A sunburned man with an amorphous, glowing tattoo stood beside a bed in room 232. A wide, hollow-point blast pattern of blood covered the wall behind the headboard. A 9mm Ruger automatic and silencer hung by his side. He was leaning over the bed, staring detached at the lifeless woman with a pair of entry wounds, one for each eye. Behind him, the sound of a door creaking open.

  He turned to find a pair of tourists from Ohio, neutral expressions turning to horror. Mr. Montpelier grabbed the knob and yanked the door shut.

  The sunburned man quickly braced his shooting arm across the other and fired a silent fusillade. Door splinters flew from a chest-high row of bullet holes, left to right, at precise, six-inch intervals. Then he stopped in a haze of ammunition smoke and listened.

  On the other side of the door: two heavy thuds.

  JACKSONVILLE

  Rush-hour traffic out of downtown was thick and slow on westbound I-10. Horns honked. Off-key singing inside a two-tone AMC Javelin.

  Serge: ” ‘Gimme three steps

  Coleman: ‘“Gimme three steps, mister …’”

  ” ‘Gimme three steps toward the door’… Here’s our exit…”

  They took the ramp at mile 358, drove a block south and turned right on Lenox. “Start checking numbers. It’s 5301.”

  “Here’s 55-something. Now a 54.”

  “We’re getting close. It’s at the crossroads with Verna Boulevard.”

  Coleman nodded up the street. “There’s a traffic light.”

  “Must be the crossroads.”

  The Javelin slowed. Their jaws fell. The car pulled onto a dirt shoulder. Its occupants turned and looked at each other in wide-eyed astonishment. The heads rotated back, staring out the windshield at a plain, gray concrete blockhouse. Harley and an old pickup. Neon Budweiser signs and a small notice in the window: bike parking only. The front door remained open to the bright, sunlight world outside; shadows in the dim interior silhouetted by more lighted beer advertising. Four numbers above the entrance: 5301.

  Serge grabbed Coleman’s arm. “Tell me it’s not a mirage.”

  “No, it’s here all right. But you said it had been torn down.”

  “They just changed the name.” He pointed up at wooden, Old West-style letters, pastime. “I simply assumed because of all the other empty lots I’ve stood in.” Serge grabbed a tall Styrofoam 7-Eleven cup of coffee from its window holder, and they exited the Javelin.

  Coleman was almost to the door when Serge grabbed his arm again.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You can’t just bluster into a place like this,” said Serge. “Why not?”

  “Any joint that chased off a man’s man like Ronnie Van Zant is no place to be trifled with.”

  “But you’re not afraid of anything.”

  “Respect is more the word.” He turned sideways and checked the pistol in his waistband. “Regulars in dives like this smell fear as sure as Dobermans. Before we go in, we have to get our shit wired tight and project insane confidence. And whatever you do, under no circumstance are you to mention that song. Then they’ll think we’re goofy tourists and pick our bones clean.”

  “Can I go in and get a beer now?”

  “One more second.” Serge ran his fingertips over a bas-relief metal plaque just outside the door. Established 1948. He looked up at the American flag flapping above the building, then took a deep breath and drained his Styrofoam cup. “Ready.”

  They walked inside to nobody’s notice. Serge took three steps and threw up his arms. “Goddamn, I’m in the bar from that freakin’ Skynyrd song!”

  Everyone turned.

  Serge grinned awkwardly. “Shit … I mean, shit! Do I feel confident! If you think you smell something, it’s my No Fear hormones marking territory with their musk.” He bellied up to the venerable bar. “I’m all about Dixie, yessiree. Love ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ in those KFC ads. Keepin’ it finger-lickin’ real! Unlike Yankee ad jingles for processed cheese: ‘You’re crumb-believable.’ Fuck those assholes.”

  A female bartender strolled over. “What can I get you?”

  “Bottled water …”

  The regulars glared.

  “… And a dirty glass!”

  “Boilermaker,” said Coleman.

  The others nodded approval and returned to private discussions.

  “Serge,” said Coleman. “What are you doing?”

  Serge’s back was to the bar. He held a digital camera inconspicuously below hip level. “Got the flash turned off. I’m taking a three-dimensional grid-sequence of spy photos for future forensic study. There are certain places it’s far too dangerous to openly take pictures. I perfected my technique based on CIA surveillance protocol so there’s no possible way anyone can detect what I’m doing.”

  The barkeep returned with their d rinks. “Nice camera.”

  Serge spun around. “I’m not taking pictures!” He slipped the camera back in his pocket. “Not many.”

  “You guys here on business?”

  Serge uncapped his water. “I’m a travel expert. Thinking of writing a big spread about your fabulous place here. The whole Skynyrd mystique.”

  “Really?” said the bartender. “Wait here. Someone will want to meet you.” She disappeared out the back of the bar.

  “Uh-oh.” Serge cautiously slid off his stool, eyes shifting side to side.

  Coleman dropped the shot glass in his beer. “What’s the matter?”

  “Shit’s on boil. We’ve been radar-pinged in the ‘Gimme Three Steps’ bar, the most bad-ass honky tonk in all America.” He walked over to the wall and grabbed a cue stick. “The end is near. There’s no way both of us can make it, so as soon as the bloodbath begins, you make a break for the door. The best I can hope for is a valiant fight to be immortalized in song.”

  “Serge, I think you should live.” Coleman killed the boilermaker. “I’ve had a full life.”

  “Not a chance. The end will be slow and unspeakable. When they swarm us, I’ll charge and take out the biggest with my patented pirouette of death. That should give you time to reach the door in three steps.”

  “But I don’t want you to die.”

  Serge shook his head. “Too late. And whatever you do, don’t look back no matter how loud I scream.”

  Coleman began to sniffle. “But Serge-“

  A deep southern accent from behind the bar: “Hey! You fellas!”

  TALLAHASSEE

  A uniformed police officer stood guard outside a hospital room door. Two detectives returned from lunch and peeked inside. An unconscious young man, IV tubes, wires, electronic monitors. A nurse wheeled a ventilator out the door.

  One of the investigators touched her arm. “Still improving?”

  “Doctor said a complete recovery.”

  “When can we talk to him?”

  “He’s heavily sedated.”

  “But it’s important.”

  “So is his rest.” She pushed the medical cart down the waxed hall.

  The detective looked at his partner. “We don’t have the luxury of time.”

  “Three hotel robberies in one week.”

  “That other guy, Ralph-what a worthless witness.”

  “And the third is dead.”

  “This kid’s the only one who got a good look.”

  “We better double the guard. Once they killed that last guy, our patient here became their ticket to death row.”

  “But we already moved him from the other hospital and registered him under a fake name.”

  “Can’t hurt to be safe.”

  “Why don’t they use armored cars anyway?”

  “I don’t know shit about the diamond business. Guess these couriers try to blend in as the last people you’d suspect to be carrying a fortune in stones.”

  “They’re right in this case. Just look at the guy.”

  “Same as the other two victims: unassuming faces, low-key attire, fake business covers that would throw anyone off.”

  “So how did the gang nail three in a row?”

  “Only one possible answer. Someone on the inside’s feeding information.”

  THE PASTIME

  Serge stood in the middle of the empty dance floor with a pool cue at the ready.

  A tall, rugged southern man in a black T-shirt came out from behind the bar, wallet chained to his jeans. “You a travel writer?”

  “One second,” said Serge. He gave Coleman a good-bye hug. “It’ll be okay. If they resort to torture, I’ll bang my head on the floor and knock myself unconscious.” Serge turned back toward the voice. “I’m ready to face my fate.”

  The man broke into a warm smile and extended a hand. “I’m the owner, Billy Bob. This is my wife, Vicki.”

  Serge warily shook the hand.

  “Heard you’re a Skynyrd fan,” said Billy Bob.

  “Big-time, but not in a tourist way.”

  “Let me show you something.” The owner headed past a pool table. Serge glanced back at Coleman, shrugged and followed.

  Billy Bob reached the southwest corner of the bar and pointed up at a locked glass case near the ceiling.

  “What’s that?” asked Serge.

  “Old Skynyrd drum cover signed by Artimus Pyle.” Serge’s heart pounded. “Do you think … maybe … I could … you know … take photos of the bar?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Serge began shooting with the drum cover and worked clockwise, covering every inch like he was mapping a threatened rain forest. The enthusiasm impressed Billy Bob. “Say, why don’t we take a ride in my truck? I know the families. Give you the Skynyrd tour of west Jacksonville.”

  Serge stopped and looked at Coleman. “This is it.”

  “This is what?”

  “They lull you with southern hospitality while plunging the knife. We’re no doubt going to be driven to a pair of pre-dug graves behind a catfish farm.”

  “So let’s not go.”

  “But it’s the Skynyrd tour.”

  Soon they were all packed tight in Billy Bob’s red pickup with a number eight Dale Earnhardt Jr. license plate on the front. The truck whipped through working neighborhoods, from the band’s boyhood homes, to the high school, the old store from the “Ballad of Curtis Lowe,” and finally the cemetery where the lead singer had to be secretly reburied after his first grave was vandalized under mysterious circumstances. Serge knelt in reverence at a modest marble marker: RONALD WAYNE VAN ZANT, 1948-1977. He lifted glassy eyes toward Billy Bob. “I’d heard about this, but never would have found it without you …”

  Fifteen minutes later, the pickup arrived back at the bar. Serge slowly climbed down from the passenger seat and studied his outstretched arms. “I’m not dead.”

  Billy Bob laughed. “Of course you’re not dead.”

  Serge had never made a friend so fast. He gave the owner a big bear hug, briefly lifting him a couple of inches off the ground. “Oh, thank you! Thank you! Thank you! …”

  “Are you okay?”

  “More than okay! This is the best day of my entire life!” Serge sprinted back inside the bar and leaped onto a stool like it was a pommel horse. The corner TV had local news: “… Police continue to investigate what they believe is an organized gang or gangs targeting traveling businessmen for robberies at local hotels. The latest victim, a positive-thinking seminar teacher, remains in critical condition after attempting suicide… Meanwhile, another shocking development in the case of two so-called skinheads found executed in what authorities have described as the most bizarre and nauseating crime scene they’ve ever encountered. The cause of death had investigators completely stumped, and an unnamed source inside the medical examiner’s office said the fatal injuries most closely resembled being crushed by Burmese pythons, except their faces had also been smashed beyond recognition. But a major break came within the last hour when a video of the victims’ final minutes was discovered posted on the popular website YouTube …”

  Someone changed the channel: “… This revolutionary spinning lure is the magic bullet if you want to put a heap of fish in the boat…”

  Billy Bob walked around to the business side of the bar. “Drinks on me. What are you having?”

  “Three boilermakers,” said Coleman.

  “Water.”

  “Never had anyone ask for water when drinks are on the house,” said Billy Bob. “Sure you don’t want something with a little more kick?”

  “Coffee.”

  “I guess that’s got a little kick.”

  “You have no idea,” said Coleman.

  The coffee arrived first. Serge burned his mouth chugging. “So tell me about the bar!”

  “Let’s see …” Billy Bob began lining up Coleman’s drinks. “Probably know it used to be the West Tavern, but a lot of people think that was because this is west Jacksonville when actually one of the old owners was named West…”

  “Preach!”

  “… Me and Vicki picked up the place a few years back. I mean, who could resist the history?”

  Serge pounded a fist on the bar. “Who could!”

  “Skynyrd even played a few early gigs out back where we barbecue. If this place wasn’t so small, the song might have been ‘Gimme Five Steps,’ because three’s literally all you need to hit the parking lot.”

  Serge manically waved his empty cup. “Java me!”

  Billy Bob laughed again as he poured. “Am I going to have to cut you off from coffee?”

  “It’s happened before. You know the old tourist observation tower in Lake Placid? Not the New York Lake Placid; the one below Sebring, whose town name was suggested by none other than Melvil Dewey of Dewey Decimal System fame, who changed life as I know it, and not for the better. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hot on the trail of a book, and the library’s aisles run out before I get to the number and I go, ‘What the fuck?’ Anyway, U.S. Highway 27 runs down the spine of central Florida where three curious towers rise like bulb-less lighthouses: the Citrus Tower in Clermont, Bok Tower in Lake Wales and Lake Placid’s tower, whose viewing deck is now closed because of some risk from telecommunication microwaves, and there’s a coffee shop on the bottom floor, where I was on my fourth cup, strip-mining the waitress for trivia, and she said, well, a few years back one of those self-appointed spidermen free-climbed up the side all the way to the observation platform. And I said, of course! They won’t let me take the elevator, so I’m forced to chart my own route up the north face. Ran outside and prepared for the big climb. Said another precautionary good-bye to Coleman, because I swore I would reach the summit or die trying, and after three hours I’d drawn a pretty good-sized crowd, including the restaurant staff and a couple off-duty cops, and Coleman’s shouting encouragement up at me, my fingers wearing raw as I clung desperately to the side of the building. Held on as long as I could, but at the five-hour mark, my body finally betrayed me and I lost my grip. Luckily I’d only made it two feet off the ground and was able to escape lasting disfigurement by going into a paratrooper’s tuck-and-roll, but they still wouldn’t let me have any more coffee.” Serge held out his empty cup again.

  Billy Bob poured. “Where you headed?”

  “Points south. First, the Martin Luther King Jr. lunch-counter site in St. Augustine that triggered an act of Congress, then the Aileen Wuornos walking tour of Port Orange. Got a lengthy scavenger list.” Serge pulled a lengthy scavenger list from his pocket and spread it across the bar. An item near the top reminded him of something, and he looked around. “Thought you’d have a jukebox.”

  “We do,” said Billy Bob. “Over there.”

  “What? That little thing?”

  “One of those new touch-screen jobs connected to the Internet. Got almost every song ever recorded.”

  Serge sprang off the stool and fumbled for his wallet. “Please, dear God, let it be so …”

  DOWNTOWN FLOPHOUSE NEAR THE OLD FLORIDA THEATRE

  Serge’s trail had grown icicles. And Agent Mahoney, former ace profiler for Florida’s counterpart to the FBI, was slowly rebounding from another involuntary mental commitment and back to a world where the color of the sky is blue. Nobody had ever come remotely as close as Mahoney to catching Serge. Because nobody had ever gotten so far inside Serge’s head. Mahoney was ideally suited to the task, sharing the same passion for nostalgia, geography and arcane tidbits. But it came with a hefty price tag. Nearly a decade had passed since the first of Mahoney’s six paid medical leaves, and he was now under strict doctor’s orders to “drop this Serge thing.”

  Recovery progress was steady. Until Mahoney walked back into the lobby of his by-the-hour Jacksonville motel, and the varicose woman behind the desk reached into a wooden cubbyhole.

  “Got a message for you …”

  PASTIME

  Serge swiftly navigated the Internet jukebox’s on-screen menu. Soon, unmistakable guitar chords filled the tavern. Serge raced back to the far end of the bar, where an attractive young blonde in Daisy Duke cutoffs idly peeled the wet label off a cold tallboy.

  “… I was cutting a rug …”

  Serge tapped her shoulder. “Would you like to dance?”

  Her female-barroom-defense-wall went up before she even turned around. But then she caught Serge’s smile and piercing ice-blue eyes. The wall crumbled. “Sure.”

  He led her to the middle of the tiny dance floor and waved Coleman over. “Dance with him.”

  The woman stopped. “I thought you were asking me to dance with you?”

  “That part’s coming up. I’ll cut in.”

  “When?”

  “Don’t worry. You won’t miss it.”

  She reluctantly began dancing, but had to avert her eyes to stomach it. Coleman held a beer to his chest and did the drunk-white-guy shuffle.

  A minute into the song, “Hey!” Serge leveled a gun at Coleman. “What are you trying to prove?”

  Coleman began shaking. “But you told me to dance with her.”