The campfire crackled and cast eerie light and shadows on its young audience, their faces rapt with attention, eyes big and round as the storyteller wove his tale. Sitting on the opposite side of the fire a few feet away from the children, Mystic Glades Chief of Police Zack Scott and his friend, Collier County Detective Cole Larson, waited for the story to be over so they could escort their young charges back into town.
Just fifty yards away, beneath an alligator-shaped sign on an archway, was the entrance to the eccentric, quirky town of Mystic Glades. Hidden deep in the Florida Everglades, several miles from the section of I-75 known as Alligator Alley, the town was home to a couple hundred residents. Downtown consisted of one long dirt and gravel street with wooden clapboard one- and two-story businesses lining both sides. And in front of the buildings was a wide, wooden boardwalk.
The whole setup screamed “Spaghetti Western,” an image that was enhanced by the fact that many residents wore firearms either holstered in plain sight or hidden in their pockets—a dangerous tradition that Zack was determined to change. But so far he wasn’t getting much traction, the argument being that the residents needed their guns because the snakes and alligators outnumbered them a hundred to one.
They had a point.
Everything that made Mystic Glades a difficult town, both to live in and police, made it “charming” and “interesting” to tourists. A recently created airboat tour company brought them up through the canals every morning and back home again at night, except for the few who stayed at the equally new bed-and-breakfast.
The town wasn’t on any map and was difficult to reach by car. The only reason that Zack knew about it was because his friend Cole had recruited him to become Mystic Glades’s first-ever official law-enforcement officer.
But as Zack sat on the rotten log, watching a mosquito buzz in front of his face—the same mosquito he’d been trying to swat away for the past two minutes—he was trying to remember why he’d thought that leaving his job a few months ago as a police officer in Murray, Kentucky, to come here had seemed like a good idea.
Smack! Got the bloodthirsty little sucker. He flicked the squashed mosquito off his arm then realized the clearing had gone silent. He jerked his head up. A dozen young faces stared at him, the storyteller’s spell broken. And on the other side of the campfire, gray-haired self-appointed town elder, Buddy Johnson, the man in charge of tonight’s entertainment and the owner of the airboat company, narrowed his eyes with disapproval.
Cole gave Zack a shove. “You’re in trouble now,” he whispered. “Gandalf the Grey is not amused.”
Zack shoved him back. “I think I can handle the wrath of a man old enough to be my grandfather.”
“Don’t underestimate him. It might be the last mistake you ever make.” Cole waggled his eyebrows then laughed.
Zack shoved him so hard that Cole fell off the log they were sitting on. Zack smirked at his friend’s aggravated look. Cole was probably dying to let loose with a string of curses but couldn’t with the kids within hearing distance.
“Sorry, Buddy,” Zack called out as he offered a hand to help Cole up. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your story.”
Buddy shook his head as if he thought Zack was daft. “It’s not some made-up story. It’s the truth.” He waved his hands at the trees and soggy marsh of the Everglades surrounding them. “People disappear in these woods and are never heard from again. Mark my words. The Ghost of Mystic Glades is real.” He dramatically looked at each of the children until they were all focused on him once again. “And if you don’t mind your parents, and do your homework and your chores, he’ll come after you one day.”
Cole let out a deep sigh. Zack groaned. They both rose to their feet.
Zack could already see the kind of day he’d have tomorrow—an endless parade of concerned parents berating him for giving their kids nightmares. “I think we’ve had enough for one night. Thank you, Buddy, for...entertaining my future deputies.”
Cole snickered beside him. Zack would make him pay for that later.
“Let’s put out this fire and get back to town,” Zack said.
A collective grumble went up from the children.
“But I want to hear more about the Ghost of Mystic Glades,” one of the older girls in the group complained.
“Me, too,” the boy beside her called out, even though the wide-eyed look on his face said he’d rather go without dessert for a week than hear one more scary thing from Buddy Johnson. Zack figured the kid must have a major crush on the girl who’d spoken or he’d never have pretended his agreement.
Buddy waved his hands again, like a wizard casting spells—or an old man who should have known better than to terrify middle schoolers. “About five months ago, the Ghost of Mystic Glades kidnapped a woman named Sue Ellen Fullerton. She was never heard from again. Three months ago another young woman disappeared after going for a walk down a nature trail in the Everglades just a hop-skip down Alligator Alley from here. Her name was Kaylee Brighton. She just...vanished, without a trace. No one has ever heard from her again either.” He waved his arms with a flourish and the kids made “ooooh” noises.
Cole started laughing.
“Enough,” Zack called out to Buddy then frowned at his friend. “Help me get them back to town before Buddy tells them the Loch Ness monster is lurking in the swamp. If we don’t nip this disaster right now, I just may set the world record for shortest career ever as chief of police.”
“Nah.” Cole motioned for the children to come over to them for the short trek back into town. “Your job is safe. No one else wants it.”
Zack sighed. Cole was teasing, but the words he’d said were true. It had taken several disasters, and a brand-new influx of tourists over the past few years to finally convince the hermit-like but growing town to admit they needed their own police force, instead of relying on Collier County or Broward County Police to step in when things went south. With Mystic Glades set so far back from the interstate, response times from both counties could range from twenty minutes to an hour depending on how far away any available deputies might be.
Even though they’d hired Zack to do the job, he met with opposition and resentment every day from the majority of the residents. Many preferred their previous lawless existence. The rest of them seemed to consider him a necessary evil and a hindrance. And they went out of their way to remind him that even though his presence was a necessity, that didn’t mean they were happy that he was there. They’d expressed their discontent by supergluing the front door shut on the brand-new police station.
And by switching the hot and cold water taps in the station’s only bathroom.
And, the prank that had garnered the most laughter and amusement, at his expense—sneaking a black panther into his bedroom while he slept—after taking his weapons out of the room to protect the panther. Never mind protecting him. He’d later found out that the panther—affectionately named Sampson—had no teeth and was the semitame pet of the woman who owned The Moon and Star just down