His skin was aflame, so much adrenaline it made a metallic taste in his mouth. He wouldn’t have been able to move at all, but Fussels was on autopilot now. His progress across the wood floor was ultraslow, setting each step, then adding the weight, fearing creaks in the boards that came with every movement. Finally, good news: There was the ransom note, still sitting on the edge of the desk where the ship had been. Twenty feet away. Another step, another creak. Fifteen feet. Almost there. Ten. He wanted to reach with his arm and not risk more noise, but it was still too far. Another step… suddenly…
Fussels’s feet flew from under him and he slammed to the floor with a tremendous thud. He found himself on his back in a pool of slick fluid that had caused the fall. He raised an arm; black drops fell from the sleeve. What the hell? He made his way back to his feet, concentrating on centering his weight like someone roller-skating for the first time. He was at the desk, the note easily in reach. Except he was still looking down at the floor. The fluid was dark and shiny in the moonlight coming through the giant hole in the roof. It trailed under the desk toward the wicker butterfly chair on the other side. The high-back seat was facing the opposite direction. Fussels used the desk for balance and started working his way around.
A ’71 BUICK RIVIERA crossed the bridge to Big Pine and pulled up to a two-story, flat-roofed building with wasp-yellow trim. Coleman got out.
Serge and Molly had gone home after the meeting at the community hall, and Coleman went partying. Now he was lonely. He wanted to see if Serge could come out and play.
Coleman climbed the single staircase of Paradise Arms. He had a greasy white paper bag in his hand. He popped a jalapeño snap in his mouth and knocked on the door of apartment 213.
No answer.
He grabbed another snap and knocked again.
Still nothing.
Coleman bobbed his head to the memory of the last song from his car and stepped over to the window. He put his face to the glass and peeked through a slit where the curtains didn’t quite meet.
“Oh, shit!”
He pulled a canceled video card from his wallet and stuck it in the doorjamb. It took a little work, but Coleman eventually tripped the angled bolt. He ran inside.
Serge was sitting in the middle of the living room in a wooden chair from the dining set, his back to the door. He looked over his shoulder. “Coleman! What are you doing here?”
Serge was tied up, his hands bound behind his back, ankles strapped to chair legs. A thick-braid nylon rope was loosely looped a ridiculous number of times around his chest like the Penguin used to tie up Batman.
Coleman rushed over and began undoing knots. “Don’t worry, buddy! Have you free in a second!”
“Coleman! Get out of here! This is a game!”
“It’s always a game with you!” Coleman freed the ankles. “Hang in there. Just a few more seconds…”
“Coleman, you don’t understand—”
“I’m not as stupid as you think.” Working the wrists now.
A falsely deep female voice: “You’ve been a bad rebel soldier!”
Serge and Coleman looked up at the bathroom door. It opened.
Molly was completely naked except for the Darth Vader helmet and toy light saber. There was a brief moment of suspended animation when everyone silently stared at each other. Then time speeded up. Shrieks of horror rattled out of the helmet. One of Molly’s hands dropped the light saber and flew up to cover her breasts, the other shot down to the nexus of her legs. She ran crying into the bedroom and slammed the door.
It was quiet again in the living room except for the light saber rolling across the wooden floor with a sound representing husbands in deep shit everywhere.
Serge pushed Coleman away. “You idiot!” He finished untangling himself and ran to the bedroom. Molly was inconsolable, her head buried deep under the pillows. Serge caressed her back, but she wouldn’t stop crying. He removed the pillows and helped get the helmet off.
It was no use, nothing Serge could say or do. Only more tears. He came out of the bedroom. Coleman was rummaging through the refrigerator.
“I’m new to this marriage thing,” said Serge. “But I’m guessing this is the part where you need to leave.”
“Let’s go someplace.”
“Coleman, I’m married now.”
Coleman closed the fridge. “Damage is done. You’ll only make it worse by staying here. I suggest you head to a bar with me and wait for this to blow over.”
“You really think so?”
“Do it for Molly.”
THE WIND HAD picked up again, blowing the stout beginnings of a good rainstorm. Perfect drinking weather. The ’71 Buick Riviera pulled up to the No Name Pub. TV news was going in the background when Serge and Coleman came through the screen door and climbed on their favorite stools.
