45

OF COURSE, THE PERSON who was taking my father out of the nursing facility could have been just about anyone, and maybe their reason for doing so was not as sinister as it appeared. But on the other hand, if it was Tanner, he could have been trying to set Big Al up for Keller’s murder. That could explain how the Lynches thought they saw my father on the boat with Keller. Then there was the possibility of Batshit. His beef was with me. He probably blamed me for his brother’s death and for wrecking his Mustang. It was getting late, but I decided I had to find Batshit and see if either of my theories was true.

The Mustang Batshit was driving when he almost ran me over had Georgia plates with no frame. Most privately-owned vehicles have a vanity frame or at least a frame with the car dealer’s name. Even more telling was the barcode sticker I noticed when I almost spilled my brains on the bumper. The car was a rental but it wasn’t the usual Chrysler 200 or Camry. You didn’t get a car like that at an airport counter. Batshit obviously went to great lengths to find a Mustang exactly like the muscle car I destroyed on him. It didn’t take me long to find the only place in the area that would rent a car like that—Fantasy Car Rental in Savannah. I gave them a call, hoping they were open late. They were.

“Hi, this is Poindexter Cockburn.” I had to choke back a laugh at the thought of his name. No wonder he and Psycho became criminals. They must have been in a schoolyard fight every day of their childhoods. “The ’stang I rented won’t start.”

The female on the other end gushed sympathy, as she had been trained to do.

“I’m so sorry for your inconvenience, Mr. Cockburn. We’ll get someone right out there. Are you still at the Surfside Motel on Tybee Island?”

Okay. Just what I had hoped for.

“Hey, wait a minute. I got it started. No need to come out.”

I was still hanging up the phone as I ran out to the truck. Then I remembered my truck was a pile of burned out metal at the Givens place out in Waycross. I certainly was not going to take their hybrid. I ran back inside to get the keys to my father’s Mercedes.

With the top down and the wind whipping at my hair, I decided that I had been a dumbass to refuse my father’s wheels. Sweet.

If Batshit wasn’t at the Surfside Motel when I got there, I’d wait all night if need be. He started this harassment but I was going to end it, and if he had anything to do with my father’s disappearance, he was going to wish he had stayed in Connecticut.

When I got to the motel, I didn’t see his car until I drove around to the back of the building. It was parked by a lawn reserved for guests who needed to walk their dogs.

I got out and inspected the Mustang. It was almost identical to the ride that got Twizzlefied on the bridge back home, except this one had a built in GPS. Good choice in upgrades, in my opinion.

“Well, if it isn’t the PI. I have to take back my words. Maybe you are some kind of detective.”

Batshit was standing at the back entrance of the motel.

“The lady from the car rental called and said she thought something was afoot,” he said.

He started to walk across the driveway to the car.

“The notes are going to stop, Poindexter.”

“I think you are correct.”

I thought I saw a small knife in his hand as he lurched forward. I grabbed his arm while kicking out my leg and hooking it around his. He went flying and landed on his side, his cheek resting in a pile of crap that must have come from a great Dane.

“Damn!” I said. I couldn’t have done that if I tried.

Batshit sat up and pulled a bandana from his pocket. He rubbed his face so hard I thought he would bleed.

“Man, what is the matter with you? I was going to open the door to show you the leather.”

I realized then that what I thought was a knife was a key fob. My mistake.

“You’ve been leaving threatening notes on my truck.”

“Can’t take a joke? That was nothing compared to what you and my asshole brother did to my wheels.”

Was that any way for him to talk about his dead brother?

“Murder isn’t a joke. Not even in Georgia,” I said.

“Murder? It was a note. Or two.”

“Three to be exact.”

“Still. They didn’t harm anyone. What are you talking about murder?”

“You’ve been following me. You were even in Hilton Head.”

“So what? I was only trying to find a way for us to come face to face so I could tell you thanks, and not to worry about the car.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The car. My Mustang. It was a small price to pay to get away from my brother. It was because of him that I ended up in the state college system.”

I hadn’t heard that euphemism for jail in a while.

“When the lawyer from Yale got me sprung, I got a new chance on life and that would not be possible if my dear departed brother were still walking this earth.”

“You serious, Batshit?”

“Did I shoot you when I had the chance?”

“You didn’t have a gun.”

“Well, there you go. I’m a reformed man. And do not call me Batshit from this day on. My name is Poindexter.”

With a name like Poindexter Cockburn, it wasn’t going to be easy for the guy to go straight, but I believed he meant to try. I helped him up.

“Tell me one more thing,” I said. “How long have you been down here in Georgia?”

“A little over a week. You know. When the notes started.”

“Of all of the places in Georgia, you happened to pick Savannah?”

“No. I knew you were here. It’s all over the street back home. Hey, I hear you threw your badge at your chief. Well. Done. Sir!”

Like I needed Batshit’s approval. Someone had been helping my father leave the nursing facility for quite a while. It couldn’t have been Batshit if he just arrived a week ago. I asked anyway.

“Have you ever been to The Palms?”

“A restaurant?”

“A rest home.”

“Like with smelly old people? No way.” He looked at the Mercedes. “You came in that sweet machine? Where’s your truck?”

“Probably in the scrapyard by now.”

“You wrecked another vehicle? Dude! Where did you get your license, at McDonalds?”