“Thompson,” I said, “you’re not packing that thing. You’re drunk, for one. Put it away right now. That violates every rule of gun safety.”
“Lock and load in my sleep,” mumbled Thompson through his gauze. A piece of it fell out as he spoke; he fumbled the rifle as he tried to shove it back in.
“No way, man,” said Chip. “You know how much I respect you. But we have to be cool here. You’ll scare Nancy’s father half to death. He’s already gonna have a personal tragedy to deal with. He’ll think we’re a bunch of crackpots.”
Thompson grudgingly put the gun aside, harrumphing through his gauze, and contented himself with donning some kind of camouflage cargo or fishing vest, with multiple bulging pockets in it, that held knives and sundry other objects of utility and aggression. I saw him sneak something that looked like a grenade into one of the compartments, but right then we passed a convoy of jeeps that alarmed me and I forgot about his doings, too busy watching the rearview mirror to see if any of the jeeps turned back around and followed us. (They didn’t.)
Then we were at the parking lot near the marina, where we waited until the ferry was pulling up to the dock, Thompson scouting all around, first with the naked eye, next with binoculars, for other gun-wielders. Finally they jumped out and walked, as calmly as they could, I guess, toward the disembarking passengers. I waited in the car, doors stoutly locked, gas-guzzling engine running noisily and doing its part for runaway climate change, for the two of them to come back with our distinguished visitors.
PROF. SIMONOFF WAS an elfin man, smaller than Nancy had been; his wife must be a giant, I thought, for Nancy to have come from the two of them. He looked the part of the emeritus he was, balding on the top of his head with a monklike fringe of white hair, and wore glasses. His doctor friend was on the portly side, black, and might have had a jovial way about him, I sensed, in happier times. They both wore suits and ties, and carried briefcases and laptops. No roller bags at all. I was glad of that. It lent them a certain gravitas none of us had in our tourist playgear.
The Prof. had talked to his wife when he got off the plane, and she’d delivered the bad news. But that emeritus seemed to be in denial—he was pale, he was wan, but he wasn’t weeping. He wasn’t conceding anything.
Chip gave them the rundown as we drove, Prof. Simonoff up front with me. He left out certain parts, including the minor bombing and the gay-bashing scuffle that had led to Thompson wearing gauze rolls in his mouth—“His gums are bothering him,” was all he said on that.
Thompson seemed to be on good behavior now; he’d even kicked the rifle beneath the backseats. It was as though, faced with two educated men of his own vintage, he finally had peers and wished to impress them. He even took the gauze rolls out, after a few minutes, and stashed the bloody pieces in one of his many pockets. I winced when I saw that. He hadn’t been exaggerating, I guess, when he said his gum-skin had been peeling off in strips. Also he took a call from someone who purported to be military, and while he talked gave a quite passable impression of not being drunk at all.
But things weren’t rosy back at the motel.
“What the hell,” said Chip, as we drew near. “Deb, don’t turn in, just keep driving! Don’t stop!”
For it seemed the parent company hadn’t given up on us. The motel parking lot was full of jeeps—the same ones, I warranted, that had passed us on our trip out; the same ones from the beach.
“Shit,” said Chip. “Damn. How’d they find us?”
He lost no time in putting in a call to Rick, hitting his speakerphone button so we could all hear it.
“They just got here,” said Rick. “We wouldn’t let them in. It’s been quiet for a minute, after we refused to unlock the doors, but it won’t be for long. We think they’re going to get the clerk or something. We’ve got the chains on the doors.”
“That won’t stop them for a second,” said Thompson. “They’re just maybe warning the clerk they’re busting in.”
“Unacceptable,” said Simonoff calmly.
We’d passed the motel by then; with no destination anymore I drove aimlessly down the coast road.
“We can’t abandon them,” said Chip. “We have to go back, Deb.”
“I’ll talk to them,” said Simonoff.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” said Thompson, shaking his head. “They won’t listen to reason.”
“It’s not reason,” said Simonoff. “I’m going to threaten them.”
He was such a tiny emeritus, sitting there next to me in his glasses, light glinting off his pate. I felt like patting him.
“We already mentioned litigation,” said Chip.
“You better find a place to turn the car around,” said Simonoff to me.
“But we were trying to save you from them,” said Chip, a little plaintively. “They have guns, sir. They have soldiers.”
“And I’m an old man with no daughter anymore,” said Simonoff. “I’ve got nothing left to lose.”
“Except your freedom,” said Chip, worried.
“I do have weapons,” offered Thompson modestly.
“Are private citizens allowed to keep guns here?” asked Simonoff, surprised, I guess, into a general knowledge question.
“Not to carry,” conceded Thompson. “For display only. I have special permits. It’s a historical collection. But all in excellent working order. They happen to be in the vehicle here, currently.”
“I see,” said Simonoff, almost gently. “Still, guns or no guns, they have an advantage, when it comes to brute force,
