He came in through the revolving glass doors and stood in the center of the lobby and warily surveyed his surroundings. Elevators to the left. Stairwell on the right. Front desk straight ahead. Muzak. A golden chandelier dangling from the high vaulted ceilings. The floors a cold gray marble. A small arrangement of tables and chairs and a discontented family sorting through its luggage in silence.
One by one he lifted his white tennis shoes and examined the dirtless soles. Perfect. Pristine. He straightened the brim of his large black duster and shouldered his travelling case and calmly heeltoed the length of the atrium. When he reached the front desk he placed his enormous palms flat on the counter and contentedly awaited the attention of the young redhaired receptionist, her eyes hidden behind the yellowed pages of a cheap romance novel. Sensing his gaze she quickly set the book down, brushed the hair out of her eyes and sat up straight, readying her fingertips at the keyboard in front of her. "Can I help you?"
Gossamer nodded mechanically. "How does your computer work?"
"Excuse me?"
"What does it do?"
"It keeps a record of everyone who's checked in and how long they've got to check out."
"May I see it?"
The receptionist blinked. "Why would you need to see it?"
"I'm looking for someone."
"Well sir we're not allowed to give out that sort of information. Security purposes. You understand."
"No. I don't understand," Gossamer replied, straightfaced. "There's a basketball team booked here for the weekend. I need to know what rooms they're staying in."
"I'm sorry sir. That's confidential without proper identification. Now is there anything else I can do for you?"
He studied her for a long time. "I'd like a room please," he said at last. "One night."
She eyed him suspiciously but didn't protest any further.
He paid in cash and took his cardkey. Then he sauntered down the leftmost hallway and slipped around the corner and called the elevator. When it arrived he slid a black number two pencil into the metal doortrack and left it there. He took the stairs.
Six floors up. He located his room, swiped the cardkey and went inside, setting his bag down at the foot of the bed and pulling back the heavy canvas drapes to draw in the sunlight.
He unzipped the bag and casually began emptying its contents onto the bed. The butt of a large black fully automatic assault rifle. The stock. The barrel. Three full clips. A long bottlenecked muzzle suppressor. Lasersight. It took him less than a minute to finish loading, securing and assembling everything. Then he went into the bathroom and poured himself a cold glass of tapwater and stood guzzling it down, watching himself idly in the mirror. Thinking.
When he was finished he left the bathroom and shut off all the lights and got his rifle and went out into the hallway. Red felt carpeting. Dull beige wallpaper. Layers of dust. Generic oilpaint still lifes framed in boxy bronze. Sharp empty corners. Air conditioner whirring placidly overhead. Elevator still grounded. He turned and padded down the hall and around the corner, cradling the assault rifle in his arms, eyes glazing up and down the corridor. An unattended maid's cart stood across from an open room. He stalked over and examined it. Crisp folded white towels. Bedsheets. Bottled cleaning solvents. Rolls of tissue. Nothing useful.
The door was open just a crack. He shouldered his rifle and kicked it in the rest of the way.
"¡Detente! ¡Detente! ¡Ayúdeme!"
He blindfired three hollow silent rounds into the bluish darkness and the short heavyset maid staggered back and went down like a stone. Then he pulled the little cart inside the room and shut and locked the door behind him and flicked on the lightswitch.
She lay in a heap on the floor. A geyser of blood streaming from the gaping hole in her neck. Pooling around her head. Blackening the soft beige carpet. She tried to speak but the words would not come out. He placed one foot over her gushing throat and held it there, gazing calmly into her darting, rapidly fading eyes.
"Vaya dormir," he said. Soothingly.
When she was gone he slipped off his sneakers and sat down on the bed and studied them under the soft yellow light. Specks of bright red blood on either of them.
He went into the bathroom and filled the sink up with hot water and scrubbed them thoroughly with a bar of soap before the blood dried. When he was finished he rubbed them down with a handtowel and left them on the floor next to the radiator. Then he set to sifting through the maid's bulging apron pockets. He found a map of the building with several rooms circled in bold red marker, presumably the ones she had been responsible for. Master cardkey. A folded list of names and room numbers. Wrinkled. Stapled together. He unfolded it on the bed and stood studying it for a long time. Names he did not recognize. Hundreds of lives. Hundreds of concerns. Condensed down into tiny insignificant blocks of text. He turned the page. His eyes froze at the top of the list.
The one name he did recognize. Eighth floor. Middle of the pack.
He folded the list up and shoved it in his pocket along with the maid's cardkey and put his damp shoes on and left the room. The elevator was still trapped in the lobby. It would be hours before they discovered the obstruction. He took the stairs up to the eighth floor and tracked down the room he was looking for and swiped the master cardkey and went in.
Lights off. Nobody home. Suitcases gaping open. Orlando Magic Basketball. Oversized clothes strewn about the floor. Oversized bedsheets pulled back. Minibar untouched. Bible bookmarked on the nightstand. Laptop. MP3 player. Cellphone. The essentials. He propped the rifle against the wall and began searching through the room for paperwork. He found a dayplanner in the top drawer of the nightstand and sat down on the unmade bed and began leafing through it.
The dark blue Suburban rode shakily down the bumpy dirt road, front tires bobbing up and down like buoys, back tires kicking up clouds of swirling gray dust, white hot sunlight glinting off the tinted windows. Red brake lights flashed and the wheelbase screeched and the truck ground to a creaking halt next to a large mound of dirt at the top of the sunwashed driveway.
Daffy killed the engine, opened the door and stood with one foot on the gravelly road and the other planted firmly inside the truck, eyes dancing solemnly across the blazing horizon. Heatwaves. A small farmhouse stood at the end of the driveway. Faded wooden roofing. Empty dustchoked windows adorned with crooked shutters. Screen doors. A rickety hardwood patio jutting out from the front of the house, decorated with a pair of weatherworn rocking chairs arranged at an angle. Behind the farmhouse he could make out a large gray barn, a rusted tractor trailer and several acres of sprawling, droughtworn pasture dotted with dark shrubs and grazing cattle.
Daffy sighed and removed his flatbilled baseball cap, mopping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. Then he pulled the hat back down over his brows, hopped out and slammed the door on the Suburban. He walked around the front of the truck and opened the side door and removed a bulging black duffle bag from underneath the glove compartment, checking the pockets as he slipped the padded strap over his shoulder. He clicked his tongue. A spotted jack russell terrier came bounding out of the backseat into his arms.
"Easy," he chuckled, setting the dog flat on the ground beside him, shutting and locking the door. The dog circled his heels, tongue lolling, tail whipping excitedly from side to side, chocolate brown eyes wide and glassy. Then it froze and flopped down on its haunches and stared up at him panting. Daffy smiled, clicking his tongue again as he set off at a leisurely clip toward the lonesome farmhouse, dirt and gravel crackling underfoot, the little dog bouncing along behind him.
When he reached the mailbox he paused and fished a cutout newspaper article from his jacket pocket and slowly unfolded it. "Aliens killed cattle, claims farmowner," read the boldface headline. The article itself was barely a footnote. His dark eyes darted from the grayscale photograph below the title to the dilapidated farmhouse in front of him and back again.
"Definitely the right place," he muttered, stuffing the wrinkled leaflet back into his pocket, a slight breeze ruffling his black feathers.
Adjusting the shoulderstrap he leisurely crossed the front lawn and climbed the creaking patio steps, stopping to wipe his shoes at the doormat. "You are here," it declared in washed out cursive lettering. He examined it for a moment. Then he cupped his hands over his eyes and leaned forward and peered through the wiremesh screen door.
He could make out a small living room and a long narrow hallway. Orange light bleeding through the curtained windows. Peeling yellow wallpaper. An old burgundy armchair. A boxy television set with long spindly rabbit ears poking through the top. Dusty floorlamps. A serene grandfather clock ticking and tocking somewhere in the corner.
"Anyone home?" He knocked three times. Then he turned and threw an anxious glance back toward his truck. A tall posturing crow had swooped down and perched itself on the edge of the roof. It studied him through cold blank irises and calmly beat its wings. The dog sank onto its hind legs and sat panting, staring off into the distance.
When he turned to knock again he was greeted by a round sunken humorless face gazing tiredly down at him through the rusty chickenwire screen. Wrinkled and shaded. Expectant yet indifferent. Daffy quickly shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and shuffled his feet and cleared his throat to mask his surprise.
"Sorry to bother you," he said. "I'm looking for a Mr. Cecil Turtle."
The man nodded.
"My name's Daffy Duck," he went on. "I'm a columnist for Milky Way Monthly. I'd like to ask you some questions."
"Some what?"
"Some questions."
"About what?"
Daffy paused, eyebrows upturned. "Sightings. Close encounters. Unidentified flying objects."
"That's some lisp you've got there boy," grunted the tortoise. "You some kind of a dandy or somethin?"
"No sir. I'm a journalist."
"Well then why don't you talk like one?"
"I've always talked this way sir. Most of us do."
"Who? Journalists?"
"Ducks sir. Ducks."
"Why's that?"
He jerked a thumb toward his beak. "No teeth," he grumbled. "But that's beside the point."
"And just what is the point?"
"I've got some questions for you sir. And I'd appreciate some sensible answers."
"You gettin fresh with me boy?"
"No sir. Just curious."
"I ain't never seen no aliens afore. If that's what you're askin."
Daffy grimaced. "Funny," he said, rifling through his pockets. "According to the locals you've borne witness to at least three alien sightings in the past ten months. You're telling me that's a misprint?" He extended the cutout newspaper article to the screen and watched the farmer's small brown eyes narrow to slits.
A hawk's shrill cry pierced the air.
The tortoise folded his short stubby arms. A knowing smirk slunk over his features, the wrinkled green skin pulled tightly across his angular jaw. "Is that your dog?" he said. "What's its name?"
Daffy froze. Then he turned his shoulders and glanced down at the dog, half expecting to see it sprawled out on the deck or run through with a spear. "Chester," he replied cautiously.
"Beautiful animal. Well trained too. I can tell. Think he'd come if I called him?"
Daffy's heart hammered inside his chest. "Look. If it's not a good time I can come back whenever."
"Just what is it you want from me? An interview? How come I never heard of your magazine before?"
"We're an alternative publication."
"Alternative? What's that mean?"
"It means we're only available through mailorder."
The tortoise frowned and stood studying Daffy for a long time. "I'll do your interview," he grunted after what felt like several minutes.
"Just name the time and the place," Daffy replied, exhaling deeply.
Cecil thought about that for a moment, eyes rolling up toward the ceiling. "Tomorrow night. Out back." He gestured in the direction of the barn. "Nine o'clock."
"Nine o'clock."
"I'll be there."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure."
Daffy thanked him and gathered the dog up in his arms and jogged all the way back to his truck without a second thought. He clambered in and gunned the engine and peeled out onto the highway. Air conditioner cranked up full blast.
Bugs pulled his jeans on and slid his arms into his shirt and sat down at the small round coffee table next to the patio door. Morning light punching sharply through the horizontal windowblinds. A semitruck idling somewhere in the parking lot outside. He ran a stiff hand through the disheveled fur on top of his head and ruffled his long floppy ears and sighed contemptibly. He glanced over at the cheap double bed where Lola lay facedown, spreadeagled, still asleep, head buried in her pillow, sheets pulled about her waist in an unkempt wrinkled mess. He closed his eyes.
His cellphone buzzed, lighting up and gliding toward the edge of the table. He picked it up and scanned the name on the glowing bluish readout. Reverend, it said.
He shut the phone off and jammed it in his pocket and laid his aching head down on the table with a groan. Tired. Grumpy. Hungover. He sat like that for a long time. When he finally looked up Lola was staring at him from across the room, halflidded hazel eyes glimmering in the darkness.
"Morning," she mumbled.
"Somethin like that."
"What time is it?"
"Ten to twelve."
"No it's not."
"Roll over and see for yourself."
She lifted her head off the pillow and turned to look at the alarm clock. The bright green digits flipped forward another minute. "I haven't slept in this late since college," she sighed.
"Not even on the weekends?"
"It is the weekend."
"I mean weekends past."
"Some of us have commitments Bugs."
"Yeah. Right. Some of us do."
He went into the cramped bathroom and threw off the clothes he had just put on and ran the shower until long white plumes of steam began creeping around the translucent curtains and streaking the surface of the mirror. He got in and stood under the scalding hot water with his head down and his eyes closed and slowly rinsed the pungent scent of marijuana and cigarette smoke from his short gray fur. Last night's remnants. Bad dreams.
When he was finished he toweled off and put his clothes back on and used his palm to clear a small ovalshaped window in the fogged up mirror. He stood hunched over the sink. Back arched. Staring at himself. Overanxious. His mind as hazy as his own reflection. He slid the silver wedding ring back onto his left hand and tacitly flexed his fingers.
He brushed past Lola on his way out of the bathroom. While she showered he gathered what few odds and ends he'd brought along with him in a small rectangular satchel and took a seat at the foot of the bed, burying his head in his hands. He waited for her.
The cellphone vibrated in his jeanspocket. Same caller. "What do you want?" he groaned without answering. Two missed calls.
Lola emerged from the bathroom several minutes later, a damp blue towel draped around her midsection. She stood statuesquely in the open doorway and reached up and tied her ears back with an orange bandana. Bugs looked at her and frowned.
"Get dressed," he said.
"Why? You in a hurry?"
"Somethin like that."
She grimaced, admiring her shoulders in the soft artificial light. "Afraid your wife might come looking for us?"
"Maybe."
She crossed the room and sat down on the bed beside him. "Or have you had enough of me for one day?"
"It's been a couple of days."
"I know. I still miss you."
"I know." He glanced at her eyes. Then he looked away.
"When will you call me again?"
"I call you everyday."
"That's business."
"What is this? Pleasure?"
"If you want it to be."
"It isn't."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm just sayin it isn't easy."
"I never said it would be."
"I know."
"Is there anything you're not telling me?"
"No. Now get dressed. It's time to go."
She studied him coldly. Then she got up and unraveled the towel and let it drop to the floor around her feet and pulled her clothes on right in front of him. Neither of them spoke for several minutes after that.
Lola swept some loose belongings into her purse. A hairbrush. A Blackberry. A small bottle of handlotion. The pill. She set her thin wireframe glasses down across the bridge of her nose and put on her shoes and stood watching Bugs as he glided dismally across the room toward the door and with one hand wrenched it open.
Cameras. Tape recorders. Microphones. Lights. Reporters. Everywhere. They overwhelmed him.
He staggered back, shielding his eyes. But it was too late to shut them out. Lola screamed.
"Why'd you do it?"
"What's her name?"
"Who is she?"
"Is this the first time this has happened?"
"Is she pregnant?"
"How long has this been going on?"
"Does this mean your marriage is on the rocks?"
"How will this affect your reputation?"
"Is your wife going to sue?"
"Do you expect a low turnout at the box office this weekend?"
"Do you consider yourself a role model?"
"What do you have to say to all the kids who look up to you?"
"How do you respond to your wife's accusations?"
"Is it a divorce?"
"Are you a pariah?"
"Where do you go from here?"
All at once a blanket of silence fell over the jostling crowd of onlookers.
His heart sank. The cellphone trembled in his fist. He gazed down into his palm. Reverend, it said.