EPISODE FOUR: THE RED DOOR
9:39 A.M. — THE SEARCH PARTY
The emergency meeting had officially adjourned.
The Major Arcana had returned to their floor, wherever that happened to be today. Nobody had thought to check, and given the current state of the elevators, nobody was particularly interested in finding out.
All except Walter.
The Tower had decided to stay behind and assist with the search. He had his toolbox, a working knowledge of structural collapse, and considerable firsthand experience with things falling apart.
Under the circumstances, he was arguably the most qualified person in the building.
Charles Bentley stood at the head of the conference table.
The power was out. Hope was missing. Finn was somewhere in the building with his phone, and the elevators had apparently decided to join the ongoing labor dispute with reality.
“We need a search party,” Charles announced.
Rocco was already on his feet.
“FUCK YES. I’M IN.”
Charles pointed at him.
“No.”
“TOO LATE. ALREADY COMMITTED.”
“Rocco, this is a rescue mission.”
“EXACTLY!”
“Not an adventure.”
Rocco grinned.
“WHY CAN’T IT BE BOTH?”
Walt snapped his toolbox shut.
“I’ll go.”
Gary appeared in the doorway carrying a tray of beignets.
“Where are we going?”
“To find Finn,” Charles replied.
Gary considered this.
“Are we bringing snacks?”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Why is that always your first question?”
“Because nobody ever knows how long these things are going to take.”
Perry, who had been watching the proceedings from the comfort of his chair, raised one perfectly manicured hand.
“I would like it entered into the official record that I am absolutely not fucking going.”
Charles turned.
“Nobody asked you.”
“Good. Then we’re all in agreement.”
Perry stood, adjusted his immaculate jacket, and removed the long purple silk scarf from around his neck.
The scarf was embroidered with tiny gold stars and had apparently survived several decades of questionable decisions.
Perry approached Rocco.
“Here, darling.”
Rocco stared at it.
“What’s this?”
“My lucky scarf.”
Charles looked up.
“Why are you giving him the scarf?”
Perry ignored him.
“This scarf has protected me through three disastrous relationships, two catastrophic vacations, and an incident in Ibiza that remains legally unresolved.”
Rocco grinned.
“FUCK YEAH.”
Perry wrapped the scarf around Rocco’s neck.
“Bring everyone home.”
For a brief moment, the room went quiet.
Then Perry grabbed Rocco by the collar.
“AND IF YOU GET BLOOD ON IT, I WILL FUCKING KILL YOU.”
Rocco saluted.
“YES, MA’AM!”
Perry gasped.
“MA’AM?”
Rocco was already halfway out the door.
“LOVE YOU, PERRY!”
Perry turned toward Charles.
“I want him returned in one piece.”
Charles stared at him.
“He’s the one most likely to get us all killed.”
Perry smiled sweetly.
“Then I suggest you keep an eye on him.”
Gary picked up his tray.
Walt grabbed his toolbox.
Charles retrieved his phone.
And Rocco, now wearing Perry’s priceless vintage scarf like a rock star preparing for an encore, kicked open the conference room door.
“LET’S FUCKING GO!”
Charles followed him into the hallway.
“STOP KICKING THE DOORS!”
Behind them, Perry returned to his chair, crossed his legs, and picked up his coffee.
Sean raised his hand.
“Should we establish a contingency plan?”
Perry took a sip.
“Darling, we’re going to need several.”
And somewhere in the darkened hallway, Rocco shouted:
“CHUCK! WHICH WAY?”
Charles’s voice echoed back.
“MY NAME IS CHARLES!”
Perry smiled into his coffee.
“God help them.”
9:47 A.M. — IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, PANIC ELSEWHERE
The emergency lights had apparently decided that emergencies were outside their contractual obligations.
Somewhere in the building, an alarm had been going off for eleven minutes without anyone making the slightest effort to investigate.
Charles stood at the entrance to the stairwell with his phone pressed against his ear.
“Finn. Are you still there?”
“Yep!” Finn answered cheerfully.
“Have you moved?”
“Nope!”
“Good. Don’t.”
Behind Charles stood Walt with his toolbox, Gary with the beignets, and Rocco, who had already wrapped Perry’s scarf around his head like a pirate.
Charles turned around.
“Gary. Why do you still have those?”
Gary looked down at the tray.
“Because we haven’t eaten them.”
“We are in the middle of an emergency.”
“Exactly.”
Walt opened the stairwell door.
They stared.
There were no stairs.
Just a concrete wall.
A very solid, very recently poured-looking concrete wall.
Above it hung a sign.
IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, USE STAIRS.
Charles blinked.
Walt knocked on the concrete.
“That’s new.”
Gary ate a beignet.
Rocco leaned around Walt.
“DUDE. SOMEBODY STOLE THE FUCKING STAIRS.”
Charles looked from the sign to the wall.
Then back to the sign.
“SON OF A BISCUIT!”
Rocco stopped dead.
He turned slowly toward Charles.
“Did you just say biscuit?”
Charles straightened his jacket.
“Yes, Rocco. I said biscuit.”
“DUDE. JUST SAY BITCH.”
“I most certainly will not.”
“Come on, Chuck. It feels good. Very liberating. Really opens up the emotional plumbing.”
“MY NAME IS CHARLES.”
Rocco studied him for a moment.
“Okay, fine. THEN LET’S START WITH THE WORD FUCK.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Dear Lord, give me strength.”
“Think about it, Chuck. It’s possibly the most versatile word in the English language. It can be a verb, a noun, an adjective, an adverb, an expletive. You can fuck something up, not give a fuck, be fucking delighted, or tell somebody to fuck right off. You can be fucked, get fucked, or have absolutely no fucking idea what’s going on.”
He gestured toward the concrete wall.
“LIKE RIGHT NOW!”
“Rocco, that is quite enough.”
“AND YOU CAN EVEN BEND SOMEBODY OVER, GRAB THEM BY THE HIPS, PULL THEM IN CLOSE, AND GIVE THEM A GOOD, HARD—”
“ROCCO! THAT WILL BE QUITE ENOUGH!”
Charles’s voice ricocheted through the stairwell.
Somewhere overhead, a light flickered.
Rocco stared at him with an expression of wounded innocence.
“What? I hadn’t even gotten to the verb yet.”
Walt slowly closed his toolbox.
“That was quite a detailed grammatical explanation.”
“THANK YOU, WALT!”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
Gary looked down at his beignets.
“Personally, I appreciate biscuit.”
Charles pointed at him triumphantly.
“Thank you, Gary. At least someone here has a sense of decency.”
Gary nodded.
“Although I think pastry would be more appropriate.”
Charles lowered his hand.
“Never mind.”
Rocco threw an arm around Charles’s shoulders.
“Come on, Chuck. You’re a grown man. Just one little fuck. Nobody’s going to tell the Pope.”
Charles immediately removed Rocco’s arm.
“MY LANGUAGE IS NOT A MATTER FOR NEGOTIATION, AND I WOULD APPRECIATE IT IF YOU LEFT THE HOLY FATHER OUT OF THIS.”
“DUDE. YOU’RE CATHOLIC. YOU CAN JUST GO TO CONFESSION!”
“THAT IS NOT HOW CONFESSION WORKS!”
“FATHER, FORGIVE ME, FOR I HAVE FUCKED.”
Gary nearly dropped the beignet he was eating.
Walt turned away, his shoulders shaking.
Charles stared at Rocco in absolute horror.
“YOU ARE GOING TO NEED A GREAT DEAL MORE THAN THREE HAIL MARYS.”
Rocco doubled over laughing.
Charles adjusted his cuffs, took a long, deliberate breath, and pointed down the hallway.
“WE ARE GOING TO FIND FINN. THERE WILL BE NO FURTHER DISCUSSION OF PROFANITY, ANATOMY, OR THE SACRAMENT OF RECONCILIATION.”
Rocco fell into step beside him.
“Whatever you say, Chuck.”
A beat.
“Son of a biscuit.”
“FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, ROCCO!”
Gary followed them, carefully balancing his tray.
“He’s never going to say it.”
Walt picked up his toolbox.
“No. But I suspect Rocco’s willing to devote the rest of his life to the attempt.”
They continued down the hallway.
Or what had previously been the hallway.
Charles was reasonably certain the corridor had not been this long when they’d entered it. Walt was reasonably certain they’d passed the same fire extinguisher three times.
Gary was reasonably certain they were running low on beignets.
Rocco was reasonably certain this was the greatest day of his life.
Then they found another door.
It was red.
Above the handle, someone had installed a large brass plaque.
DO NOT OPEN.
ESPECIALLY IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY.
The four men stared at it.
Walt read the sign twice.
“Well, that’s unusually specific.”
Rocco reached for the handle.
Charles slapped his hand away.
“Do not touch that.”
“WHY?”
“BECAUSE IT SAYS DO NOT OPEN!”
Rocco looked at him.
“CHUCK. IT ALSO SAYS ESPECIALLY IF THERE’S AN EMERGENCY.”
“That is not an invitation!”
Charles reached for the handle himself.
Walt grabbed his wrist.
“Charles.”
“What?”
“There’s a sign.”
“I CAN READ, WALTER.”
“Then why are you opening it?”
Charles turned toward him, his patience finally abandoning the building.
“BECAUSE THERE IS A MISSING WOMAN, A MYSTERY FLOOR, A PURPLE DOOR, A RED DOOR, AND THE FOOL IS STILL ON THE TELEPHONE!”
Finn’s voice crackled through the speaker.
“I’m still here!”
“WE KNOW, FINN.”
Gary stepped forward.
“I think we should open it.”
Charles turned.
“Of course you do. You work in Endings.”
“Yeah,” Gary replied. “And this hallway feels like it’s going to be one.”
Walt sighed.
“Fine. But if anything explodes, I want it officially documented that I advised against this.”
Rocco grinned.
“ROUND TWO!”
Charles turned the handle.
The door opened.
And the building disappeared.
Not gradually.
Not with any sort of theatrical warning.
One moment they were standing in the hallway of Tarot Headquarters.
The next, they weren’t.
There was a tremendous rushing sound, as though someone had flushed the entire universe down an industrial toilet.
Charles grabbed the doorframe.
Walt grabbed Charles.
Rocco grabbed Walt.
Gary grabbed the beignets.
“GARY! GRAB SOMETHING!” Charles shouted.
“I DID!”
And then all four were through.
9:52 A.M. — THE OTHER SIDE
They landed in a heap.
Charles landed on Walt.
Walt landed on his toolbox.
Rocco landed on Charles.
Gary landed on his feet.
The beignets survived.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Rocco rolled off Charles.
“DUDE. THAT WAS FUCKING AWESOME.”
Charles made a noise that suggested he was reconsidering every decision he’d ever made.
His phone crackled.
“Hello?”
Charles slowly lifted it to his ear.
“Finn?”
“Hi!”
Charles stared at the phone.
“HOW IN HEAVEN’S NAME DO YOU STILL HAVE SERVICE?”
“I don’t know,” Finn replied. “I’ve got four bars.”
Walt sat up, rubbing his shoulder.
“Of course he does.”
They looked around.
They were standing at the edge of a staircase.
Or possibly the middle of one.
It was difficult to tell.
Stairs rose above them, descended below them, crossed overhead, and continued sideways along walls that appeared to have their own gravitational arrangements.
A landing directly above Charles was also, inexplicably, beneath Walt.
A staircase on their left led to a door on their right.
And somewhere in the distance, a man was walking upside down while carrying a perfectly level cup of coffee.
Walt stared at him.
“Well, that’s structurally offensive.”
Charles looked up.
Then down.
Then up again.
“WHERE IN THE NAME OF ALL THAT IS HOLY ARE WE?”
Gary surveyed the architecture.
“Escher.”
Charles turned.
“What?”
“M. C. Escher. The artist.”
“I KNOW WHO ESCHER IS, GARY.”
“Then why’d you ask?”
Rocco was already climbing a staircase that ran sideways along the wall.
“HOLY SHIT! CHUCK! LOOK AT THIS!”
“GET DOWN FROM THERE!”
“I DON’T KNOW WHICH WAY DOWN IS!”
Walt removed his spirit level from his toolbox and placed it on a step.
The bubble moved left.
Then right.
Then disappeared entirely.
He stared at it.
“Well. That’s a first.”
And then they heard it.
Faintly, from somewhere deep within the impossible architecture, came the unmistakable wheezing notes of a calliope.
It sounded like an abandoned carnival had somehow found its way into the building.
Charles cocked his head.
“Is that music?”
Gary listened.
“Sounds like a calliope.”
Walt frowned.
“What’s it playing?”
The melody drifted toward them, slightly out of tune and considerably slower than it should have been.
Gary’s eyes widened.
“Oh, that’s fucking funny.”
Charles turned.
“What?”
Gary grinned.
“The Doors.”
Walt listened more carefully.
“People Are Strange.”
Charles stared at the staircase.
Then at the upside-down man.
Then at Gary.
“OF COURSE IT IS.”
The record skipped.
The same short phrase repeated.
Again.
And again.
Charles stopped walking.
“IS THAT WRETCHED THING STUCK?”
Walt tilted his head.
“Sounds like it.”
Gary glanced at the upside-down man strolling past them with his coffee.
“Well, it’s not wrong.”
Charles turned toward him.
“Gary, I am begging you to be quiet.”
Somewhere overhead, a staircase rotated ninety degrees.
Walt watched it with professional interest.
“Actually, I think it’s getting worse.”
“The music or the building?” Charles demanded.
Walt considered the question.
“Yes.”
Rocco threw both arms into the air.
“I FUCKING LOVE THIS PLACE!”
Charles’s phone crackled.
“Mr. Bentley?”
“FINN!”
“Are you guys coming?”
Charles surveyed the approximately forty-seven staircases, none of which appeared to agree on the location of the ground.
“We’re working on it.”
“Okay! Just take the stairs!”
Charles slowly lowered the phone.
Walt put his spirit level back in the toolbox.
“I think we’re going to have to redefine ‘down.’”
9:54 A.M. — A MOVEABLE FEAST OF ABSOLUTE NONSENSE
The calliope was still playing.
The same short phrase repeated for the seventeenth time.
Then the record scratched.
The music stopped.
For approximately three seconds, there was silence.
A trumpet sounded.
Then a piano.
Then the unmistakable syncopated rhythm of a 1920s jazz band.
Walt stopped walking.
“Well, that’s new.”
The staircase beneath them began to change.
The concrete softened into polished marble. The walls acquired elaborate moldings. Brass sconces flickered to life, and the smell of cigarette smoke, expensive perfume, and red wine drifted toward them.
Somewhere, a woman was laughing.
Rocco grinned.
“OH, FUCK YES. ANOTHER PARTY.”
Charles grabbed his arm.
“We are not going to another party.”
“CHUCK, WE HAVEN’T EVEN BEEN TO THE FIRST ONE YET.”
Gary sniffed.
“Is somebody cooking?”
“FOR HEAVEN’S SAKE, GARY.”
They rounded the corner.
And found themselves in Paris.
Or something that was making a fairly convincing attempt at Paris.
9:56 A.M. — THE WOMAN IN THE ARMCHAIR
The room was magnificent.
Paintings covered nearly every available inch of wall. Picassos hung beside Matisses. Books were stacked on tables, chairs, windowsills, and several surfaces that appeared structurally incapable of supporting them.
A jazz record played on a gramophone.
An imposing woman sat in an enormous armchair beside the fireplace, holding court over a room full of writers and artists.
She wore a dark velvet dress, her hair cropped short, her expression suggesting she had already heard every opinion worth having and found most of them disappointing.
A half-empty glass of wine rested beside her.
Behind her hung an extraordinary portrait by Picasso.
She looked up as four men emerged from what had previously been her linen closet.
She regarded them with mild interest.
“Well. You’re late.”
Charles stopped.
“Excuse me?”
“I said you’re late.”
Walt glanced at the portrait.
Then at the woman.
Then back at the portrait.
He leaned toward Charles.
“Good heavens.”
“What?”
“I believe I know who that is.”
The woman raised an eyebrow.
“Well, I should certainly hope so.”
Gary examined the paintings covering the walls.
“Are we in Paris?”
“Obviously,” she replied.
Rocco grinned.
“DUDE. WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?”
She regarded him over the rim of her glass.
“Young man, you have just walked through my linen closet wearing a purple scarf and shouting obscenities. I rather think introductions are your responsibility.”
Walt cleared his throat.
“Madame Stein?”
She smiled.
“Finally. Someone who reads.”
Charles straightened his jacket.
“Charles Bentley. King of Swords. We are attempting to locate a missing colleague.”
“Gertrude Stein,” she replied, as though introducing herself were an unnecessary concession. “And you are interrupting a perfectly pleasant afternoon.”
Rocco leaned toward Gary.
“DUDE. WE’RE IN A BOOK.”
Gary looked at the paintings.
“Several, apparently.”
Gertrude examined Charles.
“You’re very loud.”
Charles drew himself up.
“WE ARE TRYING TO FIND A MISSING PERSON.”
“Aren’t we all?”
Charles stared at her.
“That is not particularly helpful.”
Gertrude smiled.
“Neither is shouting.”
Rocco immediately burst out laughing.
Charles turned on him.
“Not. One. Word.”
9:58 A.M. — HEMINGWAY IS DRINKING
At a nearby table, a broad-shouldered man with a drink in his hand looked up from his notebook.
“What’s all the noise?”
Gertrude waved dismissively.
“Ernest, darling. We have visitors.”
Ernest Hemingway looked at Charles.
Then Walt.
Then Gary.
Then Rocco, who was still wearing Perry’s purple silk scarf.
He took another drink.
“Americans?”
Charles sighed.
“Unfortunately.”
Hemingway pointed toward Rocco.
“What’s with the scarf?”
Rocco grinned.
“LUCKY CHARM.”
Hemingway studied him.
“Ever been to Pamplona?”
“NO, BUT I’M FUCKING INTERESTED.”
Charles immediately intervened.
“He is not going to Pamplona.”
Hemingway looked at Charles.
“Who made you his mother?”
Gary quietly picked up a piece of bread from a nearby table.
Charles stared at Hemingway.
“We need to find our friend.”
Hemingway returned to his notebook.
“Then find him.”
Walt leaned toward Charles.
“I don’t think we’re going to get much more out of him.”
Gertrude raised her glass.
“Ernest is much more interesting when he’s writing.”
Hemingway looked up.
“Gertrude.”
“Yes, dear?”
“Shut up.”
She smiled.
“See?”
10:00 A.M. — A VERY EXPENSIVE DISTRACTION
A handsome young man in an immaculate suit appeared beside Rocco.
“Champagne?”
Rocco accepted immediately.
“Don’t mind if I do, chap.”
Charles turned.
“Rocco. No.”
The man smiled.
“F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
Walt shook his hand.
“Walter. The Tower.”
Fitzgerald looked delighted.
“How marvelous. I adore a good catastrophe.”
Charles stared at him.
“We are in the middle of one.”
“Then you simply must have champagne.”
Rocco raised his glass.
“THIS GUY GETS IT.”
Fitzgerald studied him for a moment. The champagne, the extraordinary confidence, the purple silk scarf, the complete absence of anything resembling restraint.
“You remind me of someone.”
Rocco grinned.
“Brad Pitt?”
Fitzgerald smiled.
“Someone with an extraordinary talent for reinvention. Impossibly charming, recklessly optimistic, extravagantly dressed, and utterly convinced that the world would eventually rearrange itself to accommodate his dreams.”
Charles looked at Rocco.
Then at Fitzgerald.
“Are we discussing the same person?”
Across the room, Zelda Fitzgerald was dancing to the jazz record.
She spotted Rocco.
He spotted her.
Their eyes met.
Zelda stopped dancing.
Rocco stopped talking.
Which Charles would later describe as the only genuinely miraculous event of the entire morning.
Zelda approached, her eyes traveling from Rocco’s disheveled hair to the magnificent purple silk scarf embroidered with tiny gold stars.
“Fantastic scarf!”
Rocco glanced down at it, then back at her.
“Thank you, darling. Picked it up in Pamplona.”
Charles rolled his eyes.
Walt rolled his eyes.
Gary rolled his eyes.
Fitzgerald raised an eyebrow.
“Pamplona?”
“Running of the bulls. Magnificent little town.”
From his table, Hemingway looked up.
“Pamplona?”
Rocco lifted his champagne glass in acknowledgment.
“Ernie. You know the place.”
Hemingway stared at him.
He took a long drink.
Fitzgerald watched Rocco with growing amusement.
“My God. He’s Gatsby.”
Charles looked at him.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, I assure you, this man bears absolutely no resemblance to Jay Gatsby.”
“On the contrary. He has an extraordinary talent for inventing himself.”
Rocco, meanwhile, had turned his full attention to Zelda.
He took her outstretched hand, bowed slightly, and brushed his lips against her knuckles.
“Rocco. An absolute pleasure.”
Zelda smiled.
“Well, aren’t you charming.”
“I have my moments.”
“And what brings you to Paris?”
Rocco glanced briefly toward Charles, Walt and Gary.
“Business, unfortunately. Though I must say, the afternoon is improving considerably.”
Zelda laughed.
“Oh, Scott. I like this one.”
Fitzgerald smiled into his champagne.
“Of course you do, darling.”
Zelda turned back to Rocco and extended her hand.
“Dance with me.”
Rocco took her hand, bowed slightly, and smiled.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
He led her onto the dance floor.
And just like that, the Knight of Wands, who had spent the better part of the morning attempting to teach Charles Bentley the grammatical versatility of the word fuck, became an absolute gentleman.
He guided Zelda through a graceful turn, caught her hand as she spun back toward him, and drew her into the rhythm of the jazz.
Perry’s magnificent purple scarf trailed elegantly over his shoulder.
Fitzgerald watched them for a moment, smiling into his champagne.
Then his expression softened.
“There she is.”
Charles glanced at him.
“Pardon?”
“Zelda. Before everyone decided she ought to be sensible.”
Across the room, Zelda threw back her head and laughed at something Rocco had whispered in her ear.
Fitzgerald raised his glass.
“Some people simply aren’t built for ordinary lives, Mr. Bentley.”
Charles watched Rocco expertly dip Zelda beneath the chandelier.
For once, nobody was shouting.
Nothing was exploding.
And Rocco appeared to have acquired impeccable manners.
Charles regarded him with considerable suspicion.
“I give it three minutes.”
Gary watched the couple glide past.
“He’s going to lose that scarf.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Perry is going to have my head.”
10:03 A.M. — A ROSE IS A ROSE IS A DOOR
Gertrude finally took pity on them.
She led Charles, Walt and Gary toward the enormous portrait above the fireplace.
“You’re looking for the Fool.”
Charles stopped.
“How do you know that?”
Gertrude smiled.
“Because he’s already been here.”
Charles stared at her.
“FINN WAS HERE?”
“Briefly. Charming young man. Terrible sense of direction.”
“Where did he go?”
Gertrude pointed toward the portrait.
“Through there.”
Walt examined the painting.
“That’s a wall.”
“Is it?”
Charles stared at her.
“PLEASE DO NOT START SPEAKING IN RIDDLES.”
Gertrude folded her hands.
“My dear Mr. Bentley, you’re standing in a place where the Reader’s imagination intersects with your own existence. Nothing here is required to behave sensibly.”
Walt went very still.
“The Reader?”
Gertrude nodded.
“Of course.”
Charles frowned.
“What Reader?”
“The woman whose world you’ve wandered into.”
Gary looked up.
“The one with the tomatoes?”
Gertrude smiled.
“Among other things.”
From the other side of the room came a tremendous crash.
Rocco had apparently attempted to demonstrate a dance move involving a chair.
Hemingway was applauding.
Charles didn’t even turn around.
“I AM GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.”
Gertrude rose.
“Not today, darling.”
She approached the portrait and pressed one finger against the painted frame.
The wall opened.
Beyond it lay another staircase.
And somewhere in the distance, the jazz music was beginning to fade.
10:06 A.M. — ALICE IS MAKING BROWNIES
Gertrude glanced at an ornate clock on the mantelpiece.
“Well, gentlemen, I believe this is where I leave you.”
Charles looked alarmed.
“YOU’RE LEAVING?”
“Of course. Alice is expecting me.”
“Alice?”
“Alice B. Toklas. My partner.”
Gertrude straightened her dress.
“She’s making brownies.”
Gary’s head snapped up.
“Brownies?”
“Yes, dear.”
“What kind?”
Gertrude gave him a long, meaningful look.
“The kind that make Picasso considerably more interesting.”
Walt slowly lowered his toolbox.
Rocco grabbed Charles by the shoulders.
“CHUCK. WE HAVE TO STAY.”
“We are NOT staying.”
“DUDE. ALICE B. TOKLAS IS MAKING POT BROWNIES!”
From the adjoining room came a woman’s voice.
“GERTRUDE! IF YOU’RE BRINGING GUESTS, TELL THEM TO WASH THEIR HANDS!”
Gertrude smiled.
“Coming, Alice!”
Gary took one hopeful step toward the doorway.
Charles seized his collar.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT.”
“Charles. They’re brownies.”
“WE HAVE A MISSING WOMAN AND A MISSING FOOL!”
Gary looked genuinely torn.
Rocco cupped his hands around his mouth.
“ALICE! SAVE US SOME!”
“WHO IS THAT?” Alice called.
Gertrude glanced at Rocco.
“An American with very little impulse control.”
“ANOTHER ONE?”
Gertrude sighed.
“I’m afraid so.”
She turned back toward Charles.
“Now, off you go. And remember, the shortest distance between two points is not necessarily a straight line.”
Walt glanced at the impossible staircase beyond the portrait.
“We’ve noticed.”
Gertrude disappeared into the adjoining room.
A moment later, they heard her call:
“ALICE, DARLING, HAVE YOU SEEN MY GOOD CHOCOLATE?”
Gary looked devastated.
Charles pointed toward the portrait.
“EVERYONE. THROUGH THE PAINTING. NOW.”
Rocco sighed.
“FUCKING TRAGIC.”
10:08 A.M. — THE RIVER KNOWS THE WAY
The portrait deposited them in an enormous library.
Bookshelves rose into darkness. Staircases curled around enormous columns, and every few feet, another corridor branched off into an entirely different architectural period.
Walt examined a staircase.
“At least these seem structurally sound.”
One of the steps immediately vanished.
“Never mind.”
They passed shelves filled with books on mythology, psychology, philosophy and Eastern religion.
Charles noticed an enormous volume lying open on a reading table.
Beside it sat a silver-haired man with an intelligent face and the expression of someone who had spent a great deal of time considering the human condition.
He looked up.
“You’re lost.”
Charles stopped.
“WE ARE ATTEMPTING TO LOCATE TWO COLLEAGUES.”
“Then perhaps you are exactly where you need to be.”
Charles stared at him.
“GOOD GRAVY. NOT ANOTHER ONE.”
Walt glanced at the open book.
Then at the man.
“Hermann Hesse?”
The man smiled.
“Yes.”
Gary looked around.
“Does everybody the Reader’s ever read live in here?”
Hesse considered this.
“Not everybody.”
Rocco leaned toward Charles.
“CHUCK. ASK HIM WHERE THE FUCKING EXIT IS.”
Charles straightened his jacket.
“Mr. Hesse, perhaps you can direct us toward—”
“The path cannot be found by asking another to walk it for you.”
Charles stopped.
He looked at Walt.
Walt looked at Gary.
Gary ate a beignet.
Charles turned back to Hesse.
“WITH ALL DUE RESPECT, SIR, WE HAVE BEEN WALKING THE PATH FOR THE BETTER PART OF AN HOUR, AND IT HAS REPEATEDLY ATTEMPTED TO KILL US.”
Hesse closed his book.
“And yet here you are.”
Charles blinked.
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“Perhaps the difficulty is not the path.”
Charles regarded him suspiciously.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Perhaps it is your insistence that the path must lead where you expect it to.”
Walt glanced at the impossible staircases.
“Well, from an engineering standpoint, expectations have been rather thoroughly violated.”
Hesse smiled.
“Precisely.”
Rocco folded his arms.
“SO WHAT YOU’RE SAYING IS, WE SHOULD JUST WANDER AROUND UNTIL SOMETHING HAPPENS?”
“No. I’m suggesting that you stop confusing movement with progress.”
Rocco considered this.
“DUDE. THAT’S DEEP.”
Charles sighed.
“WE HAVE NOT COME HERE FOR A PHILOSOPHY SEMINAR.”
“And yet,” Hesse replied, “you keep arriving at one.”
Gary laughed.
Charles did not.
Hesse rose from his chair and gestured toward a narrow passage between two towering bookshelves.
Beyond it, they could hear water.
“Come. There’s something I would like to show you.”
Charles hesitated.
“Is it an exit?”
“No.”
“OF COURSE IT ISN’T.”
They followed him.
The passage opened onto an extraordinary sight.
An enormous river flowed silently through the middle of the library.
Its dark water reflected the towering shelves, the staircases and the hundreds of books suspended in the air above it.
A narrow stone bridge crossed the water.
On the opposite bank, a small wooden boat rested against the shore.
Walt stared.
“There’s a river in the library.”
Hesse nodded.
“Yes.”
“Where does it come from?”
“Everywhere.”
“And where does it go?”
“Everywhere.”
Walt opened his toolbox.
Charles grabbed his arm.
“DO NOT ATTEMPT TO REPAIR THE RIVER.”
“I was only going to measure the current.”
Hesse smiled.
“Perhaps you should simply listen to it.”
Charles stared at him.
“IT’S WATER.”
“Is it?”
Charles closed his eyes.
“I AM BEGINNING TO UNDERSTAND WHY PEOPLE DRINK.”
Hesse approached the riverbank.
“The river is an extraordinary teacher. It is always moving, yet it is always here. Its beginning and its end exist together. It does not hurry toward its destination because, in a sense, it has already arrived.”
For the first time since entering the red door, nobody interrupted him.
Even Rocco was quiet.
“The river carries everything,” Hesse continued. “Joy and sorrow. Birth and death. Every mistake, every triumph, every life that has ever touched its banks. Nothing is lost. Everything becomes part of the current.”
Gary looked down at the water.
“So even the bad stuff?”
“Especially the bad stuff.”
Gary considered this.
“That’s a lot of baggage for one river.”
Hesse laughed softly.
“Yes. But the river does not call it baggage.”
Charles studied the water.
“And what, precisely, does any of this have to do with finding our friends?”
“Who are you searching for?”
“The Fool and Hope.”
Hesse smiled.
“An interesting combination.”
Charles immediately recognized the expression.
“Oh, no. Please. Not you as well.”
“Many people spend their lives searching for hope, Mr. Bentley.”
“HOPE IS A WOMAN.”
“Then perhaps you are fortunate enough to know her.”
Charles opened his mouth.
Closed it.
And, for once, considered the possibility that he might not need to respond.
Hesse pointed toward the opposite bank.
“Your friend has already crossed.”
Charles immediately straightened.
“FINN?”
“Indeed.”
“THEN WHY DIDN’T YOU SAY SO?”
“Because you hadn’t finished listening.”
Charles stared at him.
Rocco leaned toward Gary.
“CHUCK’S GONNA FUCKING EXPLODE.”
But Charles was no longer looking at Hesse.
He was watching the river.
For a brief moment, he thought he could hear something beneath the water’s gentle movement.
Laughter.
A woman’s laughter.
The same laughter they’d heard earlier.
Gary stepped backward.
“OH, COME ON.”
Hesse smiled.
“Perhaps the river is speaking to you.”
Gary shook his head.
“NOPE. THAT’S THE FUCKING GHOST.”
A quiet voice spoke from the far side of the bridge.
“Perhaps you are hearing joy.”
The four men turned.
A barefoot young man in simple robes stood beside the little wooden boat.
He had been there the entire time.
Watching.
Listening.
Waiting.
Walt stared at him.
Then at Hesse.
Then back at the young man.
“Siddhartha.”
Hesse smiled.
“Ah. You’ve read my book.”
Walt nodded.
“Twice.”
Rocco looked between them.
“WAIT. YOU KNOW THIS GUY?”
Walt gestured toward Siddhartha.
“Not personally, Rocco.”
Siddhartha bowed slightly.
Charles, having apparently exhausted his capacity for astonishment, simply nodded.
“How do you do?”
Siddhartha regarded him with a gentle smile.
“You are very determined to find your way home.”
“YES.”
“Yet you seem to believe that home is a place.”
Charles frowned.
“Isn’t it?”
“Sometimes. But sometimes it is the moment in which we stop struggling against where we are.”
Charles looked at the river.
Then at his companions.
Walt, with his battered toolbox.
Gary, carefully guarding the beignets.
Rocco, wearing Perry’s ridiculous purple scarf.
And somewhere beyond the bridge, Finn was waiting for them.
Hope, however, was still missing.
For once, Charles had no immediate response.
Siddhartha smiled.
“The river knows the way.”
Rocco looked at the little boat.
“SO WE’RE TAKING THE FUCKING BOAT?”
Siddhartha considered him.
“No.”
Rocco stared.
“THEN WHAT THE FUCK IS THE BOAT FOR?”
“Sometimes,” Siddhartha replied, “a boat is simply a boat.”
Hesse burst out laughing.
Gary nearly dropped the beignets.
Charles walked onto the bridge.
“I AM GOING TO FIND FINN.”
Siddhartha watched him go.
“An excellent beginning.”
10:11 A.M. — THE MAN IN THE WHITE SUIT
They followed the sound of laughter through another corridor of books.
The walls were covered in extraordinary paintings. Portraits, landscapes, enormous canvases filled with color, and several works that seemed to change whenever anyone looked directly at them.
Rocco stopped in front of an enormous Warhol painting.
“DUDE. LOOK AT THIS.”
Charles didn’t even turn around.
“We are not stopping to admire every painting.”
“CHUCK. THIS GUY PAINTED SOUP CANS.”
“YES, ROCCO. I’M FAMILIAR WITH ANDY WARHOL.”
“FUCKING GENIUS.”
Charles grabbed his arm.
“KEEP WALKING.”
They rounded another corner.
A man in an immaculate white suit stood beside a towering stack of books, examining the four of them with considerable amusement.
He wore a white hat.
White shoes.
And an expression suggesting he’d already decided they were the most entertaining thing he’d seen all morning.
“Well, well, well.”
Charles stopped.
“Oh, what now?”
The man smiled.
“Tom Wolfe.”
Rocco threw both arms into the air.
“DUDE! NICE SUIT!”
Wolfe examined Perry’s scarf.
“And that’s quite a remarkable accessory you’ve got there.”
Rocco beamed.
“THANKS! STOLE IT FROM A FRIEND.”
Charles corrected him.
“Borrowed.”
“WHATEVER, CHUCK.”
Wolfe looked between them.
“Now, this is interesting. A man in a business suit attempting to impose order on a world that has no intention of cooperating.”
Charles stared at him.
“Please don’t write about me.”
Wolfe smiled.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
He removed a small notebook from his pocket.
Charles pointed at it.
“PUT THAT THING AWAY.”
Wolfe laughed.
“You know, Mr. Bentley, the most fascinating thing about human beings is their extraordinary commitment to the stories they tell themselves.”
Charles adjusted his cuffs.
“And what story, precisely, do you imagine I am telling myself?”
“That you are in control.”
Gary stopped chewing.
Walt looked away.
Rocco grinned.
“OH, I LIKE THIS GUY.”
Charles regarded Wolfe coldly.
“I assure you, sir, I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs.”
“Of course you are. But consider this. Every man believes himself the protagonist of his own story. He assigns meaning to events, constructs explanations for the inexplicable and imagines that, with sufficient determination, he can direct the narrative toward a satisfactory conclusion.”
Wolfe gestured toward the impossible architecture surrounding them.
“And then, occasionally, the narrative develops ambitions of its own.”
Walt looked up at a staircase that had begun slowly rotating.
“That certainly appears to be the case.”
Charles folded his arms.
“Are you suggesting that we have no free will?”
“Not at all. I’m suggesting that free will becomes considerably more interesting when the universe refuses to cooperate.”
Gary nodded.
“Like when you order a sandwich and they give you soup.”
Wolfe considered him.
“Precisely.”
Charles stared at both of them.
“THAT IS NOT PRECISELY ANYTHING.”
Wolfe laughed.
“You see, Mr. Bentley, you are attempting to impose order upon a world that was created by a woman who appears to find disorder enormously entertaining.”
A woman’s laughter erupted somewhere above them.
Charles stopped.
“THERE. THAT LAUGHTER. WHO IS THAT?”
Wolfe smiled.
“Your Reader, I should imagine.”
Gary went completely still.
“YOUR WHAT?”
“The woman who created this particular universe.”
Gary stared at him.
“THE GHOST MADE US?”
Wolfe considered this.
“In a manner of speaking.”
Gary slowly looked down at himself.
Then at his tray.
“DID SHE MAKE THE BEIGNETS?”
The laughter became absolutely uncontrollable.
Rocco doubled over.
“G! YOU’RE KILLING HER!”
Charles looked toward the ceiling.
“MADAM, IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, I WOULD APPRECIATE A LITTLE PROFESSIONAL COURTESY.”
She laughed even harder.
Wolfe quietly opened his notebook.
Charles pointed at it.
“I SAID PUT THAT THING AWAY.”
10:14 A.M. — THE READER’S WORLD
At the end of the staircase stood an enormous glass wall.
On the other side was a kitchen.
Sunlight streamed across the countertops.
A blonde woman stood beside an open laptop, chopping tomatoes.
A tarot deck lay beside her coffee.
Walt stared.
Gary inhaled.
“Oh, THERE it is.”
Rocco pressed his face against the glass.
“DUDE. IS THAT HER?”
Wolfe nodded.
“The Reader.”
Charles approached the wall.
The woman laughed at something on her laptop.
The sound echoed through the staircase.
Several books fell from their shelves.
Rocco stumbled backward.
“HOLY SHIT!”
Wolfe smiled.
“Quite a personality.”
Charles looked at him.
“Can she see us?”
“Not entirely.”
“Can she hear us?”
“Occasionally.”
Gary looked toward the cutting board.
“Can she feed us?”
Charles slowly turned toward him.
“Gary.”
“What?”
“We are not asking the Reader to make us lunch.”
Wolfe smiled.
“She might, you know.”
Gary looked delighted.
Charles looked defeated.
Wolfe watched the woman return to her laptop.
“There’s something rather extraordinary about watching a writer at work. She believes she’s sitting in an ordinary kitchen, arranging words on a screen. Meanwhile, an entire universe is rearranging itself around her imagination.”
Charles glanced at the bookshelves.
“Could she possibly rearrange it into something resembling a functional building?”
“Where would the adventure be in that?”
Charles sighed.
“Apparently, adventure is compulsory.”
Walt’s phone suddenly vibrated.
He reached into his pocket.
“Gentlemen.”
Charles turned.
“What?”
“I’ve got Finn.”
Charles practically lunged at him.
“WHERE?”
Walt held up his phone.
Life360.
Five little circles appeared on the screen.
Four were clustered together.
The fifth was approximately three floors below them.
Or above them.
The application seemed uncertain.
Charles stared.
“YOU MEAN TO TELL ME WE HAVE HAD HIS LOCATION THIS ENTIRE TIME?”
Walt frowned.
“Well, I hadn’t thought to check.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“GOOD GRAVY.”
Rocco leaned over Walt’s shoulder.
“DUDE! HE’S RIGHT FUCKING THERE!”
The fifth circle began moving.
Then stopped.
Then moved again.
Then appeared directly on top of their own location.
Walt frowned.
“That’s odd.”
Charles looked at him.
“What?”
“According to Life360, Finn is standing exactly where we are.”
They looked around.
No Finn.
The little circle moved again.
Now it was beneath them.
Rocco leaned over the railing.
“FINN!”
Far below, a familiar voice answered.
“HEY, GUYS!”
Charles looked down.
Finn was waving enthusiastically.
“WE FOUND YOU!”
Wolfe smiled.
“Or perhaps he found you.”
Charles pointed at him.
“NOT ANOTHER WORD.”
Wolfe quietly opened his notebook.
Walt examined his phone again.
“Wait a minute.”
Charles turned.
“What now?”
“Finn’s AirTag.”
Charles stared at him.
“His WHAT?”
“His AirTag. I put one on his key ring.”
Charles slowly lowered his head.
“WALTER.”
“Yes?”
“YOU PUT A TRACKING DEVICE ON THE FOOL?”
Walt nodded.
“Seemed prudent.”
Charles looked at the phone.
Then at Walt.
Then at the ceiling.
“AND YOU DIDN’T THINK TO CHECK IT?”
Walt opened Find My.
A small green circle appeared.
FINN’S KEYS — NEARBY
Below it was a button.
PLAY SOUND
Walt pressed it.
From somewhere beneath their feet came a faint electronic chirping.
Rocco leaned over the railing.
“DUDE! WE GOT HIM!”
Charles grabbed the railing.
“FINN! CAN YOU HEAR THAT?”
Finn looked up.
“YEAH!”
“FOLLOW THE SOUND!”
There was a pause.
“IT’S COMING FROM MY POCKET!”
Charles closed his eyes.
Wolfe began writing furiously.
“Fascinating.”
Charles turned toward him.
“Mr. Wolfe. Thank you for your assistance. We really must be going.”
Wolfe closed his notebook.
“Of course. But remember, Mr. Bentley, a character’s most interesting moments often occur when he believes the author has lost control of the story.”
Charles adjusted his cuffs.
“I sincerely hope she regains it before lunch.”
Wolfe laughed.
“I rather doubt she will.”
Rocco stepped forward and shook his hand.
“DUDE. GREAT FUCKING SUIT.”
Wolfe glanced at Perry’s purple scarf.
“Likewise.”
Gary offered him a beignet.
“Want one for the road?”
Wolfe accepted it.
“Much obliged.”
Walt shook his hand.
“A pleasure meeting you, Mr. Wolfe.”
“And you, Walter. Do try not to repair the universe. Its defects are what make it interesting.”
Walt considered this.
“No promises.”
Charles extended his hand.
“Good day, Mr. Wolfe.”
Wolfe shook it.
“Enjoy the rest of your story.”
Charles looked toward the impossible staircase.
“I SHALL ENDEAVOR TO SURVIVE IT.”
They turned toward the sound of Finn’s AirTag.
Behind them, Tom Wolfe opened his notebook.
He had just thought of an excellent title.
10:17 A.M. — FINDING THE FOOL
“FINN! WHERE ARE YOU?” Charles shouted into the phone.
“Right here!”
“Where is here?”
“By the purple door!”
Charles surveyed the surrounding architecture.
There were eleven purple doors.
One was upside down.
Two were suspended in midair.
Another appeared to be opening and closing entirely of its own accord.
“Which purple door?”
“The one with the little gold handle!”
Charles stared at the doors.
They all had little gold handles.
Walt checked Life360.
“Charles, his location keeps changing.”
“IS HE MOVING?”
“No. Apparently, we are.”
Charles stared at him.
Walt turned his phone sideways.
Then upside down.
Then sideways again.
“According to this, Finn is forty-seven feet away, three floors below us and possibly standing in the same room.”
Rocco grinned.
“DUDE. EVEN LIFE360 IS FUCKING LOST.”
Walt switched to Find My.
The screen displayed an arrow.
FINN’S KEYS — 38 FT
The arrow pointed left.
Walt turned left.
The arrow pointed right.
He turned right.
The arrow pointed straight down.
Walt stared at it.
“Well, that’s new.”
Charles leaned over his shoulder.
“WHAT?”
“The AirTag appears to believe gravity is optional.”
Rocco looked delighted.
“DUDE. IT’S A FUCKING GHOST TAG!”
Walt pressed Play Sound again.
A faint electronic chirping came from beneath them.
Then above them.
Then somewhere behind Charles’s left shoulder.
Charles spun around.
“WHERE IS HE?”
Finn’s voice echoed through the stairwell.
“I CAN SEE YOU GUYS!”
Charles looked up.
“WHERE?”
“DOWN HERE!”
Charles looked down.
Finn was standing on the underside of a staircase.
Upside down.
Waving.
Rocco nearly fell over the railing.
“DUDE! HE’S ON THE FUCKING CEILING!”
Finn looked around.
“WHAT CEILING?”
Charles took a deep breath.
“FINN. STAY EXACTLY WHERE YOU ARE.”
“OKAY!”
Walt examined the AirTag.
The arrow rotated.
The distance dropped.
24 FT
Then:
12 FT
Then:
FINN’S KEYS — HERE
Walt looked up.
Finn was still three floors away.
“Interesting.”
Charles stared at him.
“WALTER. IF YOU SAY INTERESTING ONE MORE TIME, I SHALL CONFISCATE YOUR TELEPHONE.”
Walt held up the screen.
“Technically, the AirTag has found him.”
“THEN WHY HAVEN’T WE?”
Walt looked at the staircase.
“Because it doesn’t know which side of the floor he’s on.”
Rocco leaned over the railing.
“FINN! HOW’D YOU GET DOWN THERE?”
Finn pointed toward a staircase that appeared to lead directly into the ceiling.
“I WENT UP!”
Walt examined the staircase.
Then he examined his spirit level.
Then he put it away.
“Well, gentlemen. Apparently we’re going up.”
Charles looked toward the ceiling.
“To go down?”
“Precisely.”
Charles stared at him.
“OF COURSE.”
From somewhere behind the glass wall, the Reader laughed.
Gary looked over his shoulder.
“OH, FOR FUCK’S SAKE. NOW SHE’S WATCHING US GET LOST.”
10:21 A.M. — THE RESCUE
Getting to Finn required climbing two flights of stairs, crossing a landing that rotated while they were standing on it, and descending a staircase that deposited them exactly where they’d started.
Twice.
Walt stopped.
“Life360 says he’s directly below us.”
Charles looked over the railing.
Finn waved.
“HEY!”
Walt switched to Find My.
FINN’S KEYS — 6 FT
Charles stared at the screen.
Then at Finn.
Then back at the screen.
“WALTER. HE IS AT LEAST FORTY FEET AWAY.”
“Spatially, yes.”
Charles slowly turned toward him.
“WHAT OTHER KIND OF DISTANCE IS THERE?”
Walt considered the question.
“Apparently, whatever kind this building uses.”
Rocco leaned over the railing.
“FINN! THROW US YOUR KEYS!”
Finn reached into his pocket.
“OKAY!”
He threw the key ring.
It sailed upward.
Stopped.
Turned sideways.
And disappeared through a wall.
Walt’s phone chirped.
FINN’S KEYS — 83 FT
Charles stared.
“YOU HAVE GOT TO BE JOKING.”
Finn looked concerned.
“WAS I NOT SUPPOSED TO DO THAT?”
“NO, FINN!”
Rocco was laughing so hard he had to sit down.
“DUDE! WE JUST LOST THE FUCKING AIRTAG!”
Walt calmly opened Life360.
“Well, we still have Finn.”
Charles stared at him.
“HOW REASSURING.”
On their third attempt, Walt noticed that the same man carrying a cup of coffee had walked past them several times.
Upside down.
He appeared entirely untroubled by this.
“Charles. Follow that man.”
Charles stared.
“The upside-down one?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s the only person here who appears to know where he’s going.”
They followed him.
Halfway across the staircase, gravity changed its mind.
Charles grabbed the railing.
Walt stumbled sideways.
Rocco went sailing past them.
“WHOOOOOO!”
Gary’s beignet tray floated gently out of his hands.
“NO!”
Gary lunged after it.
The tray sailed across the landing, bounced off a wall, and landed neatly at Finn’s feet.
Finn picked it up.
“Hey! You found me!”
Charles, who was now hanging sideways from a banister, stared at him.
“YES, FINN. WE FOUND YOU.”
Finn looked delighted.
“That was fast!”
Charles made a noise that no member of Headquarters had ever heard him make before.
Walt finally reached the landing and helped Charles climb over the railing.
Gary arrived moments later, immediately reclaiming his tray.
Rocco landed beside Finn.
“DUDE! HIGH FIVE!”
They slapped hands.
“Is everybody okay?” Finn asked.
Charles straightened his jacket.
“No.”
Walt looked at his phone.
“Finn, where did your keys go?”
Finn pointed toward the wall.
“THAT WAY!”
Walt sighed.
“Well, that’s unfortunate.”
Finn reached into his other pocket.
“Oh! But I have this!”
He produced a small brass key.
There was a number engraved on one side.
54.
Charles stared.
“Finn.”
“What?”
“How long have you had that?”
“Since I found it by the purple door.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Finn looked genuinely puzzled.
“You didn’t ask.”
Charles took a long, deliberate breath.
“FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY.”
Rocco leaned toward Walt.
“Ten bucks says I get him to say fuck before lunch.”
Walt picked up his toolbox.
“You’re going to lose ten bucks.”
10:25 A.M. — THE WAY BACK
Now that they had Finn, Charles was determined to return to Headquarters and continue the search for Hope.
Unfortunately, Headquarters appeared to have other plans.
The staircase behind them had disappeared.
The purple door was locked.
And the red door through which they’d originally entered was nowhere to be found.
Walt examined Finn’s brass key again.
“Fifty-four.”
Charles looked over his shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
Walt shrugged.
“Could be a floor.”
Gary looked around.
“Could be a room.”
Rocco grinned.
“COULD BE A FUCKING NIGHTCLUB!”
Charles stared at him.
“Why would it be a nightclub?”
From somewhere beyond the next landing came a deep, unmistakable bass line.
Then a drumbeat.
Then a woman’s voice.
Gary grinned.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
The jazz stopped.
A mirror ball descended from the ceiling.
And the staircase began to sparkle.
10:28 A.M. — STUDIO FIFTY-FREAKING-FOUR
At the bottom of the staircase stood two enormous black doors.
A velvet rope stretched across the entrance.
Above the doors, illuminated in enormous silver letters, were the words:
STUDIO 54
PRIVATE EVENT
DRESS CODE STRICTLY ENFORCED
Charles stopped.
“No.”
Gary looked delighted.
“Oh, YES.”
Walt examined the entrance.
“Well, that explains the key.”
Finn was already walking toward the velvet rope.
“THIS IS AWESOME!”
“Finn! Get back here!”
Rocco threw both arms into the air.
“CHUCK! WE’RE GOING CLUBBING!”
“We are not going clubbing!”
A doorman stepped forward.
He was approximately seven feet tall, wearing a black tuxedo and sunglasses.
Indoors.
At ten twenty-eight in the morning.
He looked at Charles.
Then Walt.
Then Gary.
Then Finn.
Then Rocco.
“Names?”
Charles straightened his jacket.
“Charles Bentley. King of Swords. These gentlemen are with me.”
The doorman examined his clipboard.
“Nope.”
Charles blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Not on the list.”
Walt stepped forward.
“Walter. The Tower.”
The doorman looked at his clipboard.
“Nope.”
Gary approached.
“Gary. Ten of Swords.”
The doorman looked up.
“Kitchen?”
Gary brightened.
“YES!”
“You’re on the list.”
Charles stared.
“What?”
The doorman unclipped the velvet rope.
“Gary can come in.”
Charles stepped forward.
“We are all together.”
The doorman looked at him.
“Not my problem.”
Finn held up his brass key.
“What about this?”
The doorman examined it.
Then smiled.
“VIP.”
Charles closed his eyes.
“OF COURSE THE FOOL IS VIP.”
Rocco stepped forward.
The doorman examined Perry’s purple scarf.
His expression changed immediately.
“Sir. My apologies.”
He unclipped the velvet rope.
“Right this way.”
Charles stared.
“What?”
The doorman gestured toward the scarf.
“Friends of Perry are always welcome.”
Rocco grinned.
“FUCK YEAH!”
Charles looked toward the ceiling.
“That infernal scarf.”
Walt leaned toward the doorman.
“Surely there’s some accommodation for the two of us.”
The doorman studied him.
Then Charles.
Then the enormous toolbox.
“Are you maintenance?”
Walt straightened.
“Among other things.”
The doorman opened the rope.
“Fine. But keep the tools out of sight.”
Charles followed them through the doors.
“I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT WORKED.”
10:31 A.M. — THE PARTY AT THE END OF THE UNIVERSE
The doors opened.
Music exploded into the hallway.
A massive mirror ball hung above an enormous dance floor. Colored lights swept across the room. Silver streamers cascaded from the ceiling, and somewhere near the bar, a woman wearing an enormous feathered headdress was dancing with a man dressed entirely in gold.
The room appeared to contain several hundred people.
Possibly several hundred years’ worth of people.
Charles recognized Andy Warhol almost immediately.
He was standing near the bar, looking profoundly unimpressed.
Jean-Michel Basquiat was beside him, drawing a crown on a cocktail napkin.
Salvador Dalí was examining a drink that appeared to be melting.
And on the far side of the room, a man in a bowler hat was dancing with a woman whose face was completely obscured by an enormous green apple.
Walt surveyed the scene.
“Well, that explains where everybody went.”
Charles stared at the dance floor.
“Why are they all here?”
Gary shrugged.
“Maybe it’s an afterparty.”
“An afterparty for what?”
Gary looked around.
“The twentieth century?”
Finn was already dancing.
Rocco had somehow acquired a tambourine.
Charles grabbed Finn’s arm.
“We are not staying.”
“But I just got here!”
“Finn. We are trying to get home.”
A waiter appeared beside them carrying a silver tray.
“Champagne?”
Gary immediately reached for a glass.
Charles slapped his hand away.
“No.”
The waiter looked at Charles.
“Something stronger?”
Walt raised his hand.
“Actually—”
“No, Walter.”
Rocco grabbed two glasses.
“CHEERS, CHUCK!”
Charles stared at him.
“MY NAME IS CHARLES.”
Andy Warhol looked at Rocco.
“Who’s he?”
Charles sighed.
“The Knight of Wands.”
Warhol studied Rocco for a moment.
“He’s interesting.”
Charles stared.
“PLEASE DO NOT ENCOURAGE HIM.”
Rocco, meanwhile, had discovered a second tambourine.
Gary watched him with considerable concern.
“He’s never coming home.”
10:33 A.M. — KIND OF BLUE
Near the far end of the bar, a trumpeter sat beneath a blue spotlight.
He wore enormous sunglasses and an impeccably tailored suit. A trumpet rested across his knees.
Walt stopped.
“Charles.”
“Not now, Walter.”
“That’s Miles Davis.”
Charles turned.
Miles looked up.
Rocco appeared immediately.
“DUDE. MILES FUCKING DAVIS.”
Miles regarded him over his sunglasses.
Rocco held out his hand.
“ROCCO. KNIGHT OF WANDS.”
Miles looked at the tambourine in Rocco’s other hand.
“You play?”
“NOT PROFESSIONALLY.”
Miles nodded.
“Keep it that way.”
Gary nearly dropped his beignet tray.
Rocco grinned.
“FUCKING LEGEND.”
Charles approached with considerably more restraint.
“Mr. Davis. Charles Bentley. A pleasure.”
Miles nodded toward the dance floor.
“Your people?”
Charles surveyed Finn dancing with a woman in silver platform boots, Gary distributing beignets and Rocco attempting to convince a bartender to give him another tambourine.
“Regrettably.”
Miles lifted his trumpet.
“Sounds about right.”
He played a few notes.
The entire room seemed to change around them. For a brief moment, the pounding disco bass gave way to something spacious, cool and unmistakably blue.
Even Charles stopped talking.
Then Finn shouted from the dance floor.
“HEY! I KNOW THAT SONG!”
Miles lowered his trumpet.
“No, you don’t.”
From somewhere above the dance floor, the Reader burst out laughing.
Gary looked toward the speakers.
“OH, FUCK. SHE’S HERE TOO?”
Rocco grinned.
“G, I THINK SHE’S FOLLOWING US.”
Gary clutched his tray.
“THAT IS NOT FUCKING COMFORTING.”
10:34 A.M. — THE POWDERED SUGAR INCIDENT
Gary had barely made it twenty feet into Studio 54 before someone approached him.
A man in an open silk shirt and enormous sunglasses stared at the silver tray in Gary’s hands.
“Hey, man. What’ve you got there?”
Gary looked down.
“Beignets.”
The man leaned closer.
“Is that what we’re calling it now?”
Gary frowned.
“What?”
The man glanced around conspiratorially.
“How much?”
Gary stared at him.
“They’re free.”
The man’s eyes widened.
“FREE?”
He immediately waved over three friends.
Within seconds, Gary was surrounded.
Charles noticed the gathering.
“Gary. What are you doing?”
“Making friends.”
One of the men dipped a finger into the mountain of white powder on Gary’s tray.
Charles froze.
“EXCUSE ME. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”
The man tasted it.
His expression changed.
He looked at Gary.
“Dude. This is powdered sugar.”
Gary stared at him.
“NO SHIT. THEY’RE BEIGNETS.”
Rocco doubled over laughing.
“OH, THIS IS FUCKING BEAUTIFUL.”
Andy Warhol appeared beside them.
He examined the tray.
Then Gary.
Then the small crowd of profoundly disappointed partygoers.
“Interesting.”
Charles turned toward him.
“IT IS NOT INTERESTING.”
Warhol tilted his head.
“Very seventies.”
Gary protectively pulled the tray against his chest.
“Look, I don’t know what kind of bakery you people are running, but nobody’s snorting my fucking beignets.”
Rocco nearly collapsed.
“CHUCK! G’S RUNNING A FUCKING DRUG OPERATION!”
Charles closed his eyes.
“IT IS POWDERED SUGAR, ROCCO.”
From across the dance floor, someone shouted:
“HEY! WHERE’S THE GUY WITH THE FREE STUFF?”
Gary immediately turned around.
“THE KITCHEN IS CLOSED!”
A second man appeared.
“Can I get a bump?”
Gary looked genuinely offended.
“YOU CAN GET A NAPKIN.”
Charles seized Gary by the elbow.
“We are leaving this area. Immediately.”
Rocco wiped tears from his eyes.
“DUDE. GARY JUST BECAME THE MOST POPULAR MAN AT STUDIO 54.”
Gary looked back at the crowd.
“Nobody even ate one.”
Warhol watched them disappear into the crowd.
Then quietly reached for a beignet.
From thirty feet away, Gary shouted:
“PUT THAT FUCKING THING BACK!”
The Reader’s laughter echoed through the nightclub.
Gary looked up.
“OH, NOW YOU THINK IT’S FUNNY?”
The laughter grew louder.
Rocco grabbed the bar for support.
“G! STOP TALKING TO HER! YOU’RE MAKING IT WORSE!”
10:36 A.M. — THE EMERGENCY CARBOHYDRATE RESPONSE PROTOCOL
Gary stood near the bar, examining the last remaining beignet with growing concern.
The problem with powdered sugar was that it had a remarkably short attention span.
On a warm beignet, it began absorbing moisture almost immediately, gradually dissolving into the pastry until the once magnificent blanket of white had disappeared into a sticky, deeply disappointing glaze.
Gary considered this a personal insult.
He needed more powdered sugar.
And that was when the gentleman in the enormous fur coat approached him.
“Hey, man. Looking for something?”
Gary looked up.
“Actually, yeah. You got any powdered sugar?”
The man smiled.
“Sure do.”
He reached into his coat and produced a small plastic baggie containing a fine white powder.
Gary brightened.
“OH, THANK FUCK.”
He accepted the baggie, opened it and gave his last beignet a couple of small shakes.
“Perfect.”
He handed the baggie back.
Then took an enormous bite.
The man stared at him.
“DAMN, BOY. YOU GONNA BE BUZZING!”
Gary looked up, still chewing.
“What?”
The man grinned.
“ENJOY THE RIDE, BROTHER.”
He disappeared into the crowd.
Gary watched him go.
“Fucking weird guy.”
He finished his beignet.
A little while later, Gary found Rocco dancing beneath the mirror ball with two women, a champagne glass and a tambourine.
He was now wearing an extravagant purple velvet jacket with enormous lapels, no shirt underneath and Perry’s purple scarf draped loosely around his neck.
Nobody knew where he’d gotten the jacket.
Rocco didn’t know where he’d gotten the jacket.
He had, however, already decided he was keeping it.
He caught sight of Gary approaching and spread his arms.
“G! MY MAN! CHECK OUT THE THREADS!”
Gary stared at him.
“Where the fuck did you get that?”
Rocco glanced down at himself.
“NO FUCKING IDEA, BROTHER.”
He adjusted his lapels.
“BUT I THINK I’M IN LOVE.”
One of the women kissed his cheek.
Rocco took her hand and kissed it.
“DON’T MIND IF I DO, DARLING.”
Gary grabbed his arm.
“ROCCO. SOMETHING’S WRONG.”
Rocco stopped dancing.
For the first time in approximately forty minutes, he gave someone his undivided attention.
“What’s up, G?”
“IS THE MUSIC GETTING FASTER?”
Rocco glanced toward the DJ.
“No, dude.”
Gary nodded.
“Okay.”
A pause.
“IS THE FLOOR MOVING?”
Rocco looked down.
“Not currently.”
Gary stared at him.
“ROCCO. I THINK I CAN HEAR MY FUCKING HEART.”
Rocco lowered his champagne.
“G. WHAT DID YOU TAKE?”
“NOTHING!”
“YOU SURE?”
“I HAD A BEIGNET!”
Rocco relaxed.
“DUDE. YOU’RE FINE.”
Gary grabbed his arm.
“ROCCO. I THINK I’M ABOUT TO HAVE A FUCKING CONVERSATION WITH GOD.”
Rocco stared at him.
Then slowly narrowed his eyes.
“G. WHAT WAS ON THE BEIGNET?”
“POWDERED SUGAR!”
“WHERE’D YOU GET IT?”
“FROM SOME GUY IN A FUR COAT!”
Rocco stopped smiling.
“WHAT?”
“HE GAVE ME A LITTLE BAGGIE!”
Rocco’s mouth fell open.
“G.”
“WHAT?”
“PLEASE TELL ME YOU DIDN’T PUT THAT SHIT ON YOUR BEIGNET.”
Gary looked offended.
“OF COURSE I DID! THAT’S WHAT POWDERED SUGAR IS FOR!”
Rocco stared at him.
Then he started laughing.
Not ordinary laughing.
The kind of laughing that required him to grab the nearest piece of furniture.
“OH. MY. FUCKING. GOD.”
Gary looked increasingly concerned.
“WHAT?”
“GARY.”
“WHAT?”
“THAT WASN’T FUCKING POWDERED SUGAR!”
Gary blinked.
“THEN WHAT THE FUCK WAS IT?”
Rocco could barely get the words out.
“DUDE. YOU JUST ATE A FUCKING COCAINE BEIGNET!”
Silence.
Gary stared at him.
Then at the empty tray.
Then back at Rocco.
“WHAT?”
Rocco slid down the wall.
“YOU PUT COCAINE ON A FUCKING BEIGNET!”
Gary grabbed him by the shoulders.
“ROCCO! AM I GOING TO DIE?”
Rocco immediately stopped laughing.
“Okay. We need Chuck.”
Then the Reader’s laughter erupted through the nightclub’s sound system.
Rocco looked up.
“OH, SHE FUCKING KNOWS.”
Gary froze.
“WHO KNOWS?”
“THE READER, G!”
Gary looked at the ceiling.
“THE FUCKING GHOST?”
Another explosion of laughter.
Gary grabbed Rocco.
“ROCCO, THE GHOST IS LAUGHING AT ME!”
Rocco was now laughing so hard he could barely stand.
“DUDE! THE GHOST JUST WATCHED YOU EAT A FUCKING COCAINE BEIGNET!”
Somewhere across the room, Miles Davis lowered his trumpet and looked toward the speakers.
“What the hell is going on?”
Charles appeared behind Rocco.
“I HAVE BEEN ASKING THAT QUESTION ALL MORNING.”
He looked at Gary.
“What’s happened?”
Gary swallowed.
“I THINK I’VE BEEN POISONED.”
Charles froze.
“BY WHOM?”
Gary pointed toward the dance floor.
“SOME FUCKING GUY IN A FUR COAT!”
Charles looked at Rocco.
Rocco pressed his lips together.
Charles narrowed his eyes.
“ROCCO. WHY ARE YOU SMILING?”
“DUDE. YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS.”
“TRY ME.”
“G PUT COCAINE ON HIS FUCKING BEIGNET.”
Charles stared at him.
For several seconds, he appeared incapable of speech.
Then he turned very slowly toward Gary.
“YOU DID WHAT?”
“IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE POWDERED SUGAR!”
Charles grabbed Walt’s arm.
“WALTER. CALL FOR MEDICAL ASSISTANCE.”
Walt immediately reached for his phone.
Gary looked horrified.
“AM I GOING TO DIE?”
“We are going to get you medical attention immediately.”
Rocco was trying desperately not to laugh again.
Charles pointed at him.
“AND YOU. NOT ONE MORE WORD.”
Rocco nodded solemnly.
“Absolutely, Chuck.”
A pause.
“BUT YOU GOTTA ADMIT—”
“ROCCO!”
“HE MADE A FUCKING COCAINE DOUGHNUT!”
Charles looked toward the ceiling.
“GOOD HEAVENS. GIVE ME STRENGTH.”
Just then, the opening notes of the Bee Gees’ More Than a Woman filled Studio 54.
Gary looked up.
His face brightened.
“OH, I FUCKING LOVE THIS SONG!”
Rocco completely lost it.
Charles took Gary firmly by the arm.
“WE ARE GETTING YOU MEDICAL ATTENTION.”
Gary glanced toward the dance floor.
“CAN WE GO AFTER THIS SONG?”
“NO!”
Somewhere in a perfectly ordinary kitchen, the Reader turned up the volume.
And began dancing.
10:37 A.M. — THE READER’S PLAYLIST
The mirror ball began spinning faster.
On the other side of the universe, the Reader danced around her kitchen to the Bee Gees.
She turned up the volume again.
Inside Studio 54, the speakers nearly exploded.
Walt grabbed Charles.
“She’s controlling the music!”
Charles looked toward the ceiling.
“WHO?”
“THE READER!”
Rocco grabbed Finn.
“DUDE. SHE’S GOT EXCELLENT FUCKING TASTE!”
The nightclub flickered.
For a moment, the dance floor disappeared.
They could see the Reader dancing around her kitchen.
A glass of wine sat beside her laptop.
Her phone was connected to a speaker.
She was completely unaware that five of her characters were trapped inside her playlist.
The nightclub began to sway.
Warhol calmly adjusted his sunglasses.
Basquiat continued drawing.
Dalí’s drink finally melted.
Finn shouted from the dance floor:
“GUYS! I THINK WE’RE INSIDE HER PLAYLIST!”
Charles stared at the ceiling.
“WE’RE INSIDE HER WHAT?”
Rocco began dancing harder.
“THIS IS THE BEST FUCKING DAY EVER!”
Charles grabbed him by the lapel of his purple velvet jacket.
“WE ARE LEAVING.”
“CHUCK. THE SONG JUST GOT GOOD.”
“AND I AM VERY HAPPY FOR YOU.”
“YOU DON’T SOUND HAPPY.”
“THAT IS BECAUSE I AM NOT.”
Gary, still looking decidedly unwell, leaned against Walt.
“IS ANYBODY ELSE FEELING THE BASS IN THEIR TEETH?”
Walt put a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
“Come on, Gary. Let’s get you out of here.”
Rocco adjusted his jacket.
“CHUCK! I THINK SHE LIKES US!”
Charles closed his eyes.
“I AM BEGGING HER TO STOP.”
11:02 A.M. — THE EXIT THAT WASN’T
They found the red door behind the kitchen.
Above it hung a familiar brass plaque.
DO NOT OPEN.
ESPECIALLY IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY.
Charles nearly embraced it.
“HOME.”
Walt inserted Finn’s brass key.
It turned.
The door swung open.
Beyond it was a staircase.
Charles stopped.
“Walter.”
“Yes?”
“THAT IS NOT HEADQUARTERS.”
Walt looked through the doorway.
“No.”
Gary peered around his shoulder.
“Where the fuck are we now?”
The staircase was covered in deep red carpeting.
A sign on the wall read:
YOU ARE HERE.
Beneath it, an arrow pointed in six directions.
Rocco grinned.
“CHUCK. I THINK THE BUILDING’S FUCKING WITH US.”
From somewhere overhead came the Reader’s laughter.
Gary looked up.
“OH, FUCK OFF!”
The laughter became louder.
Charles stepped through the doorway.
“Madam, if you are responsible for this, I would appreciate some assistance.”
The staircase rotated.
Charles grabbed the railing.
“THAT WAS NOT THE ASSISTANCE I HAD IN MIND!”
They tried another door.
It led to the library.
Another led to Gertrude Stein’s salon.
Alice was removing a tray of brownies from the oven.
Rocco attempted to enter.
Charles physically prevented him.
The next door opened onto the river.
Hesse looked up from his book.
“Back so soon?”
Charles closed it immediately.
“No.”
Another door opened into Studio 54.
Rocco tried to go back inside.
Walt grabbed his jacket.
“Not now.”
“DUDE. MILES WAS ABOUT TO PLAY ANOTHER SET!”
“Gary needs medical attention.”
Rocco glanced at Gary.
Gary was staring at his own hand.
“G?”
Gary looked up.
“I THINK I CAN FEEL MY FINGERPRINTS.”
Rocco immediately stopped arguing.
“RIGHT. LET’S GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.”
12:26 P.M. — THE LONG WAY HOME
By lunchtime, Charles had abandoned the floor plan.
Walt had abandoned the spirit level.
Gary had abandoned the notion that the Reader was a benevolent supernatural entity.
And Rocco had somehow acquired a fourth tambourine.
Charles confiscated it.
“YOU HAVE THREE. THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH.”
“CHUCK. YOU CAN NEVER HAVE TOO MUCH PERCUSSION.”
“Yes. You can.”
Finn was still enjoying himself.
“Where are we going next?”
“HOME,” Charles replied.
“Cool. Where’s that?”
Charles stared at him.
Walt checked Life360.
All five circles were now clustered together.
The application displayed a notification.
You’ve arrived.
Charles looked at it.
“Arrived WHERE?”
Walt turned the phone around.
Life360 displayed the five of them standing in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.
Rocco leaned over his shoulder.
“DUDE. WE’RE FUCKING SWIMMING.”
Gary looked around.
“NO, WE’RE NOT.”
“THAT’S WHAT MAKES IT FUNNY, G.”
The Reader laughed.
Gary pointed toward the ceiling.
“YOU KNOW WHAT? I’M NOT TALKING TO YOU ANYMORE.”
The laughter stopped.
Gary looked relieved.
Then a faint giggle came from inside Walt’s toolbox.
Gary backed away.
“OH, FUCK THAT.”
2:18 P.M. — ANOTHER PHILOSOPHICAL INCONVENIENCE
They had been walking for hours.
Charles had removed his tie.
Walt was carrying Gary’s empty tray.
Rocco’s purple velvet jacket had acquired a small gold brooch of uncertain origin.
Finn was eating a sandwich he’d found in a room that had briefly resembled a railway station.
They passed a familiar doorway.
Beyond it, the river flowed silently through the library.
Siddhartha stood beside the little wooden boat.
He looked up.
“You have returned.”
Charles stopped.
“Apparently.”
“Have you found what you were seeking?”
Charles looked at Finn.
“Yes.”
Then at the empty space beside him.
“No.”
Siddhartha smiled.
“Then perhaps your journey is not finished.”
Charles considered this.
“Mr. Siddhartha, with the greatest possible respect, I have spent the better part of five hours being informed that my journey is not finished.”
Rocco leaned toward Walt.
“HE’S GONNA FUCKING LOSE IT.”
Siddhartha looked toward the river.
“Sometimes the way home becomes clear only when we stop searching for it.”
Charles stared at him.
Then at the boat.
Then at Walt.
“WALTER. CHECK THE NEXT DOOR.”
Walt opened the door beside the river.
It led to a broom closet.
Charles looked inside.
There was a mop.
A bucket.
And a small red door at the back.
He stared.
“Of course.”
From somewhere above the bookshelves came the Reader’s laughter.
Charles looked up.
“MADAM. THIS IS BECOMING EXCESSIVE.”
4:39 P.M. — LAST CALL
Seven hours.
They had been gone for seven hours.
They had crossed an impossible staircase inside an Escher painting, met Gertrude Stein, Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha and Tom Wolfe, tracked the Fool through an architectural impossibility using Life360 and an AirTag, and somehow ended up at Studio 54.
They had encountered Andy Warhol, Jean-Michel Basquiat, Salvador Dalí and Miles Davis.
Rocco had acquired a purple velvet jacket and three tambourines.
And Gary had eaten a cocaine beignet.
Charles had reached the absolute limit of his ability to accommodate the unexpected.
“WE ARE LEAVING. NOW.”
Walt took Finn’s brass key.
They entered the broom closet.
The little red door stood directly ahead.
Above it was the same brass plaque.
DO NOT OPEN.
ESPECIALLY IF THERE IS AN EMERGENCY.
Charles stared at it.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake.”
Walt examined the lock.
“Finn. The key.”
Finn handed it over.
Walt inserted the key.
It turned.
The door swung open.
Beyond it lay the familiar hallway of Tarot Headquarters.
Charles nearly wept.
“HOME.”
They stepped through.
The door slammed behind them.
The music stopped.
The emergency lights flickered on.
And Charles looked up at the clock above reception.
9:39 A.M.
He stopped walking.
“Walter.”
“Yes?”
“What time did we leave?”
“9:39.”
“And what time is it now?”
Walt checked his watch.
“4:39.”
Charles pointed at the clock.
“THEN WHY DOES THAT SAY 9:39?”
Walt examined it.
“Interesting.”
“IT IS NOT INTERESTING, WALTER!”
Rocco, wearing his purple velvet jacket, Perry’s scarf and three tambourines, threw his arms into the air.
“CHUCK! WE JUST SPENT SEVEN FUCKING HOURS IN ANOTHER DIMENSION AND MADE IT BACK BEFORE WE LEFT!”
Finn looked delighted.
“CAN WE DO IT AGAIN?”
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!”
Gary looked at the clock.
“So technically, I can have breakfast again?”
Charles seized his arm.
“YOU ARE GOING DIRECTLY TO THE MEDICAL DEPARTMENT.”
Walt looked at his phone.
The clock changed.
9:39:04 A.M.
He frowned.
“Charles.”
“What?”
“According to Headquarters, we’ve been gone four seconds.”
Charles stared at him.
Four seconds.
Seven hours.
He took a deep breath.
Then another.
“WALTER. PLEASE DO NOT TELL ME ANYTHING ELSE.”
From somewhere overhead came the familiar sound of a woman laughing.
Gary froze.
“OH, FUCK NO.”
9:39 A.M. — THE RETURN
Perry was sitting in the conference room when they entered.
He looked up from Sean’s twenty-seven-page risk assessment.
Then at Rocco.
Then at the purple velvet jacket.
Then at the three tambourines.
Then at Gary, who appeared to be experiencing several different dimensions simultaneously.
Perry glanced at the clock.
“You’ve been gone for approximately four seconds.”
Charles removed his jacket.
Folded it carefully.
Placed it on the conference table.
“AND I HAVE AGED TWENTY YEARS.”
Perry pointed at Rocco.
“WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GET THAT JACKET?”
Rocco spread his arms.
“STUDIO 54, BABY!”
Perry slowly stood.
“YOU WENT TO STUDIO 54 WITHOUT ME?”
Charles stared at him.
“You said you weren’t going.”
Perry looked genuinely wounded.
“THAT WAS BEFORE I KNEW THERE WAS A FUCKING GUEST LIST.”
He snatched his scarf from Rocco’s neck and examined it.
“Is that glitter?”
Rocco grinned.
“ANDY WARHOL WAS THERE!”
Perry froze.
“WHAT?”
“AND BASQUIAT!”
Perry’s mouth fell open.
“JEAN-MICHEL BASQUIAT?”
Rocco nodded enthusiastically.
“DUDE. THE WHOLE FUCKING PLACE WAS FULL OF ARTISTS!”
Perry slowly turned toward Charles.
“Charles.”
“No.”
“CHARLES.”
“Absolutely not.”
“YOU LEFT ME HERE WITH SEAN’S RISK ASSESSMENT WHILE YOU WENT CLUBBING WITH ANDY FUCKING WARHOL?”
Charles stared at him.
Then at Rocco.
Then at Gary.
Then at Walt.
Then at Finn.
“WE WERE NOT CLUBBING. WE WERE SEARCHING FOR TWO MISSING EMPLOYEES.”
Perry folded his arms.
“And did you find them?”
Charles pointed at Finn.
“One.”
Perry looked around.
“Where’s Hope?”
Charles closed his eyes.
“STILL MISSING.”
Perry opened his mouth.
Charles raised one finger.
“Do not.”
Perry closed it.
For approximately three seconds.
Then he noticed Gary.
“Darling, why do you look like you’ve seen the face of God?”
Gary swallowed.
“Funny you should mention that.”
Rocco’s face lit up.
“OH, DUDE. YOU ARE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS.”
Gary pointed a warning finger at him.
“DON’T.”
Rocco threw an arm around Perry.
“G WAS DEALING COCAINE AT STUDIO 54.”
Perry’s jaw dropped.
“HE WAS WHAT?”
“BEIGNETS, BABY! PURE WHITE POWDER! FREE SAMPLES!”
Gary slammed his empty tray onto the conference table.
“IT WAS FUCKING POWDERED SUGAR!”
Rocco grinned.
“WELL, THE FIRST TIME IT WAS.”
Perry looked at Gary.
Then Rocco.
Then the empty tray.
“THE FIRST TIME?”
Charles grabbed his jacket.
“THAT IS QUITE ENOUGH.”
Walt was already on the telephone with the Medical Department.
“Hello? Yes. We need someone in the conference room immediately. Accidental ingestion of an unknown quantity of a suspected stimulant.”
Perry slowly sat down.
“I’m sorry. WHAT?”
Rocco adjusted his purple velvet lapels.
“LONG STORY, BROTHER.”
Perry stared at him.
Then reached for Sean’s risk assessment.
He flipped through several pages.
“I’m almost positive this isn’t in here.”
Charles pointed at him.
“DO NOT GIVE SEAN ANY IDEAS.”
Perry looked from Gary to Rocco.
Then slowly reached for his phone.
Charles’s voice came thundering across the room.
“PERRY. DO NOT CALL SEAN.”
Perry froze.
“How does he DO that?”
The Medical Department arrived.
Gary was escorted out, still attempting to explain that he had simply been trying to improve a perfectly respectable pastry.
Walt followed.
Finn waved enthusiastically.
“BYE, G!”
Gary turned around.
“PROTECT THE FUCKING BEIGNETS!”
Rocco saluted him with a tambourine.
“WE GOT YOU, BROTHER!”
Then the familiar laughter echoed faintly through the conference room.
Gary stopped dead.
“OH, FUCK NO.”
Everybody looked at him.
Gary pointed toward the ceiling.
“SHE FOLLOWED US HOME!”
Charles closed his eyes.
“Gary. There is no ghost.”
Another burst of laughter.
Rocco grinned.
“HI, DARLING!”
The laughter grew louder.
Charles slowly raised his eyes toward the ceiling.
“MADAM. PLEASE.”
Perry looked up.
“WHO THE FUCK IS MADAM?”
Charles collected his jacket.
“GOOD DAY TO ALL OF YOU.”
He walked out.
Perry watched him go.
“Well. Somebody’s being dramatic.”
Rocco grinned.
“ROUND FOUR!”
And somewhere deep inside Headquarters, the building began to hum.
Hope was still missing.
9:39 A.M. — SOMEWHERE ELSE ENTIRELY
In a perfectly ordinary kitchen, a blonde woman sat at her laptop.
A half-empty coffee cup rested beside her.
A tarot deck lay scattered across the countertop.
The Bee Gees were playing.
More Than a Woman.
She read the last paragraph she’d written.
Then she started laughing.
She reached for her coffee.
Paused.
And looked at the cards.
The King of Swords.
The Tower.
The Ten of Swords.
The Knight of Wands.
The Fool.
For a moment, she could have sworn she heard music beneath the Bee Gees.
Faintly.
Somewhere very far away.
A calliope.
People Are Strange.
The same short phrase, skipping over and over.
She frowned.
Then smiled.
“Well, that’s fucking weird.”
And went back to writing.
END OF EPISODE FOUR
One employee recovered. One still missing. Seven hours elapsed. Four seconds accounted for.
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