A person standing along the back wall grabbed a Styrofoam cup from the refreshment table and picked up a pot of coffee.
Serge stopped and pointed. “Put… the coffee… down!”
The pot returned to its stand.
“Just look at your speaker tonight,” Serge continued. “I’m a complete mess. But so was every successful person who ever got off the boat and climbed to the top. Watch those cable biographies for any length of time and you realize that the most accomplished people were every bit as weird as Son of Sam. The difference? Choice. Choosing to harness your peculiar energies. Me? I could be home right now giving into my all-consuming urge to construct the world’s largest ball of pencil shavings. But I choose not to. I choose to be here with you fine people. Sure, I’ve been thinking about it the whole time I’ve been standing up here, boxes of new pencils, electric sharpeners, the special adhesive you use, that twelve-year-old little fucker from Iowa who got on Leno with his pitiful five-foot ball that I’m sure had a false basketball core but just can’t prove it…. I forgot what I was talking about. Thanks for coming.”
They gave Serge a standing-O as he walked down the aisle to the back of the room, taking up a position by the door to shake hands like a pastor.
“Great talk…”
“Loved it…”
“So moving…”
Molly couldn’t have been prouder of her husband. He was really helping people. How could she ever have doubted he was a social worker?
Serge shook more hands. “Thank you.” “Thank you.” “That’s very kind of you.” “Thank you….”
Coleman walked over. “You’ve never said anything about pencil shavings. When did that start?”
“While I was up there talking. I realized I’ve never been on the Tonight show…. Thank you…. Thank you very much….”
The audience was almost completely gone, just the deputies left. Molly swept crumbs into the trash from her cookie tray.
Gus shook Serge’s hand. “Enjoyed the talk, especially how you connected with the kids.”
“Thank you.”
Molly came up with her clean tray, and Serge took her by the arm.
The deputies watched the couple leave the room, Coleman bringing up the rear.
“Something’s not right there,” said Gus.
“He was pretty strange.”
“It’s not that,” said Gus. “I remember something from somewhere. Just can’t put my finger on it.”
32
THE NIGHT WORE on. Only a few fishermen left on the bridge over Bogie Channel. One added fuel to a camping lantern. Headlights hit him. A late-model rental car rolled slowly over the span toward No Name Key.
Gaskin Fussels came off the bridge barely above idle speed. No light except his high beams. A form appeared. Fussels hit the brakes. A miniature deer clopped across the road. Fussels’s heart pounded in his ears. The rental began moving again. It was quiet the rest of the way down the long, straight dark road. Fussels slowed when he came to the end of the no-trespassing driveway. The muscles in his arms resisted instructions to turn the steering wheel. His chest heaved. The fear of not continuing overrode the panic instinct, and he turned onto the dirt road. The overgrowth was thick, almost forming a canopy, full of glowing animal eyes. The sedan quietly pulled around the back of a stilt house. Fussels knew he couldn’t stop to think about it. He slipped out of the car and left the door ajar, creeping across the yard and tiptoeing up the stairs. He reached the sliding glass door and froze when he saw flickering light. Scarface playing on the big-screen TV with no volume. He cupped his face to the glass and scanned the room. Nothing. He grabbed the glass door’s frame and lifted carefully. He cringed when it made a loud metal snap, but at least it was out of the track. He was in.
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.