“It’s a little different than the gag I usually use,” said Serge. “I cut a small hole in the middle of the tape to fit those plastic tubes that are now sticking into your mouths. And the tubes are connected to these things. Depending on your culture, you might not recognize them, but they’re a couple of flexible plastic bladders that people use to sneak alcohol into places.”
Serge reached for the dresser and uncapped a two-liter bottle of soda. But instead of brown cola, it contained chalky-white fluid. “Just a little something I brewed up. Don’t worry, it actually doesn’t taste half bad . . . Coleman, we need theme music!”
Coleman set a bong down and walked to their boom box. “What do you want to hear?”
“The Doors should be appropriate.”
“You got it.” A chubby finger pressed a button.
Serge smiled and slapped Omar on the shoulder. “Now we’re cooking.” He raised the first bladder high in the air and began pouring from the soda bottle. “Coleman, stand here and hold this.” Then he repeated with the second bladder.
“That should about do it.” Serge set the bottle down. “And as I anticipated, you’re blocking the end of the tube with your tongue, so here’s the deal: I’m going to pinch your nose shut. That way you won’t be able to breathe unless you drink what’s in the bladders, then I’ll reward you by releasing. Ready? I’m pinching . . .”
The man held out as long as he could, then chugged rapidly and panted through flared nostrils.
“Now your turn, miss.” She held out even longer than the man, but there never was any other result. The elixir slid down.
Serge plopped himself on the end of a bed and clapped with excess enthusiasm. “Don’t you just love a good mystery? And here’s the part I know you’re just dying to find out. Just what the hell was that stuff he made me drink? Even though you have to admit it did taste pretty good.”
Movement below distracted the couple. They looked down as something small and furry grabbed a piece of cheese and darted back through a semi-circular hole at the base of the motel wall. HOME SWEET HOME.
“That’s just Skippy,” said Serge. “He’s like family, so no medical experiments on him. Anyway, when I heard about the tumor-inducing serum, I just had to get my hands on some. Which is pretty difficult, but not because of security at the labs—who wants to take that stuff? The real hurdle is there’s no black market. Actually now there’s a black market of one: me. So you have to go to the source. I can’t believe how easy it was to break into the place last night, and the cabinet wasn’t even locked. Guess you were just lucky . . .”
The couple began thrashing against their rope bindings.
“Whoa! Hold on! You’re going to hurt yourselves,” said Serge. “And right now you need to keep your heads because good ol’ Serge always leaves his students a way out. If you listen carefully and follow my instructions, you just might emerge unscathed from this little adventure. Do I have your attention?”
They nodded.
“Good. And here’s the important part. I don’t really know the dosage translation between mice and people, which is great news for you! It could take hours or even a day before the tumors start to grow. So if you can catch it in time before it reaches a certain level of cellular formation and goes malignant, you’re home free. I guess you’ll need to find a treatment center and get radiation or something. I’m fuzzy on that, but the people there will know . . . Would you like a lift? It’s up to you.” He tapped his wristwatch. “Tick-tock, tick-tock . . .”
This time even more emphatic nodding.
“Coleman, looks like another road trip.” He stood and grabbed his gear bag. “You can turn off that boom box.”
Chapter Twenty
ORLANDO
A ’78 Firebird rolled through downtown at lunch hour.
Serge glanced in the rearview at the couple in the backseat. “The hospital’s coming up, so look sharp. I’m sure you understand that I can’t be seen near the hospital or get caught on their security cameras. We’ll just drop you a few blocks away, but you’ll be able to see it.”
A minute later, a red light stopped the Trans Am at a bright intersection with a concrete bus bench advertising affordable cremation.
Serge turned around and reached toward the pair. “This is as good a place as any.” He slashed their wrist straps with a box cutter. Coleman opened the passenger door and leaned his seat forward. They took off running.
Horns honked.
“The light’s green,” said Coleman.
