Nuclear Jellyfish

MEMORIAL HOSPITAL

The Javelin skidded into a parking space. Serge and Coleman jumped out and ran through the emergency room’s automatic doors.

“There’s the admissions desk!” Serge practically dove over it demanding information.

“Take it easy.” The nurse behind the counter flipped pages on a clipboard. “Room three-twelve. But he’s only seeing immediate relatives. Are you …” She looked up from the clipboard.

Serge and Coleman had already taken off.

The nurse leaned over the desk. “Wait! Your visitors’ passes! …”

The pair took the elevator and arrived at the open door of the appointed room. Serge caught one look inside and gasped. He’d never seen so many bandages and tubes and wires.

A doctor came down the hall carrying an X-ray folder. Serge grabbed him by the arm. “That kid in there …”

The physician noticed Serge’s welling eyes and placed other thoughts on hold. “Everything’s going to be fine. He’s through the worst of it. Just needs his sleep.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

The physician continued down the hall. They slipped quietly into Howard’s room. The young man looked up at Serge, and his own eyes became glassy. The slight movement of his mouth indicated he wanted to say something but was too weak.

“Rest,” said Serge, pulling a chair bedside. “We can talk later.”

“Serge,” said Coleman. “What’s this tube here?”

“Looks like a morphine drip.”

Coleman’s face lit up. “Really?”

“Fuckin’ touch it and you’ll be sharing the next bed.”

Coleman dropped his hand and sulked.

Howard tried to speak again.

Serge placed his hand across the young man’s fingers, just below the IV port. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”

He made a slight shaking motion with his head, indicating it couldn’t.

“Okay,” said Serge. “What is it?” He leaned over the bed with his ear an inch from Howard’s mouth. The young man whispered.

A minute later, Serge stood back up, his head throbbing with rage.

“Uh-oh,” said Coleman. “I’ve seen that look before.”

A woman’s voice from behind. Quiet but angry. The nurse from the desk. “You didn’t get your passes! You have to leave!”

Serge raced past her. “I’m going to get them! I’m going to get them all! …”

The elevators opened on the first floor.

Serge and Coleman sprinted out the emergency room entrance, dodging a red Firebird as it screeched up the circular drive. Story and Beth hopped out and ran for the automatic doors.

An ambulance driver on smoke break: “Ma’am, you can’t park there!”

Story nearly crashed into the reception desk. She stuck her head through the sliding glass window. “Anyone here?”

The nurse returned from shooing off two rule-breakers. “Can I help you?”

“Howard Long, what room?”

The nurse checked a log again. “Three-twelve, but he’s only seeing immediate relatives.”

“I’m his sister.”

“You’ll have fill out a visitor’s pass,” said the nurse. “What about her?”

Story scribbled quickly. “Beth’s a close friend.” “I’m sorry …”

“It’s okay,” said Beth. “I’ll wait here.”

Story stuck the adhesive label on her shirt and ran for the elevators. She was half out of her mind as she ran past rooms, counting numbers, 302, 303, 304…

Two detectives and a uniformed officer approached just as quickly from the opposite direction and arrived first.

“Stay right there by the door,” one of the investigators directed the uniform. “Don’t let anyone inside unless personally cleared by me.”

“What’s going on?” asked Story.

“Who are you?”

“The sister of the patient in there.”

“Can I see some identification?”

She opened her wallet. The detective studied a student ID and handed it back. “Your brother was the victim of a robbery.”

“Robbery?” said Story. “What? For souvenirs?”

“Businessmen traveling alone are common targets at motels.”

The other detective stepped forward. “Miss Long, did your brother ever mention anything about diamonds?”

“Diamonds? Why? No.”

“Maybe he didn’t tell you for your own safety.”

“He told me everything. What’s the guard for?”

The detective glanced briefly at the uniform. “Just got word. Nothing definite, but he may have been hit by the same people responsible for a string of similar crimes over the last month.”

“So again, why the guard?”

The detective bit his lip.

“Whatever it is,” said Story. “I can take it.”

The detective knew people-knew she could. “You might want to have a seat.”

“I’ll stand.”

“Okay, two of the other victims didn’t make it. We think your brother got a good look, which is why they left him …” The detective stopped.

“For dead?” said Story.

“If it is the same people, your brother may be the only living witness.”

“Are you saying they’ll come back?” “This is just a precaution.”

Story took an extra-deep breath. “Can I see him now?”

“We’ll have to pat you down.”

“But you saw my ID.”

“Sorry, ma’am, but I’m sure you’d want us to take every safeguard.”

“You’re right.”

“It’ll only take a few minutes for a female officer to arrive.”

“Can’t you pat me down?”

“Against the rules …” He felt the emotion in her face. “Hell with it: Go on in.”

She involuntarily froze at the doorway. There he was, her baby brother, all gauze and beeping machines, face unrecognizably swollen, one leg hanging from a pulley. She walked quietly to the side of the bed. Crying would only upset him. She used her strength to smile.

Howard looked back up and parted his mouth slightly, but nothing came out.

“Shhhhh.” Story gently patted his arm. “Don’t talk now. Just rest.”

He opened his mouth again, the sound of a weak breath. Then, in the quietest possible voice. “Ser …”

“Ser…?”

His eyes went to a bedside table and a Ziploc bag of personal possessions. Story opened it and went through his wallet, finding an oddly handwritten business card with a Web address. She turned it toward her brother. “Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

The slightest nod from Howard. Another weak breath and finally the full word. “Serge …”

“Serge?” said Story. “Who’s Serge? Is he the one who did this to you?!”

Howard strained to say something, but lost consciousness first.

U.S. HIGHWAY 1

Serge’s Blog. Star date 574.385.

I’m writing this entry in my mind while driving for efficient time management. But there should be no problem transcribing this tonight back at the hotel because I have an excellent memory. Or at least used to. Been forgetting things lately, like at The Last Resort Bar and Dodgertown. Is my mind slipping? Here I am again, tooling down my beloved Florida on another fabulous morning, exactly what I love to do most in the world, watching scenery go by: palmettos, petticoat palms, some guy living in a wheelless Airstream, roadwork ahead, another town, another sign at the city limits telling me the Kiwanis and Moose Lodge are glad I’m here, old billboards, fresh-squeezed orange juice, pecan logs, Jesus knows what’s ailin’ me, that cop pulling over a speeder with a pair of checkered flags flapping from the windows of his sports car. Ain’t life wacky? So why aren’t I happy? Look at Coleman over there, blissfully content. Maybe J should do drugs. And how do I explain that nagging feeling I’ve been having lately that won’t go away? What if Mahoney’s right? Or what if it’s all a trick? Of course! He’s trying to rattle me into a fatal mistake by getting inside my head. Well, good luck Mahoney! But how do I explain the sleepwalking? I’ve never done that before. And I’m not even taking those new medications from the TV commercials that CNN says have side effects of people sleepwalking to the fridge at night or waking up behind the wheel of a car going seventy. What’s happening to our republic? We used to be tougher than that. But today the pharmaceutical companies encourage us to whine like babies and take a bunch of pills that aren’t supposed to be handled by women who are pregnant or may become pregnant: My bad cholesterol’s too high, my good cholesterol’s too low, sometimes I’m sad, I pee a lot, I can’t nod off, my legs are restless, my acid refluxes, diarrhea interrupts my active lifestyle, uninvited relatives show up right after I’ve taken a pill to bang my wife, which is why we’re sitting in separate bathtubs on a bluff overlooking a cornfield. But they never consult me. The problem’s obvious; everyone’s too tired to fuck from lugging bathtubs. I know what you’re thinking: Coleman and I have sat in our share of hilltop tubs, but that’s something else. I just see things on TV and want to participate in my times. Like right now I’m applying something directly to my forehead. Had to buy a new stick of that stuff because I wasn’t about to put it back on my forehead after catching Coleman rubbing it on his dick. I said, ‘Coleman, why are you rubbing that on your dick?’ He said, ‘What have I got to lose?’ What indeed. Here’s another city line, Elks and Optimists thrilled to see me. But it all comes back to Mahoney and sleepwalking. One minute I’m closing my eyes on the pillow, the next I’m standing over Coleman. With a gun no less! That’s what really scares me. What could I have been thinking? Hope it wasn’t a murder-suicide. I don’t feel suicidal, but who knows what’s going on in my subconscious? I mean, yeah, I’ve given a lot of thought to suicide. Who hasn’t? But it’s within the normal psychological range where everyone else thinks about it on a daily basis, like, remember to pick up some milk at the store and take the trash down to the curb and don’t forget not to blow your brains out. It would be totally against my nature-unless Mahoney’s onto something. What if he and my subconscious know something I don’t? Maybe my pre-amphibian brain sees fate just around the corner, and it would be better to end it myself instead of what they have in mind. Then it would only be logical to take Coleman out first. Because if I’m gone, who would handle his care and feeding? At that point, it would be an airtight mercy killing. Actually, it would be at any time. But I’m not one to play God. I have from time to time, but only when God’s running late. I don’t schedule the killing urge. Society does, like when I buy a new DVD that won’t let me skip through the ads for other DVDs. It’s not even a rental; I own the goddamn thing, and then I have to sit through a fucking Interpol warning until I’m ready to grab the next European I see and shove a bumbershoot up his ass. Hmmm, maybe I should warn Coleman. He could be in great danger. Tell him before he goes to sleep to surround his bed with peanut shells or bubble wrap. No, he sleeps too soundly to hear me. What about mousetraps? No, that would hurt too much. Dang, missed an exit. Isn’t it odd how you can hear your own voice inside your head? My mouth will be completely shut, like now, and I’m hearing these words perfectly pronounced. I can even turn up the VOLUME FOR EMPHASIS. Or yell: AHHHH! AHHH! Yet, outside my head, perfectly quiet. Or like when you’re reading a book and hear the character talking inside your noggin with a voice you give him. Hey, I just thought of something: If it’s internal dialogue in the book, is it doubled for the reader? You know: a character talking inside his brain, who’s also talking inside your brain. Is that why I usually get an echo, echo, echo} What about you, you, you} Missed another exit. Then there are the other voices in my head: Mahoney, regretfully, and God, who’s mainly silent, and the devil, who sounds like Henry Kissinger: “Serge, do it, do it, do it. You won’t get caught. Do it. And while you’re at it, kill Coleman.” I sure hope I’m not planning a murder-suicide … Uh-oh, Coleman’s staring at me …

“Coleman, was I just talking to myself?”

He shook his head.

“You didn’t hear a word?”

“No, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing.” Serge reached for the sun visor and pulled down some kind of yellow styrene implement.

“What’s that?” asked Coleman.

“Florida device nobody up north would ever recognize: canal-survival tool.”

“Never heard of it.”

“You know how in Michigan they have windshield ice scrapers? This is the Sunshine State’s counterpart. Down here we don’t have ice; we have drainage canals. Friggin’ deep too, often running right alongside the road. Some of the ones south of Lake Okeechobee go down twenty feet or more. Combine that with south Florida’s well-earned ‘Most Reckless Drivers in America’ crown, and you’ve got pimped-out whips constantly spinning off roads and diving into the drink. Miami-Dade actually has police vans that say, ‘Submerged-Vehicle Response Unit.’”

“That little tool thing keeps you from going off the road?”

“No, it gets you out of the car.” Serge tapped the end of the tool on the side of his head. “Ow … Lots of people were drowning from not being able to get their electric windows open. Became so common in south Florida that it barely warranted a paragraph on page twelve of the metro section. Luckily some corporations took notice of grieving relatives at the funerals and said, Hey, I see a way to make a buck here.”

“How’s it work?”

“The windows are safety glass, so smacking it with your elbow won’t make the grade. These survival tools don’t look particularly threatening, being small and plastic, but it’s the brilliance of elemental engineering that turns them into lifesaving super-hammers. The metal head is tapered to a fine point, concentrating the pounds-per-square-inch force at impact.”

“Can I see?”

“Sure.” Serge passed it across the front seat.

Coleman turned the tool over and ran his finger along a sharp strip of metal indented in the side. “What’s this razor thing halfway down?”

“Second challenge of canal submersion. Seat belts. People panic or the buckle jams in the crash. And tearing the strap with your bare hands is even less possible than breaking windows. So just slip the edge of the strap in this indentation, give it a yank, and the razor edge slices like butter. Out of the car you go.”

Coleman reached into his lap and pulled. “You’re right.”

“Coleman, you fucked up the seat belt. You’re supposed to be underwater first.”

“But that would be harder.”

“Gimme that thing.” He jerked it from Coleman’s hands. “Now I’m going to have to tie you to the seat with a boat-trailer strap.”

“When do you think we can use it for real?”

“Never. I rarely drive by canals.”

“Then why’d you get it?”

“Coolest gadget by the cash register. It was this or the tire gauge, but I decided to be practical.” Serge slid it into his hip pocket. “It’s my new good-luck charm. From now on I’m carrying it everywhere.”

YET ANOTHER EXTENDED COMFORT EXPRESS SUITES USA

“Serge,” said Coleman. “All these motel lounges look the same. Why don’t we go to a cool bar?”

“Because I’m working on my travel service …” Serge twisted his stool toward a group of pushed-together tables. “… And keeping Steve under surveillance.”

“Still?”

“The Master Plan takes patience.”

“But we’ve seen him in like ten hotels now where you could have nailed him. I thought you were in a hurry to take revenge for Howard.”

“Steve’s a minnow,” said Serge. “But he’s also the sole person that Howard ever met who was connected to the robbery crew. It was the only name he could give me.”

“When you talked to him in the hospital?”

Serge nodded. “I’ve been waiting for Steve to make personal contact with the gang and lead me to bigger fish, but so far just cell phone calls.”

Coleman turned and looked toward the far end of the bar, where Story sat with militant disinterest as a storm-shutter salesman chatted her up.

“What’s she doing?” asked Coleman.

“Working on her twenty-dollar-bill collection.”

“Let’s go to a cool bar.”

“Hold everything.” Serge suddenly perked. “I think our luck just changed.”

“What is it?”

“Those two goons with stringy hair talking to Steve.”

“He looks scared.”

“Now one grabbed his arm and is pulling him toward the lobby.” Serge tossed currency on the bar. “We’re rolling.”

Serge and Coleman shadowed the bodyguards as they hustled Steve into an alcove where pay phones had been removed.

“What do you think they’re talking about?”

“If my hunch is correct, Steve’s been tardy with inside dope on their next mark.”

Steve gestured excitedly.

“Looks like he’s making up for lost time.”

“Act inconspicuous,” said Serge. “Whatever you do, don’t attract the least bit of attention.”

“How do I do that?”

“Like me. Pretend you’re looking at this rack of tourist .pamphlets …”

Crash. The goons looked.

“… Or knock the whole thing over.”

“Don’t worry.” Coleman got on his knees. “I’ll pick ‘em all up.”

“No time. They’re on the move.”

The goons left Steve behind. Serge and Coleman followed them to the fifth floor.

“Think that’s their room?” asked Coleman.

“Not the way they’re buttering up the maid and patting their pockets in the universal lost-key signal.”

“She’s letting them in.”

“Must be the next mark,” said Serge, picking up the pace. “Keep walking by the room or they’ll get suspicious.”

“Is this the beginning of your revenge?”

“Remember the end of the first Godfather movie during the baptism?”

“It ruled! All those guys killed in a row. My favorite was the dude who got a bullet through his glasses.”

“What I’ve got planned will make that look like The Bridges of Madison County.”

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