Chapter Seventeen
Coincidences can be the bounty or bane of life.
It was a coincidence when Ralph went to Pam Davidson, lawyer, to help him with his divorce from his first wife, Alicia. That they wound up falling in love and getting married had been the best thing that ever happened to him.
It was a bad coincidence, however, when Ralph woke up groggily and decided he stank enough from his previous days exertions he had to remove the suit and take a shower, just when Culdero's men pulled up to the Hinkley's home in a brown van, armed with guns and lock pick expertise. His wife lay lazily in bed beside him.
"I'm going to hop in the shower for a moment," he said, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
"Please do," she replied, stretching out her long, thin limbs only to compact them into a sleeping ball again.
"Thanks a lot!"
"Ralph, the suit may be self-cleaning, but unfortunately, you're not."
He "harrumphed" and got out of bed. Undressing, he sloppily dropped the tunic, tights, belt, cape and boots on the floor and chair. Hopping in the shower, he let the hot water soothe him as he washed off the dirt and sweat from the day before. Getting out he dried himself off, covered himself with a bathrobe and went back into his bedroom.
He stood there, his mouth opening in fear, too paralyzed to move.
Four men were in his bedroom, two of them holding onto his wife, holding guns to her head. Her eyes shone out pure, unadulterated terror.
"Don't hurt her!" Ralph called out, cursing himself for choosing cleanliness over cautiousness. Bill had strictly told him to not take off the suit. He had blew it.
There was nothing to do with is suit on the floor, and loaded guns aimed at him and his wife. Bill was not going to barge in saving the day. They followed the directions of the men, dressing, and then walked to the van out front as if nothing was wrong.
In the van, they were handily tied and gagged as it drove off. Ralph's heart sank and for the first time in his life since he had been given the suit, each breath he inhaled seemed to contain molecules of despair, which dispersed chaotically throughout his body.
He should have listened to Bill.
Bill had been finally given another dose of morphine around midnight, and so he had been able to sleep until noon. Waking, he was surprised neither Ralph nor Pam was in his room, and that there were no messages on his phone.
He got a very bad feeling, and what was worse, his bad feelings were almost always—if not 100 always—right.
Bill called the Hinkley residence and got their message machine. He told them to call him as soon as possible. He tried the communicator, but Ralph didn't pick it up.
Damn, he thought, damn! Ralph had taken off the jammies. That had to be it. He had taken them off although Bill had stridently, no if-ands-or-butts, told him not to. Something was the matter. Something had gone wrong.
Bill thought it through. Culdero would want him, too. He had to contact Bill or try to plant another bomb or something. He had to play it out. Bill just had to be patient, and wait until he was contacted, or until he caught someone entering his room who didn't belong there.
In the meantime, there was no reason to think Ralph and Pam were…dead. No reason at all. Of course they were alive. Of course they were fine. Bill squeezed his eyes together, closing off any images that did not contain ones of Ralph and Pam barbecuing, or watching wild horses, or dressed up ready for their wedding.
There was no one to contact; no one could help. Bringing in a ton of cops might be enough to launch Culdero's borderline mind into outer space. He didn't dare risk Ralph and Pam's life by doing that.
He just had to be patient. Half an agent's life was being patient—stake-outs, drudge work, interrogation of suspects. All required immense patience. Bill could be a patient man. No problemo. Piece of cake.
Bill began being patient by bringing his left fist down hard on the metal frame edge of his hospital bed while a fervent "DAMN!" echoed throughout the empty room.