“We watched the tape in their camera and saw that the psychic was actually you,” said Willard. “Then I was searching them and found the business card for Madam Bovary in one of their pockets. Figured I’d give it a try.”
“First, the most important thing,” said Serge. “Do they know where this place is?”
“Doubt it,” said Jasper. “We blindfolded them.”
They heard a car screech up. Fast steps on the porch. Lou Ellen burst through the door. “I came as fast as I could—”
She cut herself off. There was a dramatic pause in the room as Lou Ellen stepped forward. Her alarm would have been the normal reaction to the presence of a pair of bound prisoners . . . Normally . . .
Lou Ellen and Trish pointed at each other. Almost an echo as they spoke at the same time: “Who the hell is she?”
Serge smacked himself again. “I’m definitely buying Post-it notes.”
The women sneered and began to circle each other around the hostage chairs. The men actually thought they heard hissing sounds.
“Stop!” yelled Serge. “This is way too many moving parts! We’ve got some major untangling to do here, so right now it’s time to prioritize and not fixate on itty-bitty misunderstandings that can easily be fixed with candles and soap.”
“He’s right,” said Jasper, stepping in front of his sister. “Let’s you and me go and waits by the cars and give’n him some elbow room.”
They went outside to a chorus of cicadas.
“Now then . . .” Serge faced the captives. There hadn’t been any need to gag the pair. Once tied up inside the cabin, they became oddly quiet. “Let’s take a look at this film you shot.”
He picked up the camera and watched the preview screen. “Nice composition, good jiggling, and I see you subscribe to the visual rule of thirds. Unfortunately all this grave digging must hit the cutting room floor. Steals too much from the denouement.” Serge pressed delete. “If you have an opening for an editor, my hours are flexible. What do you say?”
Nothing.
“Come on!” said Serge. “Where’s all that spunky pushiness I saw back at Madam Bovary’s?”
The producer and his cameraman just stared into headlights.
“Serge,” said Jasper. “First they was yappin’ like their regular nature, then around the time we broke out the rope and they seen my banjo in the corner, they started whispering somethin’ ’bout Deliverance till they was a-trembling and quiet as church mice.”
“I understand,” said Serge. “Deliverance is a classic—”
“Seventies movie . . .” Jasper reached for a book on the fireplace mantel. “Based on this here novel by James Dickey.”
“Wait,” said Serge. “You mention Deliverance and most people default to Smokey and the Bandit and hillbilly sex, because Burt Reynolds starred in that movie, along with Ned Beatty, who . . . well, what’s done is done . . . But you know Dickey? You even have the novel?”
“Dad-gum right I know Dickey, Southern literary lion and poet loreeee-ate.”
Serge regretted the off-guard surprise in his voice. “But that’s high literature.”
“Not quite uppin’ to Faulkner, but good nuff.”
Serge shook his head like a cartoon character. “You can read Faulkner?”
“’Course I can read. Thinks I’m ’literate?”
“Didn’t mean it that way at all,” said Serge. “I mean, Faulkner . . . He’s impenetrable. I could read him, but there’s so little time in my nutty schedule and then there’s the attention issue. Faulkner’s like Finnegan’s Wake in Mississippi.”
“Joyce did have one powerful spell on Billy. Found scribblin’ in the books on his shelves in Oxford.”
“You also know James Joyce?”
“No, Dr. Joyce Brothers.” A laugh. “’Course I’m talkin’ ’bout that lace-curtain Irish mick. Here I was thinking you was smart.”
“How embarrassing,” said Serge. “And I’m the one who keeps telling others not to stereotype.”
“No need,” said Jasper. “Wants to hear my banjo?”
Musical twanging began, and the captives thrashed.
“Finally.” Serge turned toward them and snarled. “Ready to talk?”
They froze again.
“Good grief.” Serge pulled a pistol from under his tropical shirt. “I usually have to get this out when people won’t stop talking.” He jammed the barrel to Nigel’s forehead. “I’m trying to be friendly and start a dialogue here. Work with me.”
“. . . I have to pee . . .”
“Don’t we all,” said Serge. “File that thought. Now, what exactly do you think is going on here? . . . I’ll know if you’re lying and there won’t be a second chance. Ask the others, except you can’t.”
The words came haltingly. “You’re no psychic.”
“Ouch, that hurts,” said Serge. “What makes you think that?”
“The directions you gave were too specific, and the murder hadn’t been reported yet,” said Nigel. “So the only logical conclusion is that you did it.”
“Give the man a cigar!” Serge tucked the gun away.
“Please don’t kill us.”
“That hadn’t occurred to me,” said Serge. “But it would eliminate some moving parts and bring a clean end to this episode.”
“We’ll do anything!” pleaded Nigel. “Name it!”
“Okay, if we let you go, what are your plans? Broad strokes will do.”
“I swear we won’t tell anyone,” said Nigel. “We’ll destroy all the rest of the tapes from Cassadaga and forget we were ever here . . . Isn’t that right, Günter?”
Emphatic nodding.
“Really?” said Serge. “I can trust you?”
“Totally!” said Nigel. “You have my word!”
Serge thought a moment, then shook his head. “No good. You’ll say anything right now to get out of this.”
Nigel crunched his lips and whined desperately. A puddle formed under his chair.
“Ewwww,” said Serge. “All right, all right, I’ll make you a deal. I know I can’t trust you, so after I release you, go ahead and air what you filmed of me in Cassadaga. Or at least what I haven’t deleted yet. I know you’re just itching to.”
“What? I don’t understand.”
“The number one rule in life is to promise everyone they can have everything they want at all times. Our whole presidential cycle depends on it,” said Serge. “Of course you can’t actually deliver on most of the stuff you promised, but in the short term, people you lie to are less douchey.”
“Uh, there isn’t any catch?” asked the producer.
“Oh, there’s definitely a catch.” Serge grinned big. “The TV segment will put the cops on my trail, but I can take care of myself. The catch is you have to leave all of my friends here out of this. Not a peep.”
“You got it.”
A cell phone rang. “That’s mine.” Serge put it to his ear. “Oh, hi, Reevis. I was just thinking about you.”
“Serge, thank God I was able to find you. I would’ve sworn this number wouldn’t work, but this is an emergency!”
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. My station just finished downloading some digital footage, but luckily I was able to intercept it.”
“What’s it of?”
Reevis was whispering now: “You’re in some fortune-teller’s place describing the location of a body.”
“Is that all?” Serge laughed.
“How is this funny? These new reality guys are a nightmare!”
“How so?”