“The news report. That guy there is one of this psycho’s henchmen. I—” Strangled him to death, I almost said. “Recognize him from the place where they took me. And I saw video of Caspian being questioned in an interrogation room about my whereabouts. Like he was a suspect in my disappearance. It’s a hoax. This whole thing is.”

The fake news anchor began shuffling papers and the picture changed to an ad for Captain Morgan’s Spiced Rum. Some C-List actor wearing a ruffled pirate suit struck the one-legged pose from the bottle’s label. I had recorded the song for this commercial. Had made five thousand dollars for the score that was mostly synthesized steel drum.

I unwrapped the towel and used it to dry my hair. We had to get out of here, and there was no time for modesty. Al had seen worse in those pictures. Had sure as hell seen worse in the roadside grottoes where he used to get high.

“You’re in deep shit,” Al said. Pragmatic, Al.

“Over my head in T-Rex shit. And I need some help.”

Al stood, came toward me, grabbed the towel and used it to cover both of our heads. We were close enough to kiss under our cotton hood. “You said your house is bugged. You’re sure?” he whispered. His breath smelled like rust.

I nodded. Thank God, he believed me.

“Okay,” he said. “Get dressed. I know a place we can go.”

I nodded.

“Do it quick,” he said, and then dipped out from under the towel, leaving it draped over my head. I felt like a naked buffoon. Like a child in need of an adult. I scrambled back to my room and began throwing clothes in a cloth travel bag I keep in the closet. Pulled on a Cannibal Corpse T-shirt I’d gotten during the ’93 tour and a pair of camouflage cargo shorts. For the sake of stealth, you know? Tugged on my low-top Converse and was ready to roll. Assuming I’d be gone at least twenty-four hours, I swiped my toiletries off the bathroom countertop into the open bag and zipped it closed. Glanced in the mirror, and regretted it. The face staring back at me looked terrified. And appeared years older than last time I’d seen it. Frail, even. Pale and sick with haunted eyes. I would not trust this man to protect me, and he’s all I had.

No, not true. I had Al. Sucking him back into my dramatic bullshit. Taking it, this time, to a whole new level of fuckery. I’ve never seen an angel with wings, but I’ve seen plenty wearing trucker hats. Okay, time to go.