Nighthawks at the Mission: Move Off-World. Make A Killing.

by Forbes West

  Then you snap out of it, biting your tongue for a moment. It’s just Jaime, his slightly-off twin brother.

  Chapter Three:

  Queen Mary

  You sit by your apartment’s broken Jacuzzi, bundled up in a sweatshirt, looking up to the stars you can barely see through the orange haze of city lights. You are thinking things over, haunted by your mother’s words from days earlier. You have been slowly and secretively preparing for your off-world escape.

  Tyler has called you twenty-four times. No one else is around; you sit on a cold deckchair by the lit-up pool, alone, thinking over your life. The constant city sounds, sirens, cars driving by, televisions, and your neighbors talking do not distract you in the slightest from your meditation.

  Coming over the small wooden bridge shaded by the oak trees that lead into your apartment’s courtyard area is a thin, older man, maybe in his early sixties, in a three-piece old style suit as gray as his face and hair. He is whistling into the wind. You can’t help but notice that there is a charred electrical smell—like a socket has burnt out or when your TV pops a fuse—when he appears.

  He stops midway on the bridge over the small creek. “Feeling alone, Miss Sarah Orange?” he asks.

  You swallow, feeling very alone now; there is no one there at this particular moment except for the people in their apartments around the courtyard. “No,” you call out.

  “May I step over and speak with you?” He waits before making his move.

  “Um…okay.”

  “Good.” He smiles and walks over to you. Before you can say anything, he speaks again; cultured ooze pours out of his thin lips. “Oh, the things I know about you, Miss Orange.”

  You stand up, ready to do a little bit of fight or flight. “Pleased to meet you, Mr…”

  “My name, well, for now, let’s say it’s Scratch. I often go by that name in New England.” He titters like a girl. “Old joke.”

  “Oh,” you say, looking for an easy escape route. That sixth sense that something is very wrong is needling the back of your head. Thunder cracks, very close by.

  “I wouldn’t leave, Miss Orange.”

  “Wh…what do you want?” The wind that is picking up makes it hard to be heard. You wonder where the storm has come from; it was seemingly peaceful just moments ago.

  The old man’s eyes light up and he smiles, revealing a set of yellowing, uneven teeth. He puts a finger up to his lips, shushing you. From his pocket he takes out a small, gray, dented, and very old-looking box with a button that has a large crack running through its middle. Scratch presses it, and you suddenly find that all sounds from the outside world have stopped—no city sounds, no sound of the wind, not even the chatter of your neighbors or the sounds of their televisions. He puts the device back into his pocket. The whole world has been muted except for you and him.

  “That’s better. Why, Miss, I’m here to congratulate you! Your sister has left to you this particular item in her will.”

  “My sister is not dead,” you say.

  “She’s not only dead, she’s really most sincerely dead.” Scratch laughs and then catches the look on your face, a look of pure horror. “Apologies.” He motions for you to sit down, and he sits down opposite you on another deckchair.

  “Oh, Miss, I do apologize, but this item was left in her will for your family in particular. Unfortunately, it did take a long time—she had to be considered legally dead and the item had to clear Network customs and well, you know how bureaucracy is. Someone took its listing, put it to the bottom of the pile and then forgot that the pile existed in the first place.” He laughs with that titter again, frightening you. “She went missing leading an illegal expedition to somewhere on the other side of The Oberon, maybe even past the Burzee, no? Quite the explorer, she was.”

  He gives you a small leather book of parchment that has a cloth strip binding it together. It is about the size of a thick wallet.

  “It’s the Voice of the Four Winds, or the Book of the Witch-Lords of Mir. It’s an original made out of Afer skin. It has pages of prayers, spells, a complete map of The Oberon itself, the Rosetta Stone page—where it translates fourteen Earth languages into the Antediluvian standard hieroglyphics. It’s a rare book to have outside The Oberon.”

  You open it carefully. On the first page is a collection of circles and lines drawn in black ink. Little thunder bolts sign the corners of each page.

  Scratch, looking at what you are seeing, reads what it means. “And over the world, nor stop, nor stay, the winds of the Storm King go out on their way...”

  The simple nature of these words and the unknown that lies behind them is terrifying. You suddenly don’t want to take it. You bite your lip. “If I refuse to take it?”

  Scratch tilts his head in amusement. “Refuse?”

  After a moment you can see that his eyes have turned a deep green after being a light hazel. “Of course you can.”

  “H…how much?” you ask quietly.

  “How much is it worth? How much is it worth? Oh, it’s worth a good amount of pennies. But never sell it. You must never sell it. Keep it on you at all times.”

  You feel as if something has slapped you hard across the face. “I will never sell it. I will always keep it.”

  Scratch begins to walk away, humming to himself, and then turns back to you. “Be seeing you.”

  You notice for the first time that Scratch has companions with him—three tall men in black coats and black fedora hats with almost bone-white skin. As you watch them leave, you start to shake a little, not sure if what just happened actually happened or was only in your mind.

  * * *

  The private gym that a long time ago Tyler gave you access to is empty at this hour, as it mostly always is, and time stretches out; you can’t sleep and don’t want to think anymore. So you work out by yourself. You throw your sweatshirt off, stretch, and, just because you can, do a random handstand, letting the blood flood your head and push out all those thoughts that come up like little poisonous buoys floating in the surf of your mind. When your handstand ends in a summersault, you catch a glimpse of your slightly sweating self in the mirrored wall, and spot the hanging boxing bag.

  Falling into the fighting stance you were taught a long time ago, you lightly kick at the bag, once, twice, three times. You throw in some medium punches, wanting to keep it to an easy exercise but as those thoughts start to finally intrude, you go at it, biting the inside of your lip hard. You punch the bag as hard and as fast as you can for a minute straight. Both your hands and feet sting like hell. You finish with a little combo, hurting your right hand a little. There is blood in your mouth.

  You stare at the bag, sweating profusely now, thinking of Tyler and wishing that the bag was your ex-boyfriend’s face. You cry a little again, but shrug it off with another combo to the bag. Next you run for five miles on the treadmill; the only sounds you hear are the running of the tread’s motors and your feet slapping against the belt.

  * * *

  You steal your mother’s Volvo that morning. You’ve packed two suitcases: one with your personal stuff, like pictures of your sister and father as well as yearbooks and other things; the other suitcase is full of clothes. You managed to pack up everything in the middle of the night, silent as a ninja.

  Digging your phone out of your purse, you dial Tyler’s number and wait impatiently for him to pick up.

  “Hi, it’s Tyler.”

  “Tyler, it’s me. I . . .”

  “You know what to do. Beep.” It’s his voicemail. He’s probably asleep. It’s three in the morning, after all. He’d better be asleep.

  “Tyler, we need to talk. Can you meet me somewhere? Call me. Please.” You hang up and toss the cell onto the passenger seat.

  You drive through the deserted streets of Long Beach and Seal Beach, seeing your old hometowns for the last time, killing time until the sun rises and Tyler wakes up.

  You call him again but aren’t surprised when it goes strai
ght to voice mail. Again. Frustrated, you sigh and toss your cell back on the seat. No point leaving yet another message.

  The next few hours pass slowly. As the sun begins to peer around the horizon, you try one last time and finally get through. “Tyler, we need to talk,” you tell him.

  “Yeah, okay,” he says sleepily. “Come on over.”

  You roll down your window and toss the phone into the bushes as you speed towards the beach house. You won’t be needing it where you’re going.

  It’s 7:00 am when you arrive at the beach house, which is empty and cold compared to how it was at Thanksgiving. In the living room, you stare at the waves as you wait for him to come down from his bedroom. When he does you look at him like he is a completely new person. His hair is disheveled and his eyes are red with heavy bags under them.

  “Sarah,” Tyler starts, swallowing compulsively. “Sarah, I am sorry about that, about what happened.”

  You sit on the leather couch, listening to him spout on about his need to apologize and that it was “just sex, just sex.” You stare at him for a good moment, saying nothing; Tyler finally chokes up a little.

  You tilt your head. “Yes?” you ask.

  Tyler shrugs. “Look, we don’t…we haven’t had sex, you know, and that’s, that’s something…you need to have that in a relationship.”

  “I was waiting until marriage, Ty,” you say coldly. “We were going to be married, weren’t we? We never said it totally, but there was that—I don’t know what you want to call it—implication, there.”

  Tyler starts to cry a little. “But I’m a guy, Sarah. I need it. I want it. Sorry if that sounds selfish, but shit, I do. Your friend Christine, and Courtney, they understood. They weren’t, uh, you know, weird about sex.”

  You stand up. “I need to use the bathroom.” He nods and sits down on the couch you’ve just left.

  You go upstairs, pass by the bathroom, ignoring it, and make it into Tyler’s bedroom. On the dresser next to his king-size bed is a nightstand, and on it is a wallet with Bad M*F*cker embroidered on it. You open the wallet and take out all the money—a good collection of hundreds and twenties, equaling $1,240—and put it into your jacket. You also see his Rolex watch, and snatch that—he once told you it was a gift for turning eighteen and was worth $8,000 new, so you could probably get a third of that at a pawn shop. You walk down the hall to the guest bedroom.

  Lying in bed, stomach down with bare back showing, is Courtney.

  You reach into your jacket and slowly take out the heavy gun you’ve brought with you, cock it and even point it at the sleeping traitor. Stare down the gun sight and aim it right at the back of her pretty little head, savoring the moment just a little.

  You pull the trigger and the gun makes a dry click sound. Courtney snuffles something in her sleep. You smile.

  Downstairs again, Tyler sits on the couch. “Goodbye, Tyler,” you say evenly. You take one last look around his house. “Oh, here’s your little present back.”

  You hand Tyler the gun. He sniffles a little.

  “You can keep it,” he tells you. “You were the only crazy Wild West girl around here. Every week you’d be out there.” He has a weak, sad smile on his face.

  “I wanted to give it to you and Courtney so bad,” you reply coldly. “But I can’t keep it. Goodbye.”

  Tyler feels the gun, pops the cylinder, and drops the bullets into his hand. “You brought it over, uh, loaded?”

  “Oh, I guess I did,” you say and walk away without looking back.

  * * *

  You meet her at something called The Spot, some local little breakfast-lunch café open only until two p.m. That she showed up at all must have meant your one voicemail had gotten through to her—something, maybe a tone in your voice, a choice of words, had imparted the important message. She didn’t decide to ignore it, as was the case sometimes.

  Your mother, always early, sits by herself at a small outside table facing the Pacific Coast Highway, her round sunglasses making her look an aging Hollywood actress trying to be discrete. She sips her coffee, acknowledging you with a stiff nod.

  You sit down, sick to your stomach, thinking about Tyler. And Courtney. And what you were—you try not to think about what you were capable of earlier.

  She doesn’t bother with formalities of any kind.

  “You are going off-world, then?” your mother says, her voice low. You can barely hear her over the light traffic whizzing by the front of the café.

  “Looks like it,” you mention, before being interrupted by the waitress who asks you if you want something to drink. You ask for an apple juice.

  “Apple juice,” your mother says quietly, sipping at her coffee. “Very adult of you.”

  Before you can say anything, your mother blows out her breath and takes another sip of coffee before putting together her words.

  “Quick, isn’t? Never knew they were that desperate for settlers. That’s too quick,” she insinuates.

  “Maybe.” Your apple juice comes and the waitress retreats as you ask for another moment to look at the menu. Before you sip on it, you take the straw out and place it down on a napkin. This might make you look a little older.

  “Don’t go.” She puts down her coffee with a clang and some of it spills out over the top of the white mug. “Please. Don’t do it.” She stares not at you but at the traffic whizzing by. “Why are you doing this? For God’s sake, I’m begging you not to. I really am. We’re…we’re all that’s left of our family. Dad. Your sister. You know…” She chokes up a little. “I can’t bully you into staying, I guess. I’m sorry I did that.” She whimpers.

  You spot the waitress out of the corner of your eye catching the scene of your mother sobbing behind her sunglasses. When she sees that you see her watching, she quickly starts counting napkins near the cash register.

  You relish this a little, your mother’s defenses—her anger and her hysterics—have crumbled beneath your determination to go to The Oberon.

  Even so, your lip quivers a little before you respond. “Oh, that’s good. From bullying to guilt-tripping. Why should I stay? I mean, what do I have here? What do I really have? Why should I even want to stay?” you say, about to tear up a little yourself. Anger trickle into your blood, a cold anger caused by years of hurt and shit being thrown your way. Anger once buried down deep that’s now been dredged up and returned to the surface like a foul oil.

  “I’ve got nothing here. I’ve had my whole life to realize that I’ve never had a mother. Just a bitter woman needling me and pressing on me my whole life. Not really a mother. You can blame it on what happened over the years. Your bitterness. Your nastiness. But deep down you and I know the truth. If you really gave a shit about me, you’d get over that. You’d find it within yourself to do that. But you know what you are? Just a bad person that bad things have happened to. You understand? What happened was just extra for you, just extra bitterness and hurt and anger on top of a miserable and angry life. “

  Tears pass out from under your mother’s sunglasses. She doesn’t say a word but she quietly cries, crying more than she did at the funerals. You wait a good minute before continuing.

  “Let me tell you about a little girl. She was a little awkward and a little different from the others, had a stutter she had to e-erase. But she grew up and people stopped teasing her. But she wanted to be better than everyone else, so she hooked up with a boy who probably wasn’t good for her but he was rich. And by being rich herself by marrying this boy, one day she could get away from all the memories, the bad memories of the past. But that just blew up in her face. So now she needs to go out there and get money any which way she can to finally bury the past. So she goes off-world. Does that explain enough for you? Why would I stay?”

  You stand up to leave, abandoning your mother to her own fate. You wipe a tear from your own face before you climb back into the Volvo after nearly knocking over the waitress on your way out. You see your mother one last time in your re
ar view mirror as you go down P.C.H.

  * * *

  Your cab pulls up to the Queen Mary. You had dumped your mother’s car off in a parking lot next to the Courthouse. The Queen Mary strikes you as a stately throwback of a cruise liner. The Network brochure you got at their local office mentions that the old ship, which looks to you like a kissing cousin to the Titanic you’ve seen in movies and books, was originally launched back in the 1930s, retired in the 1960s, and then re- furbished and re-launched a few years back since all the other, newer ocean liners with all their electronics would have mechanical meltdowns every time they went into The Oberon. The ship is a majestic piece of black, white and red machinery, and its three smokestacks are already pumping out a sizeable amount of pollution into the gray and very overcast afternoon air. A thousand seagulls fly around the parking lot next to the launch.

  You hold the brochure tightly in one fist, your tickets tucked safely inside, and you hold your small crucifix in the other.

  The yellow cab pulls up behind idling buses and cabs and other random cars that swing in and out to drop off a passenger or three. Jaime says awkwardly that he has forgotten his cash, and you dig some out from your purse.

  “No problem, honey,” you say sarcastically. You pay off the cab driver, who pulls out with a screech.

  “Did the courthouse thing feel, you know, strange? We’re actually married, Sarah, that’s something. That’s really something.” Jaime looks at you sheepishly, one of his eyes slightly blackened. He holds up his left hand; new golden wedding ring in place.

  You hold up yours and clink your ring against his.

  “We are married,” you marvel. “Your uncle the judge was very nice to come in on his day off. How’s your eye, Jaime? Tyler didn’t hurt you too bad, did he?”

  “Meh. What did you think of the…wedding? Weird, right?”

  You nod. “It was kind of the opposite of every girl’s dream. Look, Jaime, no offense, but this is, uh, an open marriage, you understand that, right? No offense? We’ll work together as partners, like we said. We’ll figure that out when we get out there.”