Raul’s hands shot up. “Aaaaaauuuuhhh! I’m on fire! I’m on fire!”
“The toilet!” yelled Serge, pointing toward the bathroom. “Don’t forget the toilet!”
Raul ran by screaming.
“I love flamb-,” said Serge.
“But there isn’t any water in the toilet,” said Coleman. “You filled it with another bottle of one fifty-one.”
“Did I do that?”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhh!“ Raul came running out.”I’m more on fire!…”
Guillermo heard the hysterical screaming in Serge’s room. But then, there was even louder yelling from spring breakers in the unit on the other side.
“Guillermo…,” said Miguel, picking up a towel dropped in front of the dresser.
“Quiet. I’m trying to think.” Guillermo slowly rotated. He stopped and stared at the adjoining door. “What is it?” asked Miguel. “The next room. That’s it.”
Guillermo ran over and opened the first door but the second was locked. He put his shoulder into it. The door gave slightly, but the deadbolt held. He hit it again.
“Serge,” said Coleman, watching Raul run in frantic circles, slapping the top of his head, “I think I hear someone trying to knock down that side door.”
“Right on schedule. This is going to be tight timing.” Serge grabbed Raul by the arm and pointed. “The sink! Water in the sink!”
Raul ran.
Coleman stepped up next to Serge and looked toward the kitchenette. “More one fifty-one?”
“That would be repetitive. One-ninety-proof grain alcohol.”
A shoulder hit the side door again.
Coleman looked at the ceiling. “Why aren’t the sprinklers going off?”
“He’s not staying in one place long enough, and alcohol burns at a low temperature,” said Serge. “But he still doesn’t like it.”
“Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! More fire!…”
Another shoulder into the door. This time the frame began to fracture.
“The pool!” Serge pointed at the open sliding glass doors. “Water in the pool! You can make it!”
Raul dashed across the room and never broke stride as he dove off the balcony.
Serge and Coleman ran out and looked over the railing.
“Oooooh,” said Coleman. “He didn’t make it.”
Guillermo had given up on his shoulder and pulled a.380 automatic, preparing to shoot his way through.
Suddenly, even louder shrieking from some kind of pandemonium outside.
“Guillermo!” Miguel shouted from the balcony. “Come quick! The patio! I think I found him!”
Guillermo ran to the railing. People splashed water from the pool onto a smoldering Raul.
“Serge,” said Coleman. “The guy stopped trying to knock down the door.”
“Shhhhhh!” Serge counted under his breath. “Five, six, seven… They must be out on the balcony now, trying to figure where their pal fell from… Escape window just opened!”
They ran out the door and down the stairs. “I get the Simpsons part now,“ said Coleman.”Flaming Mo.”
Guillermo leaned over the balcony, tracing Raul’s flight trajectory up to the next room. “Miguel! Quick!” He ran back inside and unceremoniously shot the locks off the connecting door with excess ammunition.
They rushed inside. Empty but recently occupied.
Miguel fanned his nose. “Jesus, what is that smell?”
“Liquor.”
Another urgent room sweep. They checked the bathroom, closet, under beds. Then a second round. Guillermo ran past the TV and hit the brakes. He looked back. “Fuck me.”
“What is it?” asked Miguel.
They both looked on top of the television. A propped-up envelope. In big letters across the front: GUILLERMO.
He tore open the flap and pulled out a get-well card.
Howdy, Guillermo,
Ain’t spring break a gas? All the history! Here’s your first hint: Follow time backward. Bet you can’t catch me… before I catch you.
Warmly in Florida,
Serge A. Storms
Chapter Thirty-Six
GUILLERMO
Back in the nineties, Juanita was always taking in strays.
Young street boys looking for trouble.
She waited in a Mercedes outside the county jail.
Her extended family was growing in both size and loyalty. She should have been a psychiatrist.
Guillermo was barely eighteen when he finished a three-month stretch for petty larceny. He walked out the back of the jail with two plastic bags of personal junk and no direction.
Juanita rolled down her window. “You need a place to stay?”
“What do I have to do?”
“Whatever I tell you.”
He got in.
To the cast of surrogate sons, she was the mother they never had. To Juanita, it was business.
Guillermo quickly became her most valuable asset. Grooming time.
One Saturday afternoon, he sat alone watching TV in a Spanish stucco house south of Miami. The Mercedes returned from jail.
Juanita came through the front door. “Guillermo, this is Ricky.”
“Hey.”
She set her purse on the table and removed a blood-pressure gauge. “Ricky, come here.”
“What’s that for?”
“Just put out your arm.”
Juanita fastened Velcro and pumped a rubber bulb. She reached in her purse again and handed Ricky a nine-millimeter automatic with a full clip and an empty chamber.
“Guillermo, stand up.”
He did.
She turned to Ricky. “Shoot him.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Shoot him.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Shoot him.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“A test.”
Ricky aimed the gun with a trembling arm. Juanita checked the pressure gauge, needle spiking.
He dropped his arm. “I can’t do it.”
Juanita ripped the Velcro off. “Guillermo, come here.” She refastened the inflatable sleeve around his left arm, then turned her back to them, removing and replacing the clip. “Ricky might have just saved your life.”
Guillermo was confused.
She handed him the pistol. “Shoot him.”
“A test?”
She nodded.
Ricky got it now and smiled. No way the gun was loaded.
Guillermo took aim. The gauge’s needle hung steady at the low end. “One question, Madre.”
“What is it?”
“Did he pass the test?”
“He didn’t do what I asked.”
Bang.
The smile disappeared. Ricky looked down incredulously at the broadening stain in the middle of his chest.
A crash to the floor.
Juanita checked the gauge again. No movement. “Interesting. You can take that off now.”
Guillermo ripped it from his arm.
She stuck the gun back in her purse. “How do you feel?”
“Hungry.”
“Good boy. I’ll make you a sandwich.”
THE PRESENT
Luxury suite number 1563.
Near panic.
Students pounding beers as usual. Except this time it was self-medicating.
“You don’t know who this Serge character is?” said Spooge.
“Thought he was with you.”
“He’s not with us. I thought he was with you.”
“Holy God. Maybe everything he’s said is bullshit. Maybe he’s the killer.”
“But he left Panama City with us before that mess in our old room.”
“That just means he’s working with someone else. Remember, he’s the one who started all this talk about assassination.”
“Spooge is right. We never saw anyone in our room at the Dunes. He could have closed those curtains himself.”
“We’ve got to get out of here!”
They all jumped up at once, stuffing what was left of their luggage. Melvin walked out of the bathroom. “What’s going on?”
“We just realized nobody knows who Serge is.”
“I know Serge.”