Free Fire Season by Jon Loomis

desk officer today. Ask him to come up, would you?”
    â€œWill do.”
    Ten seconds later the intercom beeped. “He’s on his way,” Arlene said.
    *   *   *
    â€œI ain’t seen him, Frankie,” Tony said, standing just inside Coffin’s office door. “Like I said.”
    â€œHe hasn’t been in touch with you? No phone calls? Nothing?”
    â€œNope. Nada.”
    Tony seemed nervous. Frightened, even. He was wide-eyed, sweatier than usual.
    â€œWhat’s up, Tony?”
    â€œWhat’s up with what?”
    â€œYou look like someone’s been chasing you.”
    Tony turned, opened the door a crack, peeked out, then shut the door again as silently as he could. He looked like a frightened bear. He shambled across the rug, lowered himself carefully into a leather guest chair. Outside, in the hallway, workmen started banging on something metal. There was a brief barrage of drilling.
    â€œFrankie,” Tony said, when the noise subsided for a moment. “They’re back.”
    â€œWho’s back? You mean Rudy?”
    Tony shook his head so hard that his jowls flapped like a basset hound’s. “Not Rudy. I told you I ain’t seen him.”
    â€œWho, then?”
    â€œYou’re gonna think I’m crazy.”
    Coffin raised an eyebrow.
    â€œThe saucers, Frankie. I saw ’em again this morning as I was driving in. Over Pilgrim Lake.”
    Tony lived in Eastham, about a half-hour drive from Provincetown on Route 6.
    â€œSaucers,” Coffin said.
    â€œThree of ’em, Frankie. Big silver ones. Hovering in formation over Pilgrim Lake as I’m coming down the hill there. Then when I get almost underneath ’em, they zoom off, like that. ” He snapped his fingers. “Out toward the Atlantic. Gone. Just like the last time.”
    â€œWhat last time?” Coffin said.
    Tony rubbed a hand over his face. His forehead was sheened with sweat. “I shouldn’a said nothing. Forget it.”
    â€œTony. What last time?”
    Tony looked over his shoulder again, then leaned forward, meeting Coffin’s eyes. “Back in ’95. October—right around this time of year. I’d only been on the force about six months. I saw ’em then, too. Right before.”
    Coffin’s eyes itched. He rubbed the lids with the thumb and index finger of his right hand. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said.
    â€œAsk me, Frankie,” Tony said, eyes suddenly fierce.
    â€œTony.”
    â€œâ€˜Right before what?’” Tony said, poking at Coffin’s desktop with a thick forefinger. “You’re my first cousin. My best friend since we were kids. Go on, ask me.”
    â€œLook,” Coffin said. “This isn’t helping me. Somebody’s setting fires.” He looked at his watch. “I’m supposed to be getting my blood drawn.”
    â€œThey took me, Frankie. They came in the night and took me.”
    â€œTony.”
    â€œThey did things to me.”
    â€œThey,” Coffin said, “did things to you.”
    Tony stared out the window—past Coffin’s shoulder, over the harbor toward Pilgrim Lake. “And now they’re back.”
    Coffin took a deep breath, smoothed his mustache. “Look,” he said. “Why don’t you take a few personal days? I’ll get one of the temps to fill in. Take Doris and the kids up to Boston. It’d make her happy, right?”
    Tony nodded. “Okay,” he said. “It’s worth a shot. Maybe they’ll take somebody else, instead. Some tourist, maybe.”
    â€œThey can have ’em all,” Coffin said. “As long as they leave their wallets behind.”
    *   *   *
    At the clinic, Coffin waited to have his blood drawn. The waiting room was pleasant enough: it had a high, cathedral ceiling with skylights and no TV. Coffin picked up a copy of