who killed his father, and he wasn’t going to give up because of some plaster.

  He hired a cab to pick him up at the hospital and take him to one of the airport motels. He’d wanted to stay at the Amelia Island Resort, or in Fernandina Beach, but it was Saturday, July third, and everything on the island was booked. He got a second cab to take him to Wal-Mart, where he bought a buck knife, a sharpening tool, some food, and several bottles of water. He spent most of the night putting a fine edge on his blade. Next morning he put his supplies in his shoulder bag, caught a cab to St. Alban’s and told the driver to let him out two blocks south of The Seaside Bed & Breakfast. The driver did so and D’Augie gave him a fifty and said he’d catch a ride back with a friend.

  D’Augie’s arm cast was more of an inconvenience than a problem. It could actually be considered a benefit, since the sling that held it in place could be used to conceal his knife. But moving around with the leg cast was proving to be an issue. The cast ran from his ankle to the top of his thigh, and forced him to turn sideways every time he took a step with his right foot.

  His right foot was bare, since the nature of the cast’s construction prevented him from wearing a shoe. He supposed he could wear a giant sock, but he didn’t happen to own any giant socks and hadn’t thought to buy one.

  Now, standing on the street, watching the cab drive away, D’Augie wished he’d thought to buy a dozen socks. The thought came to him when he realized he was standing on a live cigarette. D’Augie cried out and lifted his bare foot off the pavement, hoping to get relief. But his leg cast caused him to pitch forward. In order to keep from falling face first, he had to plant his casted foot back on the street. Even though the smoldering cigarette was inches behind him at this point, the noon sun had rendered the pavement blazingly hot, a situation that worsened the wound he’d received from the cigarette. He yelled again, lifted his leg again, spun sideways and was again forced to put his casted foot back on the hot pavement to keep his balance. Unfortunately, that step burned the tender bottom of his foot even worse, and he screeched. He lifted his foot again, spun sideways again, nearly fell again, put it down again, screamed again, and kept repeating the process, over and over, like some “cast” member from Night of the Living Dead.

  D’Augie did manage to accomplish something he hadn’t meant to do. It was imperative, his doctor had said, that D’Augie not attempt to walk forward without first turning his leg to one side. Otherwise, the top of his cast would cut into his left thigh and chafe it badly.

  The doctor had been right about the pain. D’Augie could feel the cast tearing into the flesh of his upper left thigh. Up to now, though he’d traveled a distance of maybe five feet in forty seconds, he’d been yelping every time he took a step with the right foot. Now he was also crying out with every step of his left. He knew he must look like some kind of freak show, hopping and spinning and screaming and tearing his flesh as he kept circling round and round.

  Eventually, he got dizzy and fell face first into the pavement. The good news was, his arm absorbed most of the blow and his right foot finally stopped hurting. The bad news was, the arm that broke his fall was the same one he’d recently broken. In addition, he sustained a cut forehead and what felt like a severely broken nose.

  “Motherfucker!” he screamed to the sky.

  The young man making love to the older woman in the rental unit twenty yards away heard the scream as if it were just outside the window. Rattled, he jumped up and ran to the window, looked around the yard, but saw nothing.

  “What’s wrong?” his friend’s mother said.

  “Someone’s watching us.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Seriously. Some guy just called me a motherfucker, and since you’re a mother…”

  “The weed’s made you paranoid,” she said. “Come back to bed.”

  He lay bleeding in the street. He wanted to cry, but he was too angry. He screamed the word again, louder this time: “Motherfucker!” – and thought he heard a young man shout “Jason? Is that you?”

  He cocked his head, listening, but didn’t hear it again. D’Augie lay in the street, trying to imagine what could possibly be worse, and then came up with this: How about if a truck was barreling down the highway, directly in his path, refusing to slow down?

  Because that’s exactly what was happening.

  D’Augie rolled onto his side and screamed, then onto his back and screamed, then onto his other side and screamed, then his front and screamed, and repeated the cycle until he’d gotten out of the truck’s path—just in time. He raised his good arm and flipped his middle finger and cursed. The reason for his rolling screams were two-fold: first, he hadn’t realized it at the time, but the recent fall on the pavement had re-broken his arm. Worse, he’d stabbed himself in the chest several times with the knife he’d hidden in his sling.

  The one he’d spent all night sharpening.

  Inside the rental unit the young man was freaking out.

  “You didn’t hear that? It sounded like your son screaming at me.”

  “Jason’s in Jacksonville with his father. Look, you’re so wound up; I’m going to do something special to help you relax. Now just lie down and close your eyes…”

  Outside the window D’Augie lay on the side of the street and bled a few minutes and tried to formulate a plan of attack. He eventually came to the conclusion that his best bet was to walk into the front entrance of The Seaside and locate Creed. The sand would be hot on his bare foot, but not as hot as the pavement. He should be able to handle it. Once inside the B&B, he’d ask Creed for help stopping the bleeding, and stab him first chance he got. He’d send Creed straight to hell.

  As soon as he got to his feet.

  Which he suddenly found impossible to do.

  “Cocksucker!” he roared at the sky. “You Goddamned cocksucker!”

  The older woman heard the word both times. She lifted her head and looked at her lover’s face. His eyes were closed and he was grinning from ear to ear.

  “You little bastard!” she shouted. “You think that’s funny? You and your little friend hiding in the bushes, making fun of me? Get out of here! Now!” She ran to the window. “Hey, asshole in the bushes: get the fuck off my property or I’ll call the cops!”

  D’Augie remove
d the knife from his sling and held it in his left hand, then began rolling through the sand and sea oats toward the B&B, wondering how there could be ten thousand people between here and Fernandina Beach today, but not a soul within sight to help him to his feet. Worse, some lady had just screamed at him and threatened to call the cops! D’Augie was astounded by the lack of compassion in St. Alban’s. He heard a young man shout, “What did I do?”

  “Get out!” the lady screamed again.

  She didn’t sound friendly, but D’Augie could hardly afford to be picky. He needed assistance.

  “Help me!” he shouted.

  “Help you? Sure, I’ll help you! I’m getting my shotgun. If you’re still laying in the bushes when I get back, I’m going to blow your ass to hell!

  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.