10~
The storm had passed over the whole of Gatorsburg, unveiling a night sky that obscured some of its jewel-like stars with its cloudy remains.
Citizens and tourists who partied under the cover of shelter, and proprietors of every shop who gained from the partiers' patronage, were blissfully unaware of how close disaster had walked beside them all.
It was unusually dark along the length and breadth of the Middle Quarter's old money edges. Some of its occupied mansions were out of power, knocked out by the tempest, and if one were taking a walk along its streets, they would have seen the occasional spectral glow of moving flashlights or candles by its gothic windows.
One abandoned Southern-style mansion, in particular, had been dark and lonely for some years, and in the gloom of the neighborhood, had looked even more sepulchral and resembled nothing less than the archetypical haunted house.
Its melancholy appearance, especially at night, had given it a reputation around the neighborhood as a place of residence one shouldn't consider residing. Rumors among the neighbors of murders, human sacrifice, or cult worship going on behind its broad doors lent it a macabre mystique.
To the figure who kept vigil from one of the shadowy bedrooms within, he was content with that, for such tales tended to keep the curious at bay.
The glow of green eyes reflected from the bedroom window as Pretre du Marais stepped closer to it, in order to peer out and marvel at his personal triumph down below.
The iron silence of the dusty, old room was fitting to him, he needed no fanfare to savor it, to meditate on it, to absorb it.
The storm was provincial, he knew. Anything to keep the authorities busy or distracted. All of his hard work in indirectly sabotaging the local alligator-based small businesses with his attacks on Big Gator's mines were going to bear even more fruit in the weeks ahead. Demand would soon rise for the creatures, but for now, he was satisfied standing on the evidence of his most recent reward.
From the darkness behind him, a small object was tossed to clatter by his feet.
"Did I disturb you?" Marcie's voice asked from the shadows by the bedroom doorway.
Pretre du Marais quietly knelt down, picked up the flash drive, and then glanced burning green eyes over his shoulder at her.
"You are trespassing," he calmly commented. "I see that you've brought my flash drive back to me. That iz good. I would hate to think that Monsieur George would be punished due to your insolence."
"I trust that he's okay, then?" she asked.
"He is safe and sound. Hopefully, for you, the drive iz alzo?"
"Of course. I'm a girl of my word."
"Of course. Then, follow me, mon petite," the urban legend bade her as he moved towards her.
"Why on earth would I do that...Mr. George?
The figure froze in the dark.
"You think you've figured it all out, hmm?" asked George's voice, quietly, from behind the skull mask.
"I think so, yeah. Does the words Hallucinogenic Enemy Neutralization Grenade mean anything to you? Just your lucky day that you found a cache of them in the caves. All you had to do was just take them apart and use the powdered, chemical payloads inside. Your big plan to wreck Big Gator is finished. All of the companies worked together to fix the damage you did to them."
"And no doubt your meddlesome actions brought that about."
"I might have had something to do with that. Oh, and sorry about the locks in your front door."
"I wouldn't worry. It's just one more thing that I'll make you pay for tonight. But I am impressed that you tracked me here. So, I guess the obvious question is...how did you know? It was the flash drive, wasn't it?
Marcie nodded. "Got it in one, Mr. George. When I was in your office, I took some of your business cards, on a hunch that I might find some clue as to where you might be. Later, when I checked out the flash drive, I saw a folder named "Desmond." I opened it and found a map of this neighborhood with a mansion marked in red."
She reached into her jacket and pulled out a dog-eared business card for George to see. "I didn't know who Desmond was, until I remembered finding this business card in your office. Desmond Realty. I called them and asked them about the property at the address on the map, and they told me that you had recently bought it. A pretty steep investment, especially on a geologist's pay, but that pond out there, that sits on the property...that somehow clinched the deal, huh?"
George shrugged in the gloom. "Well, it's not every day you find an undiscovered tunnel system leading all the way from the Source Swamps to here."
"I figured as much," Marcie said with a nod. "As a geologist, you must have discovered this new tunnel and kept it secret, then used the legend of Pretre du Marais and the powder from the grenades to spread fear around town to distract everyone, and, more importantly, to scare all of the miners from their mines, so you could sabotage the tunnels with the explosive you stole from Blanchard Mines. As for all of the other companies' tunnel systems that you stored on your flash drive, you probably got them by scaring the information outta those company geologists who had access to that knowledge."
"Of course," the criminal confirmed. "All of those mines would be useless and the only way anybody could get any alligators would be from my pond, and I'd make a fortune.
Despite the darkness, Marcie tensed as she made out George's near-silhouette casually sidle slowly in her direction. One of her legs moved silently back for the attack she knew was coming.
George sighed in an effort to sound more conversational. "I turned my office inside-out, looking for that drive. Then, I figured that it must have fallen out of my pocket when we ran into each other in the mines, and you might have found it. So, I made it look like Pretre du Marais trashed the place and kidnapped me. By leaving one of his feathers on the floor and writing that message on the wall, I figured you'd see it and want to work a trade."
Marcie nodded. "I would have. Except, you never told me where you wanted to meet for the exchange.
That oversight caused a burst of sorrowful chuckles from George. "You know, you're right. I couldn't believe it, myself. I was in such a hurry that I did forget. Anyway, it was a pretty good scheme, I think, and to prove how much I believed in it, I sunk just about everything I owned to buy this property. But it'll pay off very well, very soon. As for you trying to stop me, well it's just you and me who knows what I've done. Which means, it's just going to be me, after I get rid of you."
Marcie frowned to herself. It wouldn't be long, now.
"So, what should I do with you, hmm?" he asked coolly as he approached her. "Bash your clever, little brains out with my staff or give you a concentrated dose of the fear powder and then drag you out into the middle of my pond? Hard to swim when you're terrified, but I think it'll be a toss-up to see what kills you first, drowning or your heart simply giving out from the terror."
Close enough, she thought.
With a drawing twist, Marcie flung a Discourager at him, then leapt out of the bedroom, one of her hands snagging the doorknob and closed the door on him with a slam.
A moment later, the door was thrown open and George stepped out of the room, his mask firmly around his face. Movement at the head of the staircase alerted him to Marcie's flight.
Marcie noticed him and in her fear, she pitched another Discourager on the worn, wooden floor by his feet. Laughter was his response.
"I've been using fear powder for some time, now, Miss Fleach," he gloated in his approach. "You don't think I wouldn't protect myself with a mask that didn't have a gas filtration system built in?"
With that, he charged at her. Marcie wasted no more time and scrambled down the stairs.
Knowing that he would overtake her in moments due to his proximity from the staircase, Marcie grabbed an Insta-Ice capsule and whipped onto the trailing steps. Her ploy worked in that she could hear George slip and curse on the spreading ice, but then she realized the folly of her reactionary defense when she felt the full weight of the man collide into her, and they both tumbled roughly down the stairs.
They hit the landing on the first floor in a heap, but before Marcie could recover and resume her escape, George twisted quickly and straddled her, one hand moving to his powder flask so he could dose her.
Pinned, her eyes widened worryingly as the man's fingers deftly opened the flask with a practiced, one-handed gestured, and she instinctively thought of trying another capsule, then rejected it, remembering what he said about his mask.
Marcie's mind screamed to her that she had to get up and run, but that wouldn't be possible as long as George was on top of her. She could see that in her mind. And then, she saw a desperate solution.
George was sitting on her stomach, but her kicking legs were surprisingly free. He almost stopped in confusion when Marcie suddenly grabbed his arms for balance, brought her knees up, and then rammed a knobby one right into the side of his back.
His body straightened in pain, and in that moment, Marcie reflexively caught the flask as it fell from his hand. She then squirmed herself out from under him as he recovered his wits.
She stood and prepared to go into a dead run, when she saw George beginning to stand. Remembering the flask in her trembling hand, she acted.
Reaching out, Marcie grabbed his cranial mask in an attempt to unmask, and instead, twisted it to the side, exposing his livid face. She then lifted the flask and then threw it at him.
The container opened in a trailing cloud of green, spreading the powder all over him, and in his panic, he accidentally breathed in.
His mind tried to calm down in defense of the poisoning, but in all the time that he used the chemical, he never realized just how fast it acted in the bloodstream, until now, and in so large and uncontrolled a dose.
His heart began to dance in terror and he couldn't decide what gripped him in that terror more. The sheer, raw action of the chemical or the knowledge that the exposure might make him so horror-struck that he would act rationally enough to escape. In moments, it didn't matter.
Watching him stand unsteadily to his feet, Marcie jumped upon hearing George wail, then moved out of his way as he ran screaming out of the front door.
A pang of guilt held her just then. She only wanted to stop him from coming after her, not scare him to death. Concerned, Marcie chased after him, hoping to catch up with him and calm him down.
Outside, George saw the night in fear and a small part of his subconscious was almost fascinated with the novel sensation. Then, all of his attention was taken by the sudden approach of headlamps.
A dark, long car stopped just feet from him, but the near hit was enough to frighten him into a backwards stumble and a headlong run from the vehicle.
Adrenaline-blurred vision failed to alert him to the edge of the pond, and he splashed into it a mindless charge, just as Marcie ran from the front of the mansion and tracked him there.
Cool water washed the powder from George's sweaty skin, clearing his mind, gradually. As he began to grab hold of his fear by degrees, he noticed a trail of bubbles rising beside him. A driller had surfaced.
Marcie had noticed it, too, but neither had thought to notice a pair of reptilian eyes rise quietly from the depths.
Before either had a chance to wonder why a driller had suddenly showed up in the middle of the pond, in the middle of the night, their collective attention was shattered by the sight and sound of a huge splash of something even larger breaking the surface of the water.
A white, mountainous blur of scale, muscle and teeth explosively breached in front of George, and he couldn't hear Marcie's cry of concern above his own scream, as he, in a whirlwind of savage, hungry motion, was dragged into the frothing water.
Marcie, watching it all, was struck with silent, wide-eyed shock at the brutal swiftness of Ol' Whitey's attack, yet the analytical part of her brain realized that the tunnel that the Blanchard drill team led the gator through must have connected, ultimately and unfortunately, to George's pond.
Moments later, she lowered her gaze at some motion by the pond's edge. The only things remaining from the hunt were George's skull mask and a few lightweight components from a alligator tail-crushed driller that bobbed in the calming waves.
The sound of a car door closing made Marcie turn to it. A chauffeur approached her solemnly.
"Mr. and Miss Blanchard would like a word with you, Miss Fleach," he told her.
Marcie followed the driver back to the limousine with an almost detached state of mind. She just witnessed the death of a criminal, now she had to switch mental tracks just so she could talk to two of his victims.
She reached the car and could see Mr. Blanchard his mother seated in the cavernous backseat.
"Hello, there, Marcie," Richard announced.
"What are you guys doing here?" Marcie asked. "I thought you were the police. I called them earlier to catch George when I figured out it was him that attacked your company."
"We followed you after you left the mines," he explained. "It looked like you knew where Pretre du Marais was, although, I must admit, we had no idea it was George."
"Besides," his mother added in. "The chief of police is a good friend of ours. We told him to let us handle this matter ourselves."
Handle the matter themselves? They controlled the police, she thought, and Marcie finally had an inkling of what kind of power Big Gator had in this town. She kept silent.
From the position of where they were parked, The Blanchards also saw George's demise. Since George screwed his employers' and her competitors' mines with his greed, endangering a significant number of their tunnels and decreasing their gator output. Mother Blanchard will coldly see profit from this by realizing that his recklessness has created more of a demand for alligators. So, she'll seize control of the virgin tunnel system that George had sunk his life savings to own, thus having a leg up on her competitors.
"From where we parked we could see what happened to Mr. George," said Miss Blanchard, matter-of-factly. "Since he damaged ours and our competitors' mines, endangering a significant number of tunnels and, therefore, decreasing their gator output, I don't see why Blanchard Mines won't see a profit by easily buying up this property and seizing control of the pond and its virgin tunnel system from our former geologist."
"In fact," she continued with a dark, cool rationale that matched the night. "I think we all owe a debt of thanks to Mr. George. His reckless greed has created an even greater demand for alligators, now."
Marcie wondered just then who was the bigger predator that night. Ol' Whitey or Miss Blanchard.
Pity for the wayward geologist caused Marcie to reason to the businesswoman. "Maybe, but jail would've been a better for him than...that." She reflexively glanced back at the dark pond.
"Oh, dear," Miss Blanchard soothed. "Don't think like that, Miss Fleach. After all, it's just business."
Marcie couldn't think of a counter-argument to that statement as the tinted, rear passenger window on her side of the car began to ascend.
Then, it stopped, allowing Miss Blanchard a parting word. "Oh, did I remember to thank you for saving my granddaughter's life?"
The tinted window then sealed up and Marcie could see the dismay in her face's reflection, before the midnight black limousine drove smoothly away...
The Fleach Family sedan drove past the Gatorsburg Gas station on its way out of town.
Marcie thoughtfully looked out from the open front passenger window, thinking about how the night went down, as the familiar California pines were starting to come into sight.
The energy of the Pageant of Gators had ebbed to a official end. Soon, it would be another fond memory, but to her, it felt like the longest week she ever endured. She was all for the wonders and mysteries of biology, but she swore to herself that if she saw another alligator in her life, it would have been far too soon.
"Did you have a good time in Gatorsburg, Marcie?" her father asked.
His voice brought her from her thoughts. "Huh? Oh, yeah, Dad. Did you learn anything from the trip besides Miss Greta's phone number?"
She ignored the red creeping along Winslow's thin cheeks as he explained himself.
"Ahem...She was just being a good hostess," he said. "As a fellow businessman, I can appreciate the level of courtesy she gives to all of her patrons. Speaking of businessmen, I received a letter from that fellow who wanted to buy my park."
The recollection leapt at her. "Mr. Greenman?"
"The very same. He asked if we could join him for dinner once we come back from vacation. Probably wants to sweeten the original deal he gave me with more money. Ha! Like that'll ever sway me. Besides, I plan on leaving it with you, someday."
Whatever plans Winslow had for his daughter was lost under a cursory question that popped up in her mind.
"How did he even know we were outta town?" she asked.
"He's super rich. Who knows? Maybe he has correspondents who tell him these kind of things," Winslow shrugged as they finally passed the road sign that bade them farewell from quaint, if strange, Gatorsburg.
The dinning room was an opulent, dark affair. Everywhere, candle-lit, beautifully cared-for wooden furniture and accoutrements gave the room an air of natural power.
Servants silently moved in and out of the dinning room, offering plates and refilling crystal glasses on the lengthy dinner table. Winslow took the time to stop eating and notice the china and the even the tablecloth.
Must cost more than what I make in a year, he mused. Maybe I should take his offer more into consideration.
"Enjoying the meal so far?" their host asked from his end of the table. He then regarded Marcie. "I know about your problems with gluten products, Miss Fleach, and planned ahead."
Marcie nodded in appreciation. "Thank you, Mr. Greenman."
Greenman raised his hand, with a smile, to stop her gratitude. "Not at all. Just being a good host." He looked to Winslow. "I want to thank you again for letting me invite both you and your daughter over to talk."
Winslow wiped his mouth with a soft, cotton napkin and spoke. "Well, I understand why you want to talk to me. My amusement park. But why invite Marcie?"
"Fleach's Folly Factory is a family-owned and operated business," Greenman told him. "Since your daughter has helped you with that business, I'm sure you'll agree that she has proven herself to you enough that she should, at least, know about what I'm proposing for your company."
Marcie hadn't thought of that when she came along with her father to Greenman's residence. She had thought it odd, herself, that she would be invited to what amounted to another business affair. But now, after hearing the man's glowing assessment of her, she had to admit to being charmed by him. Few would give her such praise.
Winslow gave a thoughtful nod at Greenman's perception and wisdom and spoke. "I guess you're right, Mr. Greenman. I want you to know that I really love running the park. I guess you could say that it our family's strongest tie. Our identity, sort of."
"As a matter of fact," Marcie added. "Dad's been talking to me about running the place when he retires."
"Well, if I retire," Winslow jumped in, suddenly feeling old and less in charge of the business proceeding.
"Yeah, but I don't know if that ever happen," Marcie said, then amended, "Him retiring, not me taking over."
Winslow gave a look to Marcie that, to her, looked both troubled and familiar. "But, Marcie, you have to think about your future. You'll be going to college soon and, as strange as it is to hear, I won't be around forever. You should give it more thought."
Marcie gave a slight sulk over her plate of food. "I give it thought," she muttered under her breath. "I wish you'd give what I say some more thought."
"Hmm?" her father asked, unable to catch what she said to her plate.
"Nothing," she muttered again.
"Exactly!" Greenman exclaimed in Marcie's direction, either not noticing the family spat or choosing to ignore it. "I'm probably wasting my time, and more importantly, your father's, yet again by making another deal to buy his park, but it's only because I didn't understand how passionate Mr. Fleach was about it, until now. You really should consider taking over, especially if I can't persuade him to sell."
"Quite right," Winslow concurred. Then he passed out into his casserole.
Marcie gave a slight, embarrassed cough. "Sorry, sir. My dad never could hold his liquor."
Greenman waved it away with an understanding smile. "Not to worry. My chauffeur will drive you both home after dinner. But tell me, how long have you been working with your father?"
"Since I was twelve. My mom left us, so I guess it was a way for the both of us to cope with it. I helped him sell food and candy from the concession stands, at first. Then I would just work around the park, inspecting the rides when Dad was to cheap to hire an inspector."
Marcie gasped when she realized what she said. How did that happen? She didn't even think of it. It just came out.
"I-I mean...Anyway, I loved the rides and sounds of the people enjoying themselves. And at night, when the lights would come on, the park would look so..."
"Magical?" Greenman finished.
"Yeah," said Marcie, a wistful sadness coloring her mood. "But I guess when you get older..."
"The Ferris wheel can't take you high enough," Greenman finished for her again, and this time, Marcie could hear a melancholy tint the man's voice, as well. "Yes, I know. Before I lost my father, I enjoyed time with him, as well, and, like you, I suppose I learned that as I got older, life could lead you down a different path. Sometimes one you would gladly tread, and sometimes one where you're dragged kicking and screaming."
A silence as heavy as the antique woods of the room hung over the diners.
"I'm sorry," Greenman said to her. "I've brought this dinner crashing down with sad nostalgia."
"That's alright, Mr. Greenman," Marcie said in a low voice, waving the moment away.
"Would you like some more fruit juice?" he asked, as a way to smooth things over.
Marcie took a look at the half-full crystal glass in her hand.
She was about to politely decline when the words to do so flowed from her mouth like molasses exposed to the dead of winter.
"No...thhh..." she slurred.
Her brain rebelled her body. The glass, now barely in focus, slipped from her fingers, to spill the drugged juice into the expensive carpet. She wanted to ask why it was suddenly so hard to gather her thoughts, but even the thought to ask that dissolved in her oncoming stupor.
"Dessert, Miss Fleach?" he asked, innocently.
"Wha..." was all she could manage before she followed her father's stead and her face crashed into her casserole.
Greenman stood up from his side of the table and strolled over to where Marcie snored softly into her dinner and looked over her with satisfaction. From his dinner jacket, he pulled out a microcassette recorder and hefted it playfully.
"Wha, indeed, Miss Fleach."