The Courier: Chapter 8

Vol. 1; Issue 8
By Brian

Lillian remained on her knees next to Rutherford’s body, shock beginning to worm its way into her soul. She might have remained there, kneeling in a pool of her lover’s blood indefinitely. A jarring knock on the limo’s tinted window snapped her out of it.

She lunged across Rutherford’s inert body and grabbed her bag, the bag containing the package that had done nothing but continue to turn her world upside down since it entered her life. She began to reach for the door handle when she remembered Rutherford’s dying exhortation to take his case with her. As the knocking continued, now accompanied by a muffled voice, she frantically searched the limo, suddenly feeling the urgency of the realization that she was alone with two dead men in a very tight space and the person who had done this was outside somewhere, perhaps waiting for her to pop her head into view.

She spied Rutherford’s case resting on the leather surface of the back seat, oblivious to the death and destruction that now surrounded it. She grabbed the aluminum attaché case, looped the strap of her own bag over her head, and once again reached for the door handle. She spared one more glance at Rutherford’s body, silently mouthing the goodbye they had never shared in life but were now forced to share in death, then pulled on the handle of the door. She exited on the opposite side of the limo from the man who had been knocking and was now cupping his hands on the tinted glass, trying to see what was going on, and slid onto the warm surface of the DC street.

She didn’t linger. The street was beginning to back up and, even through the shock and grief that was choking her heart and clouding her mind, she could only imagine what she looked like. Her hair a tangled mess, arms and clothes soaked in blood, she knew she had to get low fast, not to mention the fact that there was most likely a gunman somewhere in the vicinity with a bullet chambered in his rifle with her name on it. She had to get moving.

Lillian took a deep breath, shot to her feet and ran straight from the car and onto the sidewalk. She raced down the pavement, leaving the limo and the snarl of traffic it was causing behind her. Her eyes searched frantically for an alley way or a side street, something to get her off whatever main street she was on, weaving her way around shocked pedestrians.

After sprinting for several blocks she saw just the out she was looking for. A tiny side alley nestled in between a small bookstore and a twenty-four hour restaurant. She dove to her left and into its dark confines.

Lillian ran down the length of the narrow alley and threw herself behind the protective bulk of a large green dumpster. She lay there on the pavement, sucking in air, trying to settle her racing pulse as much as she tried to settle her racing mind.

She peeked around the rusted side of the dumpster, back the way she had come.

Nothing.

No cleverly concealed hitman closing off her only route of escape (‘running down a dead end alley…not my best decision,’ she chastised herself).

No police officers scouring the sidewalks, dogs hot on her trail.

Just people walking to and fro, lost in their own private frustrations and victories, not knowing just how dangerous an open city street could be.

She sat up and leaned her back against the red bricked surface of the diner.

“Dammit, Rutherford,” she whispered. “What is going on? Why is this happening to me?”

She closed her eyes as fresh tears began to flow. She allowed herself a moment or two to cry, to let the emotions flow out for a bit lest the dam should break and she lost the ability to think.

She wiped her hand across her eyes and pulled Rutherford’s attaché case into her lap. She knew the case well. Rutherford almost always had it with him, its aluminum surface marked with the tiny dings and scratches that told the story of how well traveled it was.

Lillian pushed the button to release the latch but to no avail. Locked. The small combination lock set near the handle seemed to mock her with its indifference to her plight.

She smacked the lid of the case in frustration, wondering why Rutherford so desperately wanted her to take it from the limo. She thudded her head against the brick wall, not knowing where to go or what to do. She was lost in a town where the only friend she had was now dead and probably being printed and photographed by the police right now.

She tilted her head to the side to get a better view of the name of the place that was painted on the side of the building.

The Tune Inn Restaurant.

‘Strange name for a place,’ she thought, trying to orient her internal compass to figure out where she was.

Lillian knew she had to do something. She couldn’t huddle behind the dumpster forever. Mae, wherever she was, needed her to be strong.

A side door to the restaurant opened and two women walked out into the alley. Lillian pulled her legs in, hugging her knees to her chest. She didn’t know what to do next but she did know she did not want to be discovered. The two women walked a few paces down the alley, stopping no more than five feet from the dumpster Lillian was hiding behind. She peered cautiously around its edge.

Both women appeared to be in their early to mid twenties. They both lit cigarettes and continued a conversation they had apparently begun inside.

The taller of the two, a thin redhead dressed in a cream colored pants suit that looked like it was striving desperately for high end but was stuck miserably in manager’s discount blew out the smoke from her first inhalation.

“I don’t know why he has to be like that. I bust my ass for him, all day every day. I go where he tells me to go; I stand where he asks me to stand. The only thing I don’t do for him is lay where he wants me to lay, and I know that thought is always on his mind, no matter how much he talks about his wife and kids. I see how he looks at me.”

The other woman nodded her head, her medium length chestnut colored hair sweeping the shoulders of her jacket.

“Everybody sees the way he looks at you.”

The redhead smiled. “I sometimes wonder if I should just get it over with. Let him have his way, make for an easier work environment.”

The brunette, reaching down to pick something off of her black leggings snorted in disgust. “Dar. You cannot be serious.”

Dar smiled. “I said sometimes. You know me better than that Rosie. I want to advance as much as you. But I want to do it on my feet, not on my back.”

Rosie laughed. “If only our wonderful boss had the same philosophy when she was where we are.”

Dar returned the laugh. “Yeah well, you know what they say about her, she’s had more…”

The redhead’s sentence was cut off by the shrill blast of police sirens. Lillian shrank back against the wall, willing her body to merge with the bricks as first one, then another, police car flew by the mouth of the alley.

“Wow, what’s going on?” Dar said as she turned to see if any more cars would appear.

Rosie shrugged her shoulders. “Who knows?”

“Let’s go find out.” Dar dropped her half smoked cigarette to the ground.

“You go ahead…I need higher amounts of nicotine to counteract all that syrup lacing my stomach. I’ll meet ya back inside.”

Dar trotted off, up and out of the alley. Rosie leaned back on the wall and savored the sharp tinge as the smoke entered her lungs. She loved Dar and they both depended on the other to watch their backs at the firm, but she could be draining.

Lillian watched Rosie enjoy her smoke, thoughts racing furiously to come up with a solution to her hornet’s nest of dilemmas, the most pressing of which was finding a safe place to regroup and find a way to contact Trinidad before he started losing his patience and taking it out on Mae. She had already screwed up enough by trying to run away with Rutherford. She did not want to make it any worse than it already was.

Lillian suddenly realized what she needed to do. It was a cold, calculated risk. It would most likely put the life of that young woman standing just a few feet away in jeopardy. Lillian regretted that…but she would do anything to ensure that her little sister was returned safely to her. She clenched her jaw as the resolve to go through with her idea flowed through her body, speeding up her pulse and lighting a fire in her muscles.

She reached around and pulled the bag off her shoulder, the drying blood on her hands flaking as she flexed her fingers. She opened the bag and took out the package. She pulled back a corner of the paper wrapping and pulled out the small handgun that she had discovered when she ripped the envelope off a lifetime ago, the envelope with its horrid photographs and perplexing letter.

She examined the small mousegun with a practiced eye, checked the ammo, making sure everything was in working order. Growing up with a military father who insisted that all members of his family be familiar with firearms and the skills needed to use them, she was no stranger to holding a gun, or to using one. It was well acknowledged that she was the best shot in the family. That doesn’t mean she enjoyed it, but she could do it well and even though it had been many years since she had last held one, the weight of the gun in her hand felt almost natural. Comforting. Especially now.

Lillian returned the package to her bag, shouldered it, and then slid her free hand into the handle for Rutherford’s case. She took a few slow, steady breaths. She knew she had to be quick, firm, and ruthless. If she let this young woman Rosie see any of the fear or regret in her eyes, if she gave into her own exhaustion or shame at what she now had to do, the gamble would fail, leaving her back where she started. She had to shock this woman. She had to scare this woman. She had to own this woman.

She peered once more around the corner. Rosie was just finishing the last bit of her cigarette. When she took her last puff and dropped the smoldering butt to the ground Lillian rose to her feet and leveled her gun at this complete stranger, a woman she had never met before, determined to do whatever she needed to ensure Meg’s safe return.

Rosie was grinding the remains of her cigarette into the cement when Lillian’s motion caught her attention. She stopped and started in shock at a woman who seemed to materialize right in front of her from the pages of some dark, apocalyptic novel about the fall of civilization. Red hair in massive tangles, eyes red and inflamed, face covered in dirt and sweat, hands and arms covered in blood. This horrible vision was holding a small handgun, pointed directly into Rosie’s face. Then it opened its voice and spoke in a low yet painfully lethal voice.

“Don’t fucking move or make a sound. If you start to scream you are dead before the first customers in the restaurant to hear you can even start to turn their heads. If you try to run I will put a bullet into the back of your skull and the taste of nicotine you have in your mouth right now will be the taste you will take to hell with you. If you want to survive this, keep your mouth shut and do whatever I tell you. Nod if you understand me.”

Through the smothering web of shock Rosie was feeling, she was surprised that she was even able to respond. She nodded her head.

“Good,” said the woman with the gun. “Now where is your car?”