Paul and Emily
In
A Night At The Museum
London, England
The columns at the entrance of The British Museum were supposed to be white, according to the pictures found on the Internet. But either the man in the black trench coat and ski cap was color blind, or everything about the building was as gray as the dismal sky hovering over it. He shook his head, twitched his nose and the dark mustache it sported underneath, and followed the herd of tourists up the stairs and into the museum. Once he was inside, he smiled upon seeing the expansive golden-toned walls, which were elaborately decorated and mounted with everything from Renaissance paintings down to Hellenic-age vases.
Anyone could steal for a living, but it took a special kind of thief to fully appreciate the history and context of the object he was taking. He treaded from the entrance hall into a smaller room, one filled with encased medieval antiquities. The man studied the room a casual air, which was impossible for a casual observer to identify as his way of scoping the area's protective measures. Possibly five hidden cameras within the vicinity, two security guards, and it went without saying that the removal of each artifact would promptly trigger the alarms, which would drop the gates from a slot in the ceiling. Oh, and the sensor beams pointing from one end of the room to the other-God, he loved his work!
As his eyes rested on a blunt-tipped sword dating back to 1400 A.D. Germany, he felt an unpleasant buzz in the pocket of his coat. He cursed mentally at the timing, and made a swift exit from the museum. However, his haste proved to be in vain.
"What took so long to answer? I called three times!" the male voice on the other end demanded brashly.
The man in the trench frowned slightly. "Patience is a virtue, friend. Haven't you ever done this before? I answer inside the building and it's caught on camera, the whole thing gets compromised!"
"I thought your getup alone would do that," the voice retorted.
"Maybe in America, boss," said the man in a low, pleasant tone that masked his frustration. "Today I counted six visitors wearing hats, three in dark sunglasses, and four trenches. Granted, they didn't wear them half as well I do…"
"Whatever. Just remember, you are Simon Frasier."
The man gave a cheeky laugh. "Never forgot it, mate!" he grinned.
Oakdale, Illinois
Despite being inhabited by a married couple, on occasion a baby, and a whole staff of maids and cooks, Fairwinds Mansion was a rather quiet place to live. Especially now that the married couple was on the outs and could barely carry a conversation these days.
It was admittedly Paul's fault, but one had to give him credit for his persistence in trying to fix what was wrong. The fact was, he had made mistakes and hurt the woman he loved. And had proceeded with his usual methods of earning forgiveness. First, he presented Emily a vintage bottle of wine, which she had refused to drink. Then he tried her favorite flowers. They withered so quickly, he had to suspect that she'd poured either salt or vinegar on them. Which was fine-she'd certainly earned her right to play hardball. He bought her a box of fine chocolates next, if only to show her he really was trying while thinking of a way to step up his game.
On Valentine's Day, Paul found Emily in the living room applying lipstick. She was wearing a strapless dress made of crimson silk. Unable to help himself, he leaned in and kissed her cheek. "Happy Hearts Day," he whispered in her ear, breathing in her floral perfume.
Unsurprisingly, she stiffened and moved away. "I'm having dinner with my mother," she explained with indifference, brushing some stray blonde hairs from her sparkling green eyes.
With a meek smile, Paul joked mildly, "Then I hope she likes the dress."
"Don't you try and charm me like that, Paul Ryan!" she warned, shaking a finger at him. "You're still in the doghouse."
"Come on, Em," he entreated his wife. "How long is it going to be before we're okay again?"
Emily scratched her head in mock-thoughtfulness. "Hmm…I don't know. Let's see, first you break your ex-wife out of the mental ward and try to hide it from me. Then you're angry with me when the cops and the men in white coats come to take her back. I get the cold shoulder over something that I wasn't even responsible for, and you continue to put another woman's needs ahead of our relationship, even when I'm lying in a hospital bed. That's one, two, three counts—no, four—against you."
Paul winced. When she recounted the details, it sounded even worse than he'd originally figured it was. "How long can you stay mad at me?
"Till I'm over it."
" I'll do anything you want, Em…" he said, staring into her eyes. The hardness in them began to subside.
"All that I wanted was to have a baby with you," she reminded him, her tear ducts beginning to brim with water. He sighed, stuck his hand inside his green blazer, and withdrew an envelope. He handed it to a tentative Emily. "What's this?" she muttered, and upon opening it, bit her lip shrewdly. "Two round-trip tickets to London?"
"How's that for an apology?" Paul ventured, crossing his fingers behind his back for luck.
"I don't know," she said slowly. "I was kind of waiting for you to hire a skywriter…"
"Why, would that work?" he asked quickly.
"No."
"Oh…" It was getting awkward. Someone had to say something. Finally, Paul decided to explain, "I overheard you telling Alison and Hunter that you wanted to go to England this weekend."
"I do…but the plan was to go alone. I was going to investigate a story for the paper—."
"Emily, let me ask you something," he said, putting his hands tenderly on her shoulders. "Do you really want to get away from me, putting even more distance between us than there is already—or do you want for us to go on a vacation, and be able to fix whatever's been broken between us?"
Gently, she pushed his hands off and said with worn defeat, "Just so long as you know there's no guarantee that this will fix anything. And I will be going there to work."
"You can do whatever you want there, as long as I can come with you…."
He must have said all the right things, because within the next moment her arms were wrapped around him, and she was murmuring, "Okay."
"Okay," he said, relieved. Perseverance does prevail, after all.
London, England
They were off to a good start. After a hectic morning, an exhausting flight, and then the airport's taxi nearly driving past the hotel while Paul took a powernap in the car, they were finally able to sleep off their jetlag at The Milestone Hotel in the evening. Paul had chosen the Milestone mainly because, having origins as a Victorian mansion, it was elegant without being too over the top, and had first-rate service. Kind of like an upgraded version of Fairwinds, he thought. The stunning view overlooking the Kensington Gardens completed the home-away-from-home feeling.
While Emily sprawled out on the bed in their suite, Paul took a moment to pick up the complimentary champagne the butler had left behind on the desk. "Very nice," he mused. He set the bottle back down and joined his wife. "What do you think?" he asked, kissing her on the head as she sleepily rolled into his arms.
"Soft bed," she yawned. He held her for awhile, and drifted off to sleep. The bright morning light came quickly. But when Paul opened his eyes, it was to find himself alone in the room. After he had dressed, he found the hotel maid, who passed along a message left by Emily: Going to get some research done before you wake up. Don't worry, we'll have plenty of time to spend together later.
Paul was uncomfortable sitting around and waiting. Still, he did so, worried that if he saw a play at one of the local theaters or went on a tour without Emily, she would resent it and he'd be right back at square one. So he turned on the television and channel-surfed absentmindedly for an hour. Or two…well, it was more like two and a half. For following couple of hours, Paul looked at brochures and surfed the Internet on his laptop, making a tentative itinerary of what he could do with Emily when she returned. He was just writing down the evening activities when the door flung open.
"Hey!" Emily breezed in, her face looking rather flushed.
"Hey…" Paul, who had been lying sideways on the bed filling out their suggestive schedule in a notepad, hopped over and kissed her cheek. "Where did you go?"
Was it just him, or did Emily seem to hesitate when he asked her that? "Um….nowhere. I mean, obviously not nowhere, but it was just boring reporter stuff." Boring and reporter struck Paul as an oxymoron, but before he could question her further, she strolled over to the paper he had left on the bed. "What's this?" She glanced over the list, then raised her eyebrows. "You want us to get drunk at some pub called Rose and Locke's?"
"Yeah, I kept coming across it in reading recommended tourist attractions…"
Emily sighed, "Listen, I tracked down the guy I wanted to interview for the paper, and I'm meeting him tonight."
Paul rubbed his forehead in agitation. "You're meeting him where? Em, you've been in London for one day! Can't it wait? What's this story even about?"
"Can't tell you, no, and can't tell you," Emily answered his questions in a brisk manner—or rather, she didn't really answer at all. Then she gave him a more sympathetic look. "Let's have a late lunch," she suggested.
Of course, while eating their filet mignons in the hotel restaurant, all Paul could do was pepper Emily with questions to the point where she looked like she was going to stab him with her fork. "Who exactly is this guy? How did you track him down so quickly? Since when do you report the British news? Is this story even safe to follow?"
"Of course it is!" she exclaimed, finally void of all her remaining sympathy and replacing it with utter annoyance. As he set out the tip for the waiter, she checked her watch for the twentieth time since they'd ordered, and said in a not-so-sorry voice, "I've gotta run. He's waiting for me. See you later."
He watched as she hailed a taxi, knowing instinctively that there was something that Emily was hiding from him. Without thinking, he ran to an approaching cab. "Where to, sir?" asked the middle-aged Indian driver as Paul got in.
"Just follow the taxi ahead of you," Paul said urgently. The surprised driver did as he was told, and for the next fifteen minutes, Paul evaded his questions about how he was enjoying London, whether he had seen a show yet, what his occupation was, and why he wanted to follow the other cab. Guarded, he realized that this must have been how Emily felt during her own interrogation. It almost made him feel guilty, until his driver chuckled…
"The only time I am asked to follow a man's wife in a separate car is when he fears she is seeing another man. I think that must be so the case with you, sir."
"Is that so?" Paul muttered as the car ahead of them pulled in front of Rose and Locke's Pub and Emily got out. The windows of the pub were misted, but he could still see Emily as she went inside. A few moments later he could also see an obscure man rise from his table and greet her with—no, Paul must not have seen the exchange properly, because it looked like the man inside had kissed her on the cheek.
"Either that, or you are an international spy!" the driver said, humored. Paul was glad someone found this situation funny. No wonder she didn't suggest that I go to Rose and Locke's on my own! "This is my stop," he told the driver.
"And that will be seventy pounds, if you please sir."
Too distracted with what he had just witnessed to care about the fare, Paul pulled out one hundred and fifty dollars. As he opened the car door, the man exclaimed indignantly, "This is American money!"
"There's a currency-converting ATM across the street," Paul pointed out—after all, he hadn't had time to exchange his cash for pounds. He hurried inside Rose and Locke's, which was dim and furnished with mahogany wood. It was crowded, and he could smell both the cigarette smoke and the beer. The paint on the walls was dark green, and there was a thin crack along the ceiling that led directly across to the booth where Emily was sitting. Holding hands. With him.
Once he got past the initial shock, Paul wondered if his eyes were playing tricks on him. But no, there was no mistaking the silver-toned oily dark hair, or the black leather jacket, or the dark button-down shirt, all of which too plainly said, "pass the cigar!" And that perma-smirk that took up half of his face—God, how Paul hated that man! Still, he suppressed his fury and casually approached their table, ignoring Emily's surprised gasp upon seeing them, and without a word slid directly into the side of the booth Dusty Donovan was occupying, thus blocking the way out.
"What the hell are you doin' here?" Dusty growled at him, then said to Emily accusingly, "I said come alone!"
Emily rolled her eyes and groaned. "He must have followed me. Paul–go away."
Not a chance, Paul thought, satisfied at the way this was going. "Fancy meeting you here, Dusty," he said sarcastically. To Emily, he demanded, "This is your big story? This is the reason why you couldn't come here with me? So that you can nuzzle with this jerk? How long has this been going on?"
"What are you talking about?" Emily asked, looking genuinely confused. Then a look of realization dawned on her, just at the same time that Dusty said behind a false cough, "Idiot."
"Baby, this isn't what you think. At all." Very quickly, Emily explained, "Dusty was just about to explain to me why he's left Oakdale."
"Who– who cares why– why he's left Oakdale? It–it's not like anyone's even missed him! I – I didn't even realize he was gone," Paul sputtered in between a sort of embarrassing hyperventilating chuckle.
Dusty snapped, "Hey, I'm sitting right here, remember?"
"Just ignore him, Dusty," Emily sighed in resignation. "So you were caught embezzling funds from your company, WorldWide, and made a run for it. Only, you didn't do it? Is that what you're saying?"
"What?!" Paul said so loudly that Emily kicked him from underneath the table.
"I'm telling you, it was Frasier," Dusty insisted. "The guy framed me for stealing from my own company while he was in town, and I came to England to track the son of a bitch down."
"Frasier? As in Simon Frasier? " Paul repeated.
Dusty ignored him and continued, "He's supposed to be planning a heist here in London. I have a private detective on the case. As soon as he gets caught and put away, I can go back home."
"Wait a second—how did you even meet Simon Frasier?" Paul wanted to know. Dusty gave a Neanderthal-ish snort of surly disdain for Paul.
Luckily, Emily said, "Hey, that's a good question. How did you meet Simon? I mean, it's not like you two run in the same social circles."
Dusty answered, "He came to me. Applied for a position at WorldWide, claiming he turned over a new leaf. Man, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one…" he shot a nasty look of contempt over at Paul, who gave his most disarming smile in return.
"Well, that settles it," said Emily decisively. "I am going to help you find Simon."
Incredulous, Paul choked out at her, "What did you say?! "
"Nah, you aren't," said Dusty gruffly. "This is my business, I'm doin' this on my own. Especially if you and him—" he jabbed his thumb in Paul's direction, "are a package deal these days."
"Sounds settled, all right," Paul said in a forcefully light tone, having recovered from his initial reaction to Emily's offer. He stood up and said, "Well, Dusty, seeing you was just….seeing you. Hey, when Emily and I get back to Oakdale and you're still here, send us a postcard. Come on, Em." He held out his hand to help her up, but she just sat there.
"You know you need me for this," Emily told Dusty fiercely.
Donovan's lips twitched in that infuriating smirk again. "Do I? You're that good, huh?"
"I found you, didn't I?" she said coyly. Not for the first time that day, Paul was unable to believe his eyes. What was the vibe going on between those two? It was like they were not only partners in crime, but partners in not-crime as well…no way, that was supposed to be Paul's role with Emily. No way in hell.
Dusty chuckled, "Tell ya what, kid—you find something on Frasier, you call me…" He borrowed her pen and wrote his number—on her hand. Paul felt an internal burn of irrational anger, which didn't leave when Dusty did. About ten minutes later, Paul and Emily left the pub and went out into the cold, foggy darkness that was the night. For some reason, the glowing city lights did not appeal to Paul at the moment.
As they walked down the pavement, she teased, "You know, I kind of like it when you're jealous."
"Oh, stop it. I am not jealous. I just don't understand what you—or women in general, for that matter—see that's so attractive in that guy."
"I think you just can't see how anyone can be attracted to a man that's not you," Emily quipped.
"Not true," he argued.
"It is true! Look, I know you don't like Dusty—."
"That's because there's nothing about him that's likeable! And I didn't think he was that high on your list, either!"
"He's not," she protested. "But he does have redeeming qualities—like commitment."
At this, Paul blurted, "Commitment? Dusty can't commit to anything other than his own stupid choice in wardrobe!"
To his surprise, Emily snapped, "Exactly. He doesn't make a thousand promises he can't keep." And with that, she stomped off to look for the next cab. A cold wind swept over Paul, and realized when he was hit in the face with a spray of water that it had been raining this whole time.
When they got back to their hotel room at seven o' clock, Paul knew what he had to do to show Emily that he completely supported her. As painful as it would be, he was going to have to help Dusty Donovan. So while Emily was in the bathroom brushing her teeth, he took a deep breath and picked up the hotel phone. With twitchy fingers that only too clearly said that they were reluctant to dial, Paul tapped in the digits to Henry Coleman's phone back in Oakdale. It rang for nearly two minutes before his half-brother's tired voice slurred on the other end, " H'lo?"
"Henry, hey, this is Paul."
"Paul?" Henry mumbled blankly. Then, with some shuffling around letting Paul know that Henry was getting out of bed, yawned, "You do know it's four in the morning, don't you?"
"Yeah, sorry, this couldn't wait," Paul said hurriedly. "Have you kept in touch with Simon Frasier?"
"No. Good night, Paul," Henry said flatly.
"Wait, wait—Henry, this is important. He's supposed to be on the lam from stealing WorldWide funds."
Sounding confused, Henry said, "That's what the big emergency is? Paul, Simon retired from his life of crime. Whatever it is, he didn't do it."
"Can you please find out for sure?"
"Tomorrow," said Henry grouchily. "Now go to bed, Paul. And next time you want to ask me something , wait until I'm completely conscious." Click.
"Who was that?" Emily asked, coming out of the bathroom donning a fluffy white bathrobe. Paul put the phone down and sighed.
"A wasted call," he said vaguely, ninety-nine percent positive that Henry was not going to find anything on Simon Frasier.
As it turned out, it sometimes paid to be wrong one percent of the time. The next morning, Paul woke to find Emily gone again. This time, however, she had left him an inkling of where she was. On the bed was a folded newspaper. The headline read BRITISH MUSEUM ROBBERY. Underneath was a black-and-white picture of lanky, dark-haired Simon Frasier, with the caption "infamous jewel thief prime suspect."
The item that had been stolen turned out to be a sword dating back to the fifteenth century. Flat, no point, although according to the picture in the paper it did have a rather nice hilt. It was apparently called the Sword of Justice, and it was used as an executioner's tool in Germany. Very valuable antique…but it didn't seem to be more glamorous than any other object in the museum. Why would Simon heist a drab-looking sword when The British Museum probably had Cleopatra's jewelry stashed away?
Paul found Emily at the scene of the crime. Talking to him again. If Dusty was supposed to be lying low, why would he be showing his face in public places such as Rose and Locke's and the British Museum? While on his way over to them, he stopped at a phone booth.
"What now?" groaned Henry's voice on the other end.
"Morning to you to, sunshine," said Paul pleasantly.
"It's eight in the evening, Paul."
"Not in London."
Surprised, Henry said, "You're in London? Did you find Simon?"
"Yes and no."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Paul sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I'm in London, and no, I did not find Simon."
"Well, that's good. I talked to Katie. She heard from Simon just the other night."
"Really?" asked Paul. Why was Simon calling his ex-wife when he was being tracked down by police on both sides of the Atlantic? "Did he tell her his big plan to rob The British Museum?"
"How many times do I have to tell you, Simon retired from heisting?"
"Well, the news in the U.K. could have fooled me," Paul remarked, watching Dusty put his arm around Emily as they began to walk across the street. They looked way too friendly for Paul's tastes. "Look, Henry, the fact is that Simon just stole a priceless antique sword from The British Museum."
Henry snorted through the phone, "A sword? Come on, Paul. That—that is, no, it's not Simon's style. How would he even fence a sword?"
"Well, I'd say 'stick someone with the pointy end,' but this particular sword doesn't even have one."
"Haha, you're so funny," said Henry sarcastically. "No, I meant how would he sell it? Not to mention why he would take it in the first place?"
"Everyone here seems to think he did it."
"It could have been anyone, Paul," Henry insisted, his voice rising in impatience. "An antiques fanatic, an ancestor of the family that owned the sword—hey, there was a marathon of Highlander reruns on cable last week, maybe that gave some nutjob the idea! Look, I had Katie call Simon back, and he told her that if someone wants to find him that badly, he'll be on Drury for now."
"Is this for real?" Paul wondered, starting to believe Henry's theory in spite of himself.
"Goodbye, my brother from another mother. That's all I have for you."
"Henry—." Paul heard the dial tone, and dropped the phone back on the receiver. Then he left the phone booth and met Dusty and Emily by the sidewalk.
She was saying, "It's too bad they won't let us inside, but there had to be some way to get in." Upon seeing her husband, she rolled her eyes. "Following me again?"
"I have a lead on your thief," Paul informed them, enjoying the stunned looks on their faces.
"How would you know where to start looking?" Dusty asked, crossing his arms doubtfully.
"Yeah, I mean no offense, honey, but how would you be able to dig up info when no one else can?" Emily wanted to know.
"What, did you think you two are the only ones with connections? I have a brother who happens to be the suspect's ex-wife's best friend," Paul boasted in spite of himself.
Emily grabbed his hand excitedly. "Well, what did you get?"
"A feeling that our old pal Mr. Frasier isn't the culprit."
At that moment, Dusty's whole glowering expression shifted into something unreadable. Then he said angrily, "Whaddya mean? He left me holding the bag with the WorldWide mess, now you're saying he's in town and he didn't steal anything?!"
"Pretty much," Paul said flippantly.
While Dusty scowled, Emily's reaction was on the other end of the spectrum. "You mean Simon Frasier might not have done it after all? So the plot thickens…tell me all about it!"
"Over supper," Paul smiled at her intrigue as he put his arm around her. "Want to join us, Dusty?"
"Forget it!" Dusty snapped, stalking off.
On their way to the restaurant, Paul chuckled, "You know, I would ask what's the matter with Dusty, but—."
"I know, you don't care," Emily finished for him good-naturedly, leaning in to kiss him. For the first time in weeks, he realized.
After her lips parted from his, Paul blinked and stepped back. "Are we…?"
"We're getting there," she winked. Then she kissed him again, and he wrapped his arms around her tightly, savoring in the touch of her soft skin and the sweet smell of her hair.
After dining at nearby café, they went back to their suite at the Milestone. "Tell me," she prompted, sitting on the bed.
He smiled and kissed her on the neck while she closed her eyes. "I love you," he murmured, while his mouth made its way up to her cheeks, and brushed down to her lips.
"Mmm," she said, then opened her eyes and cleared her throat. "I mean, tell me what you know about the robbery and Simon Frasier."
"I can't remember…my memory probably needs a jog," Paul said huskily, leaning in to kiss her again.
She laughed, "Is that what you need? I'm going to have to seduce it out of you?"
He grinned. "Okay," he said. She held up an index finger for his attention, stood, and slowly removed her black halter in front of him. Then she stepped forward, straddled her legs around his pelvis, and unbuttoned his shirt while kissing him fiercely. His hands clutched her backside, gripping firmly, and he pulled down the zipper of her skirt. She rocked back and forth on him, gasping as the kissing became more intense. Soon they were both stripped of their clothes in entirely, and she remained on top until he was ready to make love to her. Once their positions had changed, he rolled on top of her, and felt her pant with desire while his lips caressed the side of her neck.
"Tell me…" she moaned, encouraging him with her body.
"What?" he said throatily with desire, pushing himself in between her legs.
She gasped a little, "Tell—ah. Uhn…." He began slowly; eventually his pelvis began to rock up and down on hers a bit faster, then harder, with her moaning in ecstasy the whole time. His mouth sucked the air from her own, and her neck arched every time he moved his lips to the side of her jaw.
"Ah! Ah," she breathed as their passion climaxed. "Oh God..."
Once he was spent and collapsed beside her, he chuckled. "Drury Lane."
"What?" she breathed, still panting hard.
"Simon Frasier lives on Drury Lane."
"Very funny. Does he know the Muffin Man, too?" she asked with mild sarcasm. "You know, I can't believe you would put me on like this."
"After that striptease you did? After the way you…never mind. It's a real place, Em," he insisted. "Look at the brochure." He reached over to the desk, turned on the lamp on the desk, and handed her the travel guide.
She sat up and pulled the sheets up to her chest while she read the brochure. Then she decided, "Let's go find him. Tonight." She pulled on her undergarments and her skirt, and once she was dressed she tossed him his own clothes.
As he pulled on his pants, he warned, "You know, we're going to one of the most criminally active streets in the city."
"Oh, come on, where's your sense of adventure?" Emily teased.
"Probably with my sense of stupidity," he said, pulling out his phone.
"What are you doing?"
"Calling for back-up. What's Dusty's number?"
He dialed as she recited it for him, but got Dusty's voicemail. "Hi Dusty, we think Simon has a place on Drury Lane. You want to find him and play the tough guy, you know where to find us tonight," Paul said, snapping his phone shut.
"Happy now? Let's go," Emily said. Outside the hotel, they caught a bus that was full of people either dozing off or talking to themselves. It was very dark outside, and Paul couldn't help but feel like it was a bad idea to be going anywhere at this time, much less a street that was probably home to a modern-day Jack the Ripper. Once they got off the bus, his unsettled feeling increased. It felt like someone was watching them. Of course, Emily's reaction to dangerous situations was to leap in headfirst. "I'm checking out that alley," she pointed to a particularly creepy looking one that had water dripping down the gutters.
Before he could stop her, she ran past a group of vagrants who were huddled together and smoking cigarettes. "Emily!" he called. She turned around. He could see her eyes widen from across the street. Then someone struck him painfully on the back of the head, and his vision turned black.
"The little missus is lookin' for 'im, Francois! What are we goin' to do?" a quivering voice asked.
"I'm telling you, we've got to wait for Mr. Donovan's orders. We need to find out how much this bloke knows!"
Paul opened his eyes groggily to find two men with him in a very confined space. Judging by the steering wheel on the end, he figured it was safe to guess that he was in a van. One of the men was tall, with a goatee and a crew cut. The other one was older, stouter, and had a thick black mustache. He was also wearing a ski-cap, the kind that he vaguely recalled Joe Pesci's character in the Home Alone movies donning.
Paul shifted uncomfortably. His hands were bound in front of him with medical tape, and he was strapped with a seat belt. "Who are you?" he muttered.
The one with the mustache and ski cap folded his arms. "I'm Simon Frasier," he said proudly, doing his best imitation of an Aussie accent.
Paul snorted. Was he still dreaming? "Seriously?" he pondered mockingly. "I would have pegged you as Charlie Chaplin, myself. Or possibly Curly from the Three Stooges." Mustachio kicked him in the shin angrily. Then Paul remembered what he had overheard before opening his eyes.
"So, let me get this straight—you're working for Dusty? Dusty Donovan?"
Crew-Cut Kid panicked. "He knows about the boss! What are we going to do with him, Francois?"
The one he called Francois contemplated Paul for a moment, frowned, and said, "We let him out. Boss's orders."
For some reason, Crew-Cut Kid's expression of fear didn't put Paul's mind at ease. But Francois whipped out a Swiss Army knife and, though Paul was terrified one wild second that he would be nicked to pieces, the knife cut through the tape that bound Paul's hands.
Paul stood apprehensively, and Francois escorted him to the van door. "Open it, Tyler!" Francois barked at his sidekick. Crew-Cut Kid aka Tyler hesitated then pulled the latch, revealing a drop that had to be at least twenty miles. The van was parked on a cliff out in the countryside, Paul realized. Panicking, he stepped back, only to have Francois push him forward and out of the van. A rush of air told Paul that this was it, he would fall to his death and no one would even be any the wiser. However, his hand at the same time caught onto a rock jutting from the edge of the cliff. The van rolled off with the sound of screeching tires, leaving him with gravity for an enemy. Paul grunted as he tried to climb up, but the gravel kept chipping off from the rocks. Then a hand with a strong grip reached out and grabbed his sweaty palm.
"Use your feet!" said his rescuer. Paul kicked his foot on the rocks, and the man's face strained as he pulled him back to the top.
As they both got to their feet and dusted off their knees, Paul took a good look at the man. "Simon Frasier…you have excellent timing."
Simon took a bow in mock humility. When he straightened, he explained, "I hear quite a few people have been looking for me." Behind him, the door to Simon's car opened, and out rushed Emily. She threw her arms around Paul instantaneously, sniffling, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fine." He looked from Emily to Simon questioningly.
Emily explained, "Simon was there in Drury Lane when those thugs knocked you out. He filled me in on what's going on. I could kill Dusty Donovan!"
Paul looked at Simon and said, "I owe you one."
"Yeah, well, I was on my way out of the country," admitted Simon. "I can't believe that cock-and-bull story Donovan invented about me infiltrating WorldWide. As if I'd ever be stupid enough to cross Lucinda Walsh like that! Now Donovan wants to frame me for these international thefts, so that he can go his merry way and pay his debts!"
Now that Paul thought about it, Dusty's actions made no sense whatsoever. The self-appointed hero of Oakdale, turned into a hardened criminal? "How does a guy like Dusty get into this deep of debt?"
"Well, apparently, all of his money went into the vacuum that was his girlfriend's daughter's medical expenses. The girl had leukemia, Donovan wanted to play the hero, and the good news is, girl's in remission. Bad news is, the guy had to use some WorldWide money to expedite her treatments. So before anyone can catch on to the missing money, he contacted me and put me in charge of finances. Money goes missing, he gets blamed, he blames me, and you get the picture. Voila, instant scapegoat."
Paul had no words to describe his opinion. Emily, however, expressed hers well enough. "Wow, I'm really sorry, Simon. And I almost feel sorry for Dusty."
Simon snorted, "Yeah, well, I don't. How about you, Paul?"
Paul shrugged, "Well, I might have if his goons hadn't just tried to throw me off a cliff… Now, I'm thinking that some payback might be nice."
Even in the cloak of night, Simon's dark brown eyes seemed to light up with inspiration. "What did you have in mind, Ryan? You know, you do have quite the reputation in Oakdale for being the Prince of Payback Plots…"
"And you, Frasier, have quite the reputation for being the king of creative ways for breaking and entering," Paul grinned.
Then, wide-eyed Emily spoke up. "Wait, you guys aren't serious, are you?"
Simon shot a glance at her and said to Paul, "Does she want in?"
"She wants in," affirmed Paul.
"You bet your Sword of Justice I want in," she chimed.
Now it was Paul's turn for inspiration. "Em, you just gave me an idea…."
24 Hours Later
"How do I look?" Simon asked Paul outside the main security camera room of The British Museum, wearing thick black spectacle frames and a short blonde mullet wig. They were both wearing the museum's security guard uniforms.
Paul gave him an appraising sort of look, and joked, "I kind of want to try on the mullet now."
"Oh no you don't, mate." Simon shook his head. "This thing itches worse than wool in the summertime. You'd better have your girl do her part now."
Paul took out his cell and texted to Emily's phone, "It's that time."
She texted back one minute later, "Done."
They knocked on the door and allowed themselves in. Paul had to do a double-take. There were two security guards inside, and one of them –a woman–was sporting a dark brown mullet for hair, while the other one had horn-rimmed glasses.
Simon cleared his throat, and altering his Australian accent slightly to sound British, he said, "We're here to relieve you."
"You're early," said the man with the glasses, regarding Paul with particular suspicion. "And I don't think we've had the pleasure of being introduced."
Paul, in his best impression of a Cockney accent, "Well, theh's a p'liceman wh'wants t'talk t'ya both."
Ironically, the woman with the funny haircut ended up being the most difficult to get rid of. While the other guard left immediately without further debate, Simon had to promise to meet the poor girl after his shift was over. She winked and giggled, "See you soon!"
Once she was gone, Simon groaned, "I had a dream like that once…"
"I don't want to know," said Paul shortly, looking around for the power switch button to the cameras. He hit a lever, and everything went pitch black!
"Great idea!" said Simon, pulling out his flashlight. Paul found another flashlight in the supply closet, and turned it on. Then Simon took a look at the darkened security camera before he turned it off. "Okay, the last I saw, Donovan's at the exhibit. Emily's downstairs."
"Does she have it?" Paul asked. Emily's job had been to call Dusty and tell him news of Paul's disappearance. She was to make arrangements to meet him at the museum. Then, while he was waiting for her at the exhibit, she was supposed to search Dusty's car for incriminating evidence.
"I couldn't tell, but it looked like she was carrying something. You'd better move it, though, mate!"
Paul used his flashlight to find his way downstairs. He had turned off the power for the entire building, it seemed.
"Excuse me, sir, is there a problem?" asked a girl he'd bumped into.
"Yeah, why are the lights off?" asked her companion, a teenage boy.
"Um, every—," Paul froze, remembering to slip into his accent. "Ev'rything's fahn now, just move along to thee exit." He escorted them to the front of the building, where the last light of the day was disappearing with the setting sun. Emily was waiting for him. "What did you find?" he asked her in a low voice.
She presented him with the Sword of Justice. "Wow, how dumb is Dusty?" Paul marveled.
"Don't forget to handle this with gloves. The last thing we want is your fingerprints on it." He put on his leather driving gloves, and she placed the sword in his hands, which were weighted down at once by the iron. "Okay, go. Go now!"
He ran. What if Dusty wasn't there anymore? What if their one shot at clearing Simon was gone? But as it turned out when Paul shined his flashlight in the exhibit, Dusty really was as dumb as he looked.
"Ryan? I thought you were dead!" Dusty squinted in the bright light from across the room.
"Really? Who told you that Dusty? Emily? Or your buddy, Francois? Maybe I'm missing something here. " Then Paul held up the sword. "Or maybe you are."
Dumbstruck, Dusty watched as Paul pointed the sword at him. Then his old sneer returned. "What're you gonna do with that?"
Paul said casually, "I think I can bet on my life that I can make the Sword of Justice live up to its name."
"Do you even know how to use that thing?" Dusty asked as he slowly made his way over to him, and Paul knew he was going to attack any minute.
"Only one way to find out," said Paul. Dusty threw a swing at him, and Paul ducked. Then, with all his might, he smashed the sword into its own empty case. The alarm blared, and Paul slugged Donovan, knocking him out cold. Then he dropped the sword, and made it out just as the gate closed. He ran, ran faster than he could ever remember, until he was out of the museum. The police sirens wailed under the inky blue sky. When he reached the trees, an arm snatched his and pulled him into the bushes. Paul toppled over Simon, who toppled over Emily, whose scream nearly caught the attention of the real security guards.
They waited. Finally, Dusty was brought out in handcuffs, ranting to the cops as he was thrown in the police car, "I'm telling you, the guy you want is Paul Ryan! He's the one that set me up! Paul Ryan!"
Once the sirens had gone, Paul let out a restrained laugh. "That was brilliant!" he hissed as Simon doubled over in his own laughter. Then they straightened up at Emily's chastising look.
"I still almost feel sorry for him, you know," she said wistfully. "How about you guys?"
They exchanged looks.
"Nah," said Simon.
"Definitely not," said Paul. Then he said to Simon, "If it's ever safe for you to come back to Oakdale again, look us up." He held out his hand, and Simon shook it.
"Will definitely do. It's been good fun. And likewise, if you should ever wind up in the same location as me…"
"I'll pay for the drinks," Paul acknowledged. As they waved goodbye to Simon, Paul noted to Emily, "Now, him, I can understand why women would be attracted to."
"Not me," Emily grinned, planting a kiss on his cheek. "I'm all about you, baby!"
And they walked back to the Milestone, to have a night with more adventure, more fun, and more sex than either one of them had experienced in years.
THE END