“Ow! Do you have any idea who I am?” a woman cried and stumbled into the center of the ballroom. Her red hair was rolled into double buns that covered each ear like two oversized snail shells, and she wore a white gown with long, flowing sleeves.

It took a moment for him to register that it was Deputy Wolf.

The crowd made space around her and a group of men in stormtrooper getups. But their weapons looked far more realistic than plastic replicas of blaster rifles.

The largest stormtrooper gave the princess a shove with the side of his gun, causing her to stumble forward.

“Asshole,” she muttered. She saw him gawking at her. “Okay, guys, take five. Get some treats.”

The troopers were drawn to the refreshments table as if pulled by an invisible force.

“Alan, I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” Her face was flushed, and she struggled to straighten the buns on each side of her head as she approached.

“Oh, uh, I was just leaving. My director asked me to come, but—”

“No. Don’t go so soon.” There was urgency in her voice. Despite her well-toned body beneath the clinging gown, she seemed fragile tonight, like a frightened girl who had ended up with the wrong crowd.

“Does the princess order it?” It was the booze talking.

“Haha, yes! I mean, no, but… I don’t know why I agreed to play along with those guys.”

“Does her highness desire a drink?” He tried to channel his best Han Solo. Without waiting for her response, he picked two champagnes off the nearest server drone and handed one to her. “I’ve been drinking these all night. They’re great.”

“Why, thank you.” She lifted the glass. “Happy Halloween!”

“Happy Halloween.”

From across the room, Paul Murphy gave him a thumbs up, then disappeared into the party.

The clink of their toast was lost within the gala’s chaos.

She made a face as if she had tasted battery acid. “What is it?”

“Pumpkin spice champagne!” he intoned, raising his drink even higher.

“Oh, my Lord, that’s…”

“A tragedy, I know. But it grows on you.” He took another swallow.

The largest of the stormtroopers pushed his way through the guests and stood towering over Gwen. He held his gun so it pointed at Alan’s chest.

“Are you sure you can have a drink? He looks like he’s transporting you to the nearest Death Star.” Alan gently pushed the barrel askew. “Classy, real guns.”

“Don’t fucking touch my gun, shrink,” came the muffled voice of Comstock through the mask.

“Is that you, Acting Sherrif Comstock? The uniform of fascism fits you perfectly.” He couldn’t see Comstock’s face, but he was certain it was red with anger.

“Let’s go, princess!” The large man shoved Gwen away from Alan.

“Shit, Comstock. I’m done with the role play.” She took the pins out of her buns and let her hair cascade down her back.

The large white mask with big black eyes stared at Alan. For an instant, he thought Comstock was going to shoot him.

“These guns don’t have a stun setting,” said Comstock.

Emboldened by the liquid courage contained in the pumpkin spice champagne, Alan waved his hand in front of the stormtrooper’s face. “This is not the princess you’re searching for. You may go.”

Gwen blew champagne out her nostrils, the fine mist landing on his neck.

“Fuck you, shrink,” said Comstock. The man twirled and stomped off, shoving the badly circumcised penis out of his path as he went.

“I need a smoke,” said Gwen.

“There’s a back door. Bottoms up.”

They drained their drinks and, with tipsy grace, waltzed through the party to the rear of the ballroom.

Wind nipped their faces as they departed the warmth and light of the gala into the cold night.

“Careful, princess, watch your step.”

They followed a narrow sidewalk to the docks. In the summer season, the Flathead would have been flush with water and boats, but in October, the log stilts jutted out of the muddy lakebed, making their platforms appear like dinosaurs lined up in a museum.

They sat smoking, legs dangling over the edge. Cars buzzed distantly on the highway. Across the bay, lights from other resorts ran the spectrum from blue to amber.

“I’m sorry about the way Comstock dealt with Francis. He was out of line,” said Gwen.

“I’m guessing you couldn’t do anything about it,” he replied.

“He’s my superior.” She took a drag, the ember lighting the front of her face.

He swigged the vodka. “Cops went bad in the valley,” he said

“There’re a few good ones left. McGreevy…” she said

“The little guy?”

“He’s good people. Grew up rough. He has a backbone. Just forgets sometimes. Makes a mean pot of coffee.”

The booze and the cold were making him shiver. They had neglected to bring their coats.

He smoked. Her brand of cigarettes was strong.

“What about Francis?” she asked.

He sighed. “I shouldn’t say too much. I promised him… He’s seen better days.”

“Poor kid,” she said. “I interviewed the responding physician at the hospital in Ronan. You can imagine, tight-lipped. She did say that Taylor moved his daughter to his ranch. He pays for his own doctors.”

“He can afford it,” said Alan.

She laughed suddenly.

“What?”

“I just remembered a handsome, sophisticated substitute teacher my first year of high school.”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he said.

“No,” she said. “Mrs. Sullivan’s freshman English. You taught Romeo and Juliet. You were good. You had Brian Conley and Andrea Marshal do the death scene. I still remember. Oh happy dagger…” she trailed. “Okay so maybe not.”

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“This is thy sheath; there rust, and let me die.” He finished the line for her.

“Told you. You were good.”

“You’re saying I was your teacher? Now I feel like a perv.”

“Do you remember a quiet redhead in the third row? I always sat in the same spot next to the window.”

He closed his eyes and dredged his memories. He'd done a long substitute gig for a teacher who had suffered a nervous breakdown after being locked in the supply closet.

“It was a long time ago. I’ve forgotten a lot about that time.”

“I never wore panties,” she said.

A distant, illicit memory struck him quickly. He was glad it was dark, so she couldn’t see the expression that must have crossed his face. He’d let it go as the least of his issues during those dark, intoxicated years after—

“Christ,” he said.

She laughed. “Yeah, now it’s coming back, ain’t it? I had… issues back then.”

“And now you’re a cop, locking up the men you used to jailbait.”

“And you’re a shrink. I wonder who’s more fucked up?” She took the last drag of her cigarette and flicked it to vanish over the side of the dock like a falling star.

“I’m going to turn into a pumpkin in about thirty minutes,” Alan said. “Do you have a ride home? I’d hate for you to leave with the same assholes.”

“I can walk. I don’t live far.” Gwen replied.

“I’ve got a self-driver. I won’t even touch the steering wheel. If you want…”

There was a pause in which the music from the party filtered in before she said, “Alright, it’ll be my first time in a civilian self-driver.”

“Are you serious? Do you have running water in your house?”

When they rose to leave, he noticed a woman in a long, black dress watching them from the end of the dock. As they approached, he saw her face painted white with lips of crimson red—the costume of the romantic vampire he’d glimpsed earlier in the coatroom.

“Looks like we’re not the only ones who wanted to get out of that party,” Gwen observed.

“Dr. Smith?” said the woman.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said.

“I was hoping I could have a word with you.” She spoke with a French accent.

“We were just leaving.”

“Please. It will take but a moment.”

He looked at Gwen. She shrugged.

“Well, I guess so. Let’s chat inside.”

“No,” she said abruptly. “Here is fine. I don’t have much time.”

“I’ll meet you inside,” said Gwen.

“Please stay, Deputy Wolf,” the woman interjected.

“Did I catch your name, ma’am?” asked Alan.

“I am Dr. Lethe Vonnix. I am an emissary from a group called the Roanne Collective. We’re contributors to your clinic.”

“Thank you,” said Alan, realizing that this was some of the elbow bumping Murphy wanted him to do. “Clear Hope appreciates it. Dr. Murphy is the one you want to talk to.”

“I have spoken to Dr. Murphy. He directed me to you.”

To his left, he noticed the stormtroopers marching toward them in single file from the resort.

“Okay, we’ll probably just need to exchange emails or something.” He nudged Gwen and indicated the approaching company.

“Shit,” said Gwen.

The woman who called herself a doctor implored, “Please, Dr. Smith. I need to know the methodology you plan to use with Francis Builds A Fire.”

Alan nodded. Now he understood. “That bitch! You can tell Becky Madison—”

“Dr. Madison is not of my concern,” said Vonnix. “Dr. Smith, I have a sincere reason to believe that Francis Builds A Fire is in grave peril.”

“Peril? Peril from me? You think I would hurt him? No. I want you to tell Becky to go fuck herself.”

Gwen put a hand on his arm. The Empire was upon them.

“Wolf, we’re going,” Comstock’s voice boomed. The muscular cop held his costume helmet under his arm while his friends stood behind him, their weapons resting on their shoulders.

“I’m fine,” said Gwen.

“Peril from something you’re not ready to understand,” said Vonnix.

“Are you fucking with me?” Alan said.

“Fuck you, shrink.” Comstock spat.

“I’m giving her a ride home. You guys can go play make-believe under the covers.”

“Dr. Smith, I won’t have another chance to speak with you before they find you. You must protect the boy.” The woman turned and hurried back to the resort.

The bitter wind had picked up, carrying on it a newly minted flurry that wet his face. His mind was a slurry of alcohol and rage.

“It wasn’t my fault! It wasn’t my fault!” Alan shouted after her.

The next thing he knew, he was looking down the barrel of Comstock’s gun.

“You’re drunk. You’re not driving,” insisted the cop.

“Jesus, Comstock, he’s got a self-drive. Put that down,” said Gwen. “Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.”

Comstock didn’t move.

Gwen grabbed Alan’s hand. “I’m ready to go.”

They pushed past the stormtroopers and headed back up the walk that had turned slick since their outing. Some of the gala goers had stepped outside and were staring at the dock. A few of them whispered as Alan and Gwen walked by.

----------------------------------------

The purple canopy of the port-cochere did little to shield them from the ice flakes whipped by the wind.

Jacketless, Gwen crossed her arms. He was in the initial stages of being a gentleman and offering her his coat when his midnight-gray self-driver pulled up with a soft hum.

Inside, the car was warm, and the seats radiated heat.

“Where to, Dr. Alan Smith, sexiest man alive,” said the sultry AI voice. He glanced at Gwen. A grin spread across her face.

“Is that Raven Maddox?” she said.

“Kind of a joke. Raven, normal voice, please.”

“Yes, Dr. Smith. Turn me on again whenever you wish.” There was a soft beep, and the computer continued in a robotic manner: “Please state your destination.”

“Passenger’s directions,” he said.

“Passenger enabled.”

“Just tell it your address.”

“Ninety-eight Highland Avenue,” Gwen said.

“Affirmative. ETA in ten minutes.”

“I thought you lived close by,” he said.

“Exercise never killed anyone,” she said.

He reclined in his seat and stared up through the sunroof at the passing streetlights. His head swam. Now that a very attractive woman was sitting next to him, he regretted drinking.

Gwen followed his lead and put her seat back. In the reflection of the glass, he saw her hand gripping the armrest. “It’s so strange letting a computer do the driving,” she said.

“You just need to relinquish control and put your faith in the machine.”

“Fuck machines. They’re going to be the end of us.”

“Before the self-drive grid, human error killed roughly forty-thousand people a year on American roads. Compare that to seventy-two deaths that can be solely attributed to autonomous vehicles.”

“Thank you, Dr. Facts.”

“Sorry. I watched the promotional video for the car.”

“I guess someday even us holdouts will be forced onto the grid.”

“Sorry about back there,” he said. “I’m a walking faux pas.”

“It’s alright. It’s Halloween.”

For an instant, he felt her soft hand on his.

ALERT! ALERT! flashed on the windshield’s display. “Driver alert. Possibility of being followed,” announced the computer in an elevated tone.

Alan sat up, craning his neck to see out the back window.

“What the hell?” Gwen said.

“This thing is funky.” He hit the dash, but the computer repeated its warning.

“Are you sure?” She was now looking back over her shoulder.

“The computer is programmed to detect the possibility of being tailed. It’s an anti-kidnapping feature.”

The headlights of the car behind them flashed three times.

“I think they want us to stop,” said Gwen.

“Let’s stop at the Town Pump. It’s usually busy. We’ll see what they want. Computer, take us to Town Pump.”

They made slow progress through the town. Christmas and Halloween lights glittered in shop windows. Little kids dressed in ghoulish costumes and heavy overcoats carried large bags full of candy. The autopilot slowed in calculation of the holiday foot traffic.

The car behind them backed off but kept its lights on bright.

“I bet it’s Comstock,” Alan said.

“It’s not his car. Could be one of his goons. He’s the type to have me followed.”

“Are you and him…”

“Hell no.”

At a red light, the car pulled up close behind them and flashed its lights again. It was a black SUV without front plates.

“Unsafe distance achieved,” said the AI.

“No shit,” he muttered. At the next red light, the SUV pulled alongside. He had to look up to see a window with blackout tint.

“ETA in three minutes,” said his car.

Gwen was clenching her hands on her lap.

“Do you have a gun?” Alan asked.

“Does it look like I’m carrying a gun?”

“Right,” he said. “Stupid question.”

“I don’t use guns when I’m off duty. Hell, I don’t use them on duty. What are they doing?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been followed before. Town Pump is busy. There’s always a security guard on duty and probably a cop eating donuts.”

When the light changed, they merged into traffic on Highway 93. Ahead, Town Pump loomed as an illuminated oasis. They pulled in under the bright canopy and stopped at the front door.

The SUV parked at an angle next to a charging bank.

“Computer.”

“Yes, Dr. Smith?”

“Authorize passenger without driver.”

“Passenger authorized.”

“If anything happens, it’ll take you wherever you tell it to go.”

“You’re going out there?”

“I don’t like being followed,” he said.

“Pretty brave for a shrink. Want back up?”

“I’ll be fine. If I’m abducted, you can have my car.”

“Alan, I can have backup here in five minutes.”

“Have they done anything illegal?”

“Not technically.”

“Let’s see what’s up. I prefer losing a kidney to dealing with Comstock again.”

As he stepped out of his car, the SUV shut off its headlights and sat there like a sleek, angular predator waiting to pounce.