=================================== Harvest of the Damned Redux or Attack of the Killer Kumquats by Nancy Kaminski (c) December 2001 =================================== The tropical night was warm and fragrant with the scent of growing things. Billions of stars danced overhead, while insects zithered their unceasing songs. The two-lane highway unrolled like a black carpet underneath the powerful car's wheels, undulating gently between the citrus groves.and small farming towns. Nick Knight smiled at the crescent moon as the slipstream tore at his hair. It was great to be on vacation, just him and his faithful Caddy on the loose on the highways and byways of America. Two weeks of blissful solitude -- no partner, no captain, no master, no coroner, no criminals -- just Nick and his most dependable, uncritical, comforting friend, his 1962 Cadillac Coupe de Ville convertible. The teal monster. The Lovemobile. The Living Room on Wheels. The one car that had never let him down, not since 1962 when it called to him from the showroom floor with the siren song of automotive excess... At that precise instant the Caddy's massive engine coughed, then surged back to full power with all of its 325 horses. For a moment all seemed well, but then it coughed again. The exhaust backfired, and the Caddy shuddered as the engine seemed to suffer some sort of mechanical convulsion. With a final wheeze, it died to a deafening silence. The splat of a large insect on the windshield was unbearably loud. Nick coasted to a stop on the side of the road, put the Caddy in park and set the handbrake, then contemplated the steering wheel with an overwhelming sense of betrayal. Tentatively he turned the ignition key; the engine turned over once and resumed imitating a doorstop. He tried again. This time it made only a half- hearted attempt to turn over. The third time Nick turned the key it didn't even pretend to try to start. Nick climbed out and opened the hood to stare reproachfully at the engine. It seemed to stare back at him as if to say, "You're the one who wanted to drive all over creation far away from Mike the Miraculous Caddy Mechanic. Now what, smart guy?" Now what, indeed. He poked the fan belts, tightened some wires, and looked under the radiator cap. It all seemed perfectly normal, not that he'd really know if an engine looked abnormal. Engine repair was one of the few occupations that had never really caught his interest, not since, in a fit of misplaced curiosity in the mid-1800s; he had opened the wrong valve on a locomotive steam engine and was almost parboiled. He could only hope that the nearest town contained someone who could fix the Caddy well enough to reach civilization -- civilization in this case defined as a town consisting of more than a gas station, a bar, and one street. He tried to look on the bright side. It was probably something simple, like vapor lock or a bad spark plug or...well, something else. He put the Caddy's roof up, locked the doors, then looked around. The road was still deserted except for insects, which as usual ignored him as an unappetizing meal. (Good thing, that -- the concept of vampiric mosquitoes simply didn't bear thinking about.) Nick lofted into the air and was gone. A few miles down the road he saw a sign: "St. Joseph -- 2 Miles". Crossing his fingers, he headed to what he could only hope was his mechanical salvation. He landed just outside the town limits and continued on foot. As he walked towards the main street (appropriately called Main Street) he passed an ornate sign. "Welcome to St. Joseph," it read. "The Kumquat Capital." Nick paid it little attention outside of thinking that he couldn't recall ever actually seeing a kumquat in the flesh. He shrugged and continued on in search of an all- night garage. He didn't find a garage, but he did find the next best thing -- a bar. He pushed though the well-worn door to find a dim room populated mostly by men dressed in work clothes. Approaching the bar, he asked the bartender, "Excuse me, is there a garage in town that's still open?" The bartender, a pudgy man in a sleeveless t-shirt and sporting a US Marines tattoo on his massive bicep, continued filling a beer glass from the tap. "Gotta breakdown, mister?" he inquired. "Yeah, about ten miles down St. Joe Road," Nick gestured to the east. The barman eyed Nick's stylish khaki trousers and Sea Island cotton shirt. "If it's one of them foreign jobs, you're out of luck," he said. "Bob only works on American cars." "It's okay, then," Nick said, relieved there seemed to be some hope of mechanical salvation. "It's a Cadillac. A 1962 Coupe de Ville. It just sort of coughed and died on me." The barman called over to a quartet of men playing cards in the corner of the room. "Hey, Bob, got a customer for you." He jerked his head at Nick. "Old Caddy, out on St. Joe." Bob, a lean, weatherbeaten man in his seventies, looked at his hand, then folded. "I'm out," he announced. "You're dealing me lousy cards tonight, Ed. May as well try to earn a buck the honest way." He came over to the bar. "Old Caddy, huh?" "Yeah, a '62," Nick answered. "What, are you a collector?" Bob asked as they left the bar. "Um, no, it's been in the family. I sort of inherited it. It's never had any problems, really. I have a good mechanic." 'Hmmpf. Well, let's go drag it in," was all Bob said. They walked down the street a bit to a decrepit garage. The yard around it was littered with deceased mechanical things -- cars, washing machines, motorcycles, and bicycles being the more identifiable ones. Nick's hopes sank. This was a far cry from his regular mechanic's almost surgically clean workshop. Bob gestured to an old, much-dented tow truck. "Let's go," he said, and climbed into the driver's seat. Nick got in the passenger side and sat gingerly on the torn upholstery, feeling more and more apprehensive. How could he trust his beloved car to this backwater mechanic? Then Bob started the truck and all Nick's fears dissolved. The engine caught and settled into a deep-throated mutter that was more felt than heard. The gears meshed with nary a sound and they glided out of the parking lot onto the street. It was like riding in a limousine -- a limousine with a tow hook on the back. When Bob saw Nick's appreciative expression, he nodded. "Did a little work on it, " he said laconically. Nick directed the mechanic to the Caddy's location, and in due course it was towed into town and deposited at the repair shop. Once there, Nick retrieved his duffel bag and the six bottles of cow that were stored in the built-in cooler in the trunk. Bob saw the bottles and raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Um, wine from a private vineyard back home," Nick hastily explained. "A gift for a friend. I just want to keep it safe." Bob slouched over and lifted a bottle from Nick's grasp. "Chateau LaLonde, eh?" he said consideringly, reading the label. "I didn't know you could grow syrah in Canada." He handed the bottle back to Nick. "I've been exploring the Australian wines, myself. Found some really excellent shiraz, very well-made and drinkable. Had a decent one last night, as a matter of fact -- Penfolds 1995, tasted of plum, blackberry, chocolate and pepper, with hints of cedar, licorice and mint, with a real exotic finish. Almost the equal of some of the classic French syrahs, and a helluva lot cheaper." He turned back to the Caddy and opened the hood. "Try turning it over, will ya?" Bemused, Nick climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine produced a muffled wheeze and thump, then was still. Authoritative-sounding metallic noises rose from under the hood. "Hmmph. I think I can get you up and running by tomorrow afternoon," Bob's disembodied voice floated over the raised hood. "Probably need a part, but that's no problem, Florida's knee-deep in old Caddies. All them retirees, you know." Nick was feeling a real affection towards the mechanic-come- oenophile. "Great. Now, is there anyplace I can stay until it's done?" Bob came around the front of the Caddy, wiping his hands on an oily rag. "Yeah, Madge oughtta have a room for you at her place. That's the Shady Palm Inn, just down the road. It's not bad. I'll give you a lift." As they went back to the tow truck, Bob continued, "People mostly just drive in for the festival, see, they don't stay overnight." Nick hefted his duffel bag into the front seat. "Festival?" he inquired. "Yep. Kumquat Days. It's a big deal hereabouts." Nick nodded. "Oh, yeah, I saw a sign on the way into town. St. Joseph is the, um, Kumquat Capital of Florida, right?" "Of the world, if you believe the Chamber of Commerce," Bob said proudly. He gestured. "All those groves? Kumquats. Half the business in this town has to do with kumquats." Now that he paid attention, Nick noted the preponderance of a kumquat theme on the main street. Gift shops advertised kumquat preserves, jellies, candy, and other edible treats. T-shirts with kumquats on them were displayed in store windows. Kumquat knickknacks abounded. The streetlights were decorated with bunches of enormous plastic kumquats. And then there was the clincher, the banner strung across the street proclaiming that particular weekend was St. Joseph Kumquat Days. Nick wasn't a detective for nothing. Yep, there was a festival going on. "Oh," he said. Nick was pretty sure he had seen kumquats sometime during his very long life, but he retained on the impression of a small, olive-shaped orange fruit. Of course he had never tasted one. "Here ya go." The truck pulled into the parking lot of a motel that sported a rather dusty looking palm tree by the office door. The motel itself was a typical low, rambling stucco affair with a distinctly Fifties air about it. Nick mentally crossed his fingers and hoped that there was a decent supply of hot water and that the bed didn't have too deep a valley in it. He tried not to think of his room the previous day at the Ritz-Carleton in Palm Beach. Bob interrupted his morose thoughts. "Mr. Knight, I wonder if, um, I could ask you a favor?" he said hesitantly. "Sure," Nick said, mystified. "Your car should be ready by tomorrow afternoon, but would you mind sticking around for another day? Or at least through tomorrow evening?" "I guess not. I'm not on a schedule or anything. Why?" Bob fidgeted some more. "It's your car, see. It's really flashy, and a convertible. It's just the ticket." "For what?" Nick was intrigued now. "Uh, my granddaughter's Kumquat Queen this year, see, and tomorrow's the Grand Torchlight Parade. She's supposed to ride in the parade, but right now they've got her in the back of a pickup -- a nice pickup, all decorated and all, but still a pickup. I figure it would be lots better for her to ride in a proper car, a fancy one like yours." Nick grinned. "As long as I get to drive it, sure, you can use the Caddy. Oh, and as long as you don't glue stuff to it or anything." What accessories did a kumquat queen have? Kumquats, he supposed, but he didn't want obscure citrus fruits stuck to his paint job. "Oh, and it's got to be after dark." He trotted his usual sun allergy explanation. "Jeeze, what are you doing in Florida?!?" Bob exclaimed. "Hell, I thought you looked whiter than the average Canuck -- uh, 'scuse me, Canadian -- tourist. He shook his head in amazement, and then remembered he was asking for a favor. "Sunset's at seven forty- five or so. You're okay, the parade's at nine." "Okay, then." And with those fateful words, Nick was part of the St. Joseph Kumquat Days festivities. ======================== To his pleased surprise, the Shady Palm Inn turned out to be more congenial than he expected. It wasn't the Ritz Carleton by a long shot -- the television and pictures were screwed down and the furniture owed its shine more to Formica than furniture polish -- but his room was clean, the bed relatively new and as yet undipped, and the ice machine was nowhere nearby. Most important, the curtains were heavily lined and overlapped in the middle of the window so no sun could slip through and give him a toasty wakeup call. Madge, a generously-proportioned black woman with a warm smile had called him "Honey" and, after he registered, pressed a small cellophane-wrapped basket of kumquats into his hands. "Compliments of the Shady Palm," she said, smiling. "I hope you enjoy Kumquat Days!" Nick considered his gift basket while he bounced experimentally on the bed, then reached over and retrieved it from where it sat on the bedside table. Unwrapping the cellophane, he picked up one of the small fruits and smelled it experimentally. His nose wrinkled at the acidic scent. It was squishier than an orange, and the skin more delicate. He saw a slip of paper in the basket, and read out loud, "Both the skin and pulp of the kumquat are edible! Five medium kumquats contain only 60 calories, but provide the minimum daily requirement of potassium and Vitamins A and C. Enjoy Nature's ideal snack and taste treat!" Shifting on the bed, he fished his Swiss army knife out of his pocket. He opened the small blade and prepared to autopsy the kumquat. He neatly slit it down its plump middle, then spread it open to reveal the pulp and seeds. A wave of sweet and sour fumes rose into his face and a trickle of juice ran onto his palm. "Yuck. So much for that," he said aloud. "I'm sure you're an ideal snack and taste treat, but I think I'll pass." Going into the bathroom, he dropped the kumquat in the toilet and flushed, then tidily washed his hands. It wouldn't do to offend the management by throwing their gift in the wastebasket, after all. He'd figure out how to dispose of the rest of the kumquats in a discreet manner. Suddenly he became aware of a high-pitched noise. It began faintly but soon built to a constant, irritating whine. Puzzled, he looked around the room. He had encountered similar noises before, but they were usually associated with surveillance cameras or security electronics in stores, audible to his very sensitive ears only. There was no such thing here. The noise didn't appear to come from the television or bedside alarm clock radio, either. He stood in the middle of the room trying to pinpoint the source of the whine to no avail. Experimentally he stepped outside the room. The noise followed him. He walked to the middle of the parking lot. Still there. Frustrated and beginning to get annoyed, he went back into the room and sat down on the bed, reflectively wiggling a finger in an ear. It didn't help -- it was as if his ears were ringing, but of course that was impossible. Vampires' ears didn't ring. He recalled the last time he had experienced anything like this. Long ago, when he was a teenager, he had been hit on the helmet with the flat of a wooden broadsword in a practice session with the swordmaster. The blow had knocked him flat on his backside, his senses swimming, and his ears had rung for three days from the concussion. He hadn't liked the sensation then (although the swordmaster had thought it was an excellent lesson in keeping his guard up) and he didn't like it now. The noise seemed to come at him from every direction like a swarm of particularly persistent bees. Through the all-encompassing din he faintly heard the phone ring. Picking it up, he could barely make out the motel owner's cheery voice. "Huh?" he asked. The woman mumbled terribly. "IS YOUR ROOM ALL RIGHT, HONEY?" she yelled. "YES! THANKS!" he shouted back, his own voice sounding muffled in his ears. Hanging up, he fumed, "This is ridiculous." Maybe some fresh air would help. He stomped out of his room and started walking down the main street. Much to his relief the noise subsided after several minutes, although it never quite disappeared. His mood lightened enough for him to begin to appreciate the trappings of the upcoming Kumquat Days -- all the shops were bursting with trinkets decorated with ovoid orange blobs representing the ubiquitous fruit. Food stands and a stage with bleachers were set up along the street in preparation for tomorrow's festivities. He almost regretted that it was too late for the shops to be open. Perhaps Natalie would enjoy a souvenir t-shirt; he was reasonably sure she wouldn't already have one with kumquats on it. After he exhausted the charms of Main Street he decided to take a look at one of the surrounding kumquat groves. For all he knew the Chamber of Commerce ran tours of the local groves but almost certainly not in the middle of the night. After making sure there weren't any inquiring eyes he lifted into the air and zoomed off. It didn't take long to find a grove. Orderly rows of kumquat trees stretched out below him in the moonlight. The harvest apparently wasn't over, for he could see clumps of orange blobs among the glossy green leaves. He was thinking they were rather attractive trees -- they were small, about fifteen feet tall, and had a nice, manicured appearance and symmetrical shape -- - when the whining reappeared with a vengeance. It built rapidly to a deafening pitch. Nick clutched his ears with his hands and halted in midair. It felt like his head would split apart, and he had no idea what to do. What was it with this town, anyway? Was there some secret military base hidden among the kumquat groves that was experimenting with some ultra-top secret device that had as a side effect the torture of vampires? Or even worse, was there some ultra-top secret project designed specifically to repel vampires? If so, it was incredibly effective. "AUGHGH!" Nick yelled at the top of his voice, not caring if there were third- shift kumquat pickers in the grove beneath him. It felt good to scream, even though the sound was filtered through the ringing in his ears. In sheer frustration Nick shot straight up in the sky in an attempt to get away from it all. And strangely enough, the noise once again abated to an almost- tolerable level. He heaved a vast sigh of relief. Floating at an altitude of twenty-five thousand feet (and keeping an eye out for passing airliners), he tried to relax and regain the sense of peace his vacation had, until this evening, instilled in him. An image formed, unbidden, in his mind. It was Lacroix's face, one eyebrow lifted quizzically, his expression clearly asking, "What the *hell* is going on with you?" Nick sighed. As usual, his connection to his sire was open for business and he must have unconsciously telegraphed his distress. Combining that with purposefully neglecting to bring his cell phone with him obviously resulted in Lacroix resorting to the old-fashioned method of communication. At this distance, though, the connection was thankfully limited to images and general feelings only. He wouldn't have to stand still for a verbal long- distance lecture. Well, no sense in putting off the inevitable. He rolled over in the air and stared at the stars. Maybe he could imbue his thoughts with so much tranquility his master would give up and go away, at least mentally. "Optimist," he muttered to himself. He pictured himself with his hands over his ears and his head surrounded by thousands of buzzing bees, the closest he could come to the incredible noise he had endured. The quizzical eyebrow lifted higher, then his master's face was replaced with a map with a question mark superimposed on it. Nick returned with an image of the map of Florida. No image was forthcoming from Lacroix, although there was a general feeling of waiting. "I can't believe it. He comes after me and then puts me on hold!" Nick fumed. After a minute, Lacroix's face reappeared in Nick's mind. This time, though, he was holding up a small orange object. The eyebrow was once again lifted interrogatively -- and was that a faint smirk on his face? Nick mentally sat up straight. A kumquat. The imaginary Lacroix in his mind was holding an imaginary kumquat. He sent a big YES. Lacroix now appeared holding a bowl heaped with kumquats. Once again the eyebrow went into action. Nick returned with an image of the kumquat groves below, a sea of trees extending into infinity. What did the number of kumquats have to do with his little auditory problem, he wondered. He got his answer -- a picture of himself standing in a heap of kumquats and holding his ears, a look of pain on his face. Oh. Kumquats make your ears ring. For some reason this didn't seem unreasonable. Nick had witnessed the effect that various vegetables had on your average vampire, and had personally suffered from onslaughts of garlic and eggplants, although thankfully not at the same time. So now it seemed he had to add kumquats to the list of forbidden fruits. The next message was particularly annoying -- waves of amusement came through the mental connection. Lacroix thought it all extremely funny. "Easy enough for you to laugh," Nick thought sourly. "You're in Toronto, and the nearest kumquat is probably in some specialty fruit boutique miles away. I'm surrounded by the damned things." Another image materialized. It was a huge kumquat surrounded by a red circle with a diagonal red line drawn through it -- the international sign for "No Kumquats". The pictured kumquat's skin looked flaccid and disease-ridden -- no doubt Lacroix's attitude towards the otherwise innocent fruit. "No shit," Nick growled. What was he supposed to do? He was marooned in a town that was surrounded by kumquats, that worshipped kumquats, the celebrated them in all their citrus glory. He supposed he could leave as soon as his car was repaired, but there was the matter of his promise to Bob the Wonder Mechanic. He felt honor-bound to chauffeur the Kumquat Queen in the torchlight parade. Besides, he had already said he didn't have to keep to any schedule. What excuse could he offer? "Oh, besides being allergic to sunlight, I'm allergic to kumquats." Yeah, right. Of course, breaking a promise to a human wouldn't bother most vampires. But then, most vampires wouldn't have volunteered to drive the Kumquat Queen in her moment of glory. Well, maybe they would, but only to keep on driving straight out of town to test out the theory that Kumquat Queens, as well as kumquats, are "Nature's ideal snack and taste treat." Yet another picture formed in Nick's mind. It was Lacroix again, this time clad in the garb of a Italian Renaissance scholar, his finger raised in a "pay attention" sort of gesture. Nick groaned. Apparently he wasn't going to escape a lecture after all. He flinched as he distinctly felt the 'thwap' of something across his knuckles. "Ouch!" Lacroix had rapped him with a mental ruler. "I wish I knew how he does that," Nick muttered, shaking his hand. Once again a dyspeptic kumquat materialized in his mind, this time accompanied by an equally sickly-looking eggplant. Behind them was the Great Wall of China. Nick pondered that one for a moment. "Oh! They both come from China!" A wave of approval washed over him; obviously he had gotten the point of the short lecture. So was there something about Chinese produce that he had never noticed? He thought about his forays through Chinatown back in Toronto. Even though the merchants there displayed heaps of unidentifiable foodstuffs in bins and barrels on the sidewalks in front of their stores, he had never experienced ringing ears. Momentary fits of nausea, yes, but that could be the result of the scent of dried squid and octopus tentacles, shriveled mushrooms, and for all he knew, eye of newt. Although he spoke Mandarin, he had never learned to read it, so the signs in the bins didn't help to identify the contents. He had noticed that his non-Asian acquaintances also occasionally made faces, too, so he didn't think much of it. Now he wondered if there was more to it than could be explained by exotic smells. Nick let his mind wander through the fields of intellectual speculation for a few moments more, then regretfully brought himself back to the problem at hand. How was he going to get through the next day and a half? Damn, he was going to have to ask Lacroix for help, something the elder vampire was always willing to provide -- for a price. Resigned, he formed the image of himself surrounded by a protective fence with a question mark floating over his head. The answer was swift in coming. A telephone and an exclamation point. He was going to have to actually talk with his sire to get the solution to his dilemma. "There goes my peace and quiet," he muttered. He righted himself in the air and took a quick bearing. If he headed south he would be out of range of the kumquats and could probably even carry on a conversation on the phone without having to shout. Ten minutes later Nick was fifty miles away at a public phone in a roadside rest, placing a call to Toronto -- collect. Okay, so it was childish. It felt good. Too soon, his master's mellifluous voice oozed out of the receiver. "Yet again I see you have landed yourself in a bit of a dilemma -- kumquats this time." "Yes. Kumquats," Nick said shortly. "Hmmm, apparently I never mentioned the effect members of the genus Fortunella have on our kind. A sad oversight, but easy enough to understand. How often does one come into contact with large quantities of kumquats?" Lacroix mused. "Once is enough," Nick replied sourly. "Is there anything I can do to counteract them besides leave, that is? My car is in the shop until tomorrow." He decided not to divulge his participation in the Kumquat Days festivities. He didn't think the ancient vampire would be particularly sympathetic -- or worse, would simply laugh and file the whole episode in his already extensive List of Things to Bring Up at Inopportune and Embarrassing Moments in Nicholas' Life. "Hmm, let me think. I take it you already understand that the -- irritation -- is prompted by close exposure to quantities of kumquats? And that it subsides when you remove yourself from that exposure?" "Yes. I figured that out." "But you intend to remain exposed?" "I have no choice, Lacroix, I told you my car's in the shop." "You know, Nicholas, I am thinking of purchasing a new Mercedes. Would you like to buy the old one? It has only twenty thousand kilometers on it and my detailer was successful in removing the bloodstains from the passenger seat. I'm sure it is much more reliable and comfortable than your Cadillac." Nick sighed. "You don't think that showing up at work in a seventy-five thousand dollar car wouldn't seem a bit suspicious?" Lacroix clucked. "Ah, yes, I suppose you have to consider the sensibilities of your employer. Pity." "Besides, the trunk isn't big enough." "You know my feelings on that. If you only planned a bit more carefully, you wouldn't need to keep company with your spare tire." "Do you have anything constructive to say on the current problem, Lacroix?" Nick said raggedly. "If not..." "Oh, yes. Kumquats. It's quite simple -- you merely need to apply an emolument containing the essences of certain Eurasian flowering plants mixed with precious oils." Nick stared at the receiver in disbelief, then closed his eyes to compose himself. "Patience," he told himself. "Must have patience. Patience is a virtue." Finally, after several deep, cleansing breaths, he put the receiver back to his ear. "Oh, it's that simple? Where do you propose I obtain 'essences of certain Eurasian flowering plants' and 'precious oils'? Care to be a bit more specific?" Lacroix chuckled. "Unfortunately I did not analyze the substance I used -- I believe it was in 956, when I was staying temporarily in the back of a Chinese bazaar -- all I know is that it worked. I applied it liberally to exposed skin and it counteracted the kumquat effect." "Well, what did it smell like?" "Hmmm. It's been some time, but if I recall correctly, it smelled like poppies and attar of roses. I believe the oil was sesame. There were probably other ingredients, but I am unaware of them. A Chinese healer produced it for me -- after a bit of persuasion, of course." "So I'll just stop by a Seven-Eleven and pick some up, then," Nick said sarcastically. "I have given you the answer, Nicholas. No need to snap at me," Lacroix said calmly. "Good luck with your search. Did you lose your wallet, by the way? I notice you called collect." "I did that just to annoy you, Lacroix. You know that." "I thought as much. Well, it's good to know the kumquats haven't affected your ability to be irritating. Good night." With a soft click, Lacroix hung up. Nick could distinctly hear him laughing as he did so. Glumly Nick hung up the phone. Now what? He looked thoughtfully at the horizon, where a soft glow proclaimed the presence of some sort of human habitation. Maybe he could find an all-night drugstore or something. He lofted into the air from the deserted roadside rest and was gone. ========================================= A half hour later Nick was wandering disconsolately around an all-night truck stop, the only thing he had found open at that late hour. It combined a gas station, truck wash, diner, and a small store that sold the kind of things that a trucker on the road might need -- t-shirts, over-the-counter medicines, paperbacks and magazines, automotive supplies, cold drinks, country-western music cassettes, and souvenirs of Florida. Thankfully, there were no kumquats for sale. Although there were a number of lotions available in the personal grooming section, Nick didn't think that Vaseline Intensive Care or Cornhusker's Lotion would quite meet the demands of Lacroix's anti-kumquat recipe. "Can I help you find something, Mister?" an adolescent male voice from behind him said. "Not likely," Nick muttered. But he gamely turned to the clerk, a pimply youth whose arms were full of flats of snack cakes. "I'm looking for any kind of lotion that smells like poppies and roses. Something -- oily." "Oh, we've got that," the clerk said cheerfully. "You looking for something to keep the skeeters off you when you're fishing, right? Lots of guys stop in for that stuff -- there's a lot of sport fishing here on the coast. Janey sells Skin Pretty out of her home, and the boss lets her keep a stash here 'cause it's so popular and the guys usually buy other stuff along with it." He plunked the snack cakes on the floor and led Nick over to the counter, where he shoved a small catalog at him. "It's that 'Skin-So-Silky' lotion -- page twenty-one." He flipped open the catalog and pointed to a picture of a pink bottle. "It's supposed to just be a hand lotion, but they found out it's hell on skeeters and gnats. You end up smelling like a French bordello but the bugs hate it." "Uh, I'll take two," Nick said faintly. "'Kay, just a minute while I get it out of the break room." The clerk disappeared into a narrow door marked 'Keep Out -- Employees Only.' In a minute he reappeared with two of the pink plastic bottles. "Here ya go. That'll be ten bucks." The clerk put the bottles in a pink plastic bag with "Skin Pretty for You!" emblazoned on it in swirly white letters. With an air of unreality Nick handed over a ten-dollar bill. "I hear the snook are biting real good down at Jones Point," the clerk said helpfully. "Do you need a guide? My Uncle Elmo runs a boat out of Shell Bay." "Uh, no thanks. I'll manage on my own." Nick picked up his pink bag and retreated to a dark corner of the parking lot. He glanced up at the neon-lit sign that signaled the truck stop's location. "Full service -- they ain't kidding." He pulled out a bottle and squirted a little bit of the lotion on his hand. Waves of flowery scent rose to assault his nose. The lotion itself was thick and oily, with good sticking power. He examined the fine print ingredients on the side of the bottle. "Purified water, isopropyl palmitate, glycerin stearate, stearic acid, propylene glycol, vitamin E, acetate, acetylated lanolin alcohol, methyl paraben..." he muttered as he read the mysterious list of ingredients, "...essence of poppies, attar of roses, and sesame oil." He shook his head in disbelief. Outside of the lengthy list of chemicals, it was almost precisely the mixture of ingredients that Lacroix had used over one thousand years before. He wondered if Skin Pretty was owned by a vampire who had had his own run-ins with kumquats. In fact, he wouldn't be at all surprised if it were Lacroix who was the man behind the thousands of enthusiastic, pink- wearing and catalog-wielding housewives. Stranger things had happened. "Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained," he thought, and proceeded to smear the awful stuff over his hands, arms, and face. The clerk hadn't been exaggerating. The smell brought back memories of various houses of ill repute, in France and elsewhere. Not that he had patronized such places, he thought virtuously. He just knew how they smelled. He sped back towards St. Joseph and soon the neat rows of kumquat trees reappeared under his flight path. He cautiously lost altitude, paying close attention to the state of his hearing. To his delight, only a faint whine manifested itself when he hovered not ten feet above a fruit-laden tree. "It works!" he yelled, causing a small flock of slumbering birds to burst skyward in panic out of the grove. He performed a few loop-de-loops around the skittering flock, then headed towards his room in the Shady Palm, secure in the knowledge he would be able to fulfill his promise the next night to the Kumquat Queen. Dawn was breaking as he slipped into the room. He made sure the heavy, plastic- lined drapes were completely closed, put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob, and made ready for a good day's rest. But first he flushed the remaining kumquats in his gift basket down the toilet. No sense in tempting fate. ========================================== Nick was awakened from a deep, citrus-free sleep by the phone at four that afternoon. "Hello?" he yawned into the receiver. "Your car's fixed," came Bob's laconic voice. "Came to three- hundred and fifty- two bucks, including labor." "Great. What was wrong?" Nick asked, more for form than any real desire to know. Guys were supposed to be interested in mechanical things, after all. Bob launched into a technical explanation, the only word of which Nick could relate to was "alternator." Nevertheless, he nodded sagely while he listened, adding, "uh-huh," and "yeah?" every so often to indicate he was interested. "The girls are decorating it up now," Bob finished. "Why don't you come over about eight and you can go over the route and stuff." "They're not doing anything permanent to it, are they?" Nick asked apprehensively. "Nah, just streamers and balloons and stuff. Don't worry about it," Bob assured him. "How do you want to pay for this? I don't take out of town checks." "No problem, just charge it to my Visa card." Nick recited his card number and arranged to have the car's tank filled. Despite the Skin-So-Silky and its magical anti-kumquat effects, he suspected he wouldn't want to spend a moment longer in the vicinity than absolutely necessary. Nick passed the next several hours lounging in bed reading a Travis McGee novel he had found in the bedside table. He couldn't help finding parallels between himself and McGee, a crime-solving loner with solitary habits, angsty outlooks on life, a way with the ladies, and a unique car. He was trying to visualize a Rolls Royce converted into a pickup truck when he realized he should be getting ready for his parade duties. He showered hastily, toweled dry, then slathered his entire body with Skin-So- Silky. Surrounded by a cloud of florel scent, he dressed in an elegantly casual shirt and slacks, packed up his duffel bag, downed one bottle of Chateau LaLonde, and headed to the office to check out. Madge's eyebrow crept upward as she caught a whiff of his anti- kumquat defenses, but her experience in motel management had given her the aplomb of a diplomat. She refrained from commenting, merely wished him a pleasant journey and thanked him for volunteering to help out with the parade. "You know about that?" Nick inquired, surprised. "Oh, sure, honey, nothing's a secret in this town. Beth Ann's real happy to be riding in a fancy old car like yours, and it's decorated real pretty." Nick made his way to Bob's garage, steeling himself against what he might find draped over his classic Cadillac. Main Street was awhirl with Kumquat Days revelry. The street was lined with people sitting in lawn chairs and on blankets waiting for the parade to begin. Food stands were everywhere, not just selling kumquat delicacies, but also the standard hot dogs, popcorn, ice cream, soda, and beer. A rock and roll band played several blocks away. Nick could see the bobbing and gyrating of teenagers dancing in the street. He found the Caddy in the central bay at Bob's garage, festooned with the promised streamers and balloons, as well as garlands of flowers and magnetic signs stuck to the doors proclaiming the occupant of the car to be Beth Ann Stawicky, Kumquat Queen. Bob himself was rubbing a fender with a polishing rag, an activity that Nick whole-heartedly agreed with. "Hi, Mr. Knight," Bob said, giving the fender a final swipe. "How's she look?" "Very festive," Nick answered. Bob apparently got a whiff of the anti-kumquat remedy, because he looked sharply at Nick. "Goin' fishing later on?" he inquired. Apparently he was one of the guys who bought the Skin-So-Silky as an anti-mosquito repellent. "Um, yeah. I'm meeting a friend," Nick improvised. "I hear the snook are biting off Jones Point," he added for verisimilitude. "Hunh," was all Bob said. Just then three teenage girls invaded the garage. They were all dressed in strapless formal gowns, and one had a rhinestone tiara balanced precariously in her elaborately-curled blonde hair and a sash proclaiming her as the Kumquat Queen. The other two girls were, according to their sashes, her Kumquat Princesses. "Beth Ann, you look gorgeous!" Bob said as he cautiously pecked her on the cheek. "Oh, Grampa..." she blushed. Bob turned to Nick. "Mr. Knight, this here is my granddaughter, Beth Ann. Beth Ann, this is Mr. Knight. He owns this fancy convertible." Nick made a formal court bow, one he hadn't used since 1916 in the court of the Romanovs. "My pleasure, Your Highness," he said, and kissed her hand. "Your equipage awaits." Beth Ann and her princesses giggled and blushed. Bob said by way of explanation, "He's Canadian." Nick opened the passenger door and pulled forward the seat back. "Shall we go?" he asked. The girls climbed into the back seat of the car, awkwardly arranging their long dresses and whispering amongst themselves. Nick's acute hearing, so far unsullied by the Kumquat Effect, heard one say, "He's absolutely gorgeous! But that cologne really sucks!" Bob gave Nick directions to the place where the parade was being organized, and in short order, Nick and the girls were proceeding sedately through the back streets of St. Joseph to the high school parking lot. The parking lot was a hive of activity, with floats, three marching bands warming up their instruments, as well as local politicians in decorated pickup trucks, a fleet of Shriners with a riding lawn mower drill team, a fire engine with all its lights flashing, and the horses and riders from a Western saddle club quadrille. Everywhere was the color orange and representations of kumquats. The harried parade organizer directed Nick towards the beginning of the parade lineup, while a matronly woman handed Beth Ann and her attendants huge bouquets of kumquat blossoms mixed with boughs of ripe kumquats. The princesses were supplied with baskets of the tiny fruits, which apparently they were to throw out into the crowd. Nick's ears began to sing just a little, but thanks to the Skin-So-Silky, it scarcely bothered him. Then came the piercing blast of a whistle, the leading band struck up "The Stars and Stripes Forever," and the parade was underway. Nick motored his royal charges down Main Street to the applause and "ooohs" and "ahhhs" of the onlookers, while Beth Ann and the princesses waved their white-gloved hands and threw handfuls of kumquats into the street. Nick even retrieved his portable police light and set it going on the dashboard to lend more glitz to the event. The night was sultry and warm. The stars glittered above, and the town was vibrating with celebration and partying. Colored lights were strung across the street in festive swoops, and children ran to and fro waving glowing hoops of neon green, blue, and pink like excited fireflies. And contrary to his expectations, Nick enjoyed every minute of it. In a short half hour it was all over. The parade wended its way back to the high school parking lot, where Nick deposited the Queen and her court with their mothers amid effusive thanks and giggles. As he started to dismantle the decorations on the Caddy, Beth Ann's mother approached him. "Oh, Mr. Knight, I can't tell you how much this meant to Beth Ann. Thanks ever so much," she said, smiling. He saw her nose twitch once as the scent of the Skin-So- Silky hit her, but her smile dimmed only slightly. Nick had to give the residents of St. Joseph high marks for diplomacy. "You're quite welcome, Mrs. Stawicky," he said as he struggled to collect an armful of crepe paper streamers. "I'm happy I could help out." "We have a little something for you," she continued. "Arthur!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Get over here!" Out of the melee of a marching band, a tall, thin man approached bearing a large object. He looked uncannily like Bob the Wonder Mechanic, and Nick pegged him as his son. Arthur handed a large basket to his wife, who turned and presented it to Nick. "Here's a little memento of the occasion, with our thanks. I hope you enjoy it." Nick automatically held out his hands to receive the basket. The whining in his ears immediately intensified. He looked at it with dismay. Kumquats. More bloody kumquats. A basket full of kumquat jam, kumquat candy, ripe kumquats, a rolled-up t-shirt which Nick assumed had kumquats on it, a booklet which no doubt told the Story of Kumquats, and heaven only knew what else. It was, in short Vampire Hell in a Basket. "Oh," he said faintly. "Uh, thanks." And then inspiration hit. "Mrs. Stawicky, could I ask you a big favor?" he said. "I'm going to be on the road for the next two weeks, and I'm afraid this lovely gift basket will get spoiled if I keep it with me in the car." He fished a twenty-five dollars out of his wallet and held it out. "Could you please ship it to my friend in Toronto? She can take care of it until I get back." He smiled his most disarming and persuasive smile. "Why, sure," she answered, her face flushing under the glow of Nick's charm assault. "I'd be happy to do that." "Hang on a sec, let me write her a note." Nick rummaged in the glove compartment and came up with a Metro Toronto Police notepad and a pen. He wrote, "Dear Natalie, "Here's a souvenir of my trip to Florida. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. Please enjoy the kumquats (especially the fresh ones) as soon as possible. The sooner the better, as a matter of fact. "Fondest regards, Nick "PS. Don't under any circumstances take any of this stuff to the Raven. Trust me on this. Remember what happened with the eggplant. FINIS =================================== Harvest of the Damned Redux or Attack of the Killer Kumquats by Nancy Kaminski The Alternate Ending (c) December 2001 =================================== A number of people have written to me commenting that Nick shouldn't have sent the kumquat gift basket to Natalie (I thought she'd like the t-shirt, myself) but rather, should have sent it to --- yup, you guessed it --- Lacroix. Eep! Once again I can take a hint. Herewith is... HARVEST OF THE DAMNED REDUX: THE ALTERNATE ENDING In a short half hour it was all over. The parade wended its way back to the high school parking lot, where Nick deposited the Queen and her court with their mothers amid effusive thanks and giggles. As he started to dismantle the decorations on the Caddy, Beth Ann's mother approached him. "Oh, Mr. Knight, I can't tell you how much this meant to Beth Ann. Thanks ever so much," she said, smiling. He saw her nose twitch once as the scent of the Skin-So- Silky hit her, but her smile dimmed only slightly. Nick had to give the residents of St. Joseph high marks for diplomacy. "You're quite welcome, Mrs. Stawicky," he said as he struggled to collect an armful of crepe paper streamers. "I'm happy I could help out." "We have a little something for you," she continued. "Arthur!" she yelled over her shoulder. "Get over here!" Out of the melee of a marching band, a tall, thin man approached bearing a large object. He looked uncannily like Bob the Wonder Mechanic, and Nick pegged him as his son. Arthur handed a large basket to his wife, who turned and presented it to Nick. "Here's a little memento of the occasion, with our thanks. I hope you enjoy it." Nick automatically held out his hands to receive the basket. The whining in his ears immediately intensified. He looked at it with dismay. Kumquats. More bloody kumquats. A basket full of kumquat jam, kumquat candy, ripe kumquats, a rolled-up t-shirt which Nick assumed had kumquats on it, a booklet which no doubt told the Story of Kumquats, and heaven only knew what else. It was, in short Vampire Hell in a Basket. "Oh," he said faintly. "Uh, thanks." He looked around helplessly. What on earth was he going to do with the monstrous thing? And then inspiration hit. The inspiration took root and blossomed in his brain. He had had such inspirations before, and often regretted having them. He had a feeling this was one of those times, but it was just too enticing to resist. He had always been impulsive, he told himself. It was part of his charm. Besides, he was out of range, at least for the next couple of weeks. He deposited the basket on the trunk of the car and smiled winningly at Mrs. Stawicky. "Could I ask you a big favor?" he asked the middle- aged woman. "I'm going to be on the road for the next two weeks, and I'm afraid this lovely gift basket will get spoiled if I keep it with me in the car." He fished twenty-five dollars out of his wallet and held out the bills. "Could you please ship it to my friend in Toronto? He can take care of it until I get home." He turned on the full wattage of his boyish charm. Mrs. Stawicky blushed alarmingly and, for a moment, resembled her teenage daughter. "I, uh, I'd be happy to do that. FedEx? UPS?" "Whichever will get it there the fastest," Nick replied, folding the bills into her hand. "I wouldn't want any of the kumquats to go bad without being appreciated by someone. Here, I'll write down the address for you, and let me just write a little note to put in the basket." Nick rummaged in the glove compartment and came up with a Metro Toronto Police notepad and a pen. He wrote, "Lacroix: "Here's a little souvenir of my trip to Florida. Please enjoy it with my thanks for your help with my recent dilemma. I know you'll know exactly what you can do with all these kumquats. "Regards, Nicholas" He folded the note neatly in half and tucked it into the basket where it was easily seen. "There. Oh, wait." He reached again into the front seat of the Caddy and retrieved the second bottle of Skin-So-Silky, He put it in the basket next to the note. "There, all ready to go," he said brightly. "I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed my stay in St. Joseph. It's been so very --- educational." Waving, he watched the Stawickys walk away with his gift basket, then finished removing the decorations from the Caddy. He climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine caught sweetly on the first try and settled into a deep-throated rumble. "Aaaah," he sighed as he motored away from the center of the kumquat festivities. The engine sounded like it would last another thirty-five years, thanks to Bob the Wonder Mechanic. The lights of St. Joseph retreated behind him and he was soon driving amid the kumquat groves, now reduced to black shadows in the night. As he headed towards the Gulf coast, he wondered idly how long it would take Lacroix to plan some suitable revenge. Maybe, he mused, he should move to Fort Lauderdale, buy a houseboat, and become a private investigator, a sort of nocturnal Travis McGee. He already had the offbeat car, after all. And the advantage of a houseboat over a loft is that it could sail away and get lost among the Florida keys, making it that much more difficult for Lacroix to find him. He suddenly got the picture of a vengeful Lacroix glowering at him, clad not in his usual black but rather in the kumquat t-shirt, and grinned. He mentally added a baseball cap, cutoff jeans, and flip- flops, producing the image of an angry Jimmy Buffett concert-goer wrongfully deprived of his margarita, and laughed out loud. The Caddy disappeared into the Florida night, the sound of a lone tenor voice singing a Jimmy Buffett song hanging in the air. "Vaaaampires, mummies and the Holy Ghost, These are the things that terrify me the most. "No aliens, psychopaths, or MTV host "Scares me like vaaaampires, mummies and the Holy Ghost." FINIS