by C. F. Waller
“You look awful good for a woman who’s been dead for half a century,” the redhead croaks, shaking as she talks.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Rahnee admits. “Do we know each other?”
“We have never met, but I was lead to believe you were acquainted with my sister.”
Rahnee shrugs, wearing a look of confusion. The trembling woman puts out her arms as if holding a bow and arrow, then pretends to pluck the string back and stare down her target.
“Sindri,” Rahnee grins.
“The very one indeed,” she nods, lowering her wrinkled hands.
“So you’re Shelly?” I inject, trying to sort out the myth from reality. “And your twin sister was Sindri?”
“Correct again,” she answers, then looks at Rahnee. “Who’s he?”
“A friend.”
“Edward Grey,” I explain, bowing my head in deference to my elder.
“He’s—,” Rahnee starts.
“One of us,” she remarks. “I recall the name from somewhere. Were you at the Gathering in Florence?”
“Which one?” I inquire, recalling two. “1450?”
“In 1450 it was dreadful,” she recalls, staring past us momentarily. “Must have been elsewhere.”
I nod, recalling Cosimo Medici putting an end to the 1450 Gathering due to some drunken incidents in the streets. While I was not personally involved, One of Cosimo’s two sons did get in a bit of a scrap over a bar maid. Everyone went home angry and we haven’t held a Gathering in Florence since.
“The girl,” she stutters, wagging a finger at me. “The maudlin girl with the brown eyes. Oh, now what was her name?”
“Beatrix.”
“Yes, right, Beatrix,” she smiles. “I recall seeing you together. You made a cute couple.”
My heart soars at the retelling, even if it’s from a stranger. Someone lives who saw us together. There is a sort of reassurance that it isn’t a crooked memory of mine. A witness to our love is a wonderful thing. As the smile washes off her face, I realize what she’s thinking. Beatrix is gone. Nearly all of us are gone.
“How is it that you’re a myth, but were in attendance at the Gatherings?” I ask.
“My sister was the myth,” she chuckles, pausing to cough into her hand. “For my own protection I had assumed another name long before Florence.”
“How can that be?” I argue. “You could only do that if Anthony allowed it?”
To this, she grins and touches the end of one bent finger on the tip of her nose, then points it at me.
“The Cartographer?” Rahnee mutters, looking back at me.
“Wait, I know you,” I blurt, stepping closer. “In Paris Anthony had a wild redhead on his arm. What was that, say 1350? The men asked about her, but all he would tell us was her first name.”
She smiles, tipping her head down to indicate my recollection is valid.
“Michelle,” I laugh. “You’re Michelle.”
“Shelly,” Rahnee chimes in.
We all seem to bask in the glow of conversation, but there’s a sticky wicket here. If she’s a minor-immortal, then why is she so old? My memory of her is of a brash girl with long curly red hair. I struggle to make the picture clearer, but can’t. She might have been older, but no more than forty. The woman in front of me is twice that at least. I’m puzzled by this and apparently have drifted off again.
“Edward?” Rahnee pokes me in the arm.
“He can’t figure out why I’m such an old hag,” Michelle snickers, then coughs.
“It’s true my memory of you is off, but it would appear something unique has occurred.”
“When my sister died,” she starts, squinting her eyes, then looking at Rahnee. “I felt it as if I had been struck down simultaneously. After that, I began to slowly grow old. Not as mortals do, but gradually over time I have greyed and grown weak.”
“I never heard tell of that before?” I reply, searching my brain for such oddities.
“Do you recall meeting another set of twins?” she asks, but it’s more of a statement. “In any case I will soon be dead.”
“We all might be,” I add.
“How is death my dear,” she coughs into her hand staring at Rahnee. “What do I have to look forward to?”
“I don’t recommend it.”
One of the grey suited security men moves to Shelly’s side and whispers something. Nods are exchanged, then, he walks away, apparently taking a patrol lap around the storage barns. I find her sudden arrival fortuitous. How has she managed to find us?
“Might I ask how you came to know our location?”
“You posted a notice for Rahnee Ben-Ahron’s memorial service. I planned on attending, but arrived a day late.”
“I’m touched,” Rahnee winks in jest.
Michelle pauses, but goes on without responding to Rahnee. “I was down the street having tea when you scanned your thumb at the office here.”
“And you knew how?” Rahnee asks.
“In your previous life you were a bit of a bounty hunter” Michelle suggests, coughing into her hand. “There are always ways.”
Rahnee shrugs, but then it dawns on me that if Michelle knows our location that Rhea and her people probably do as well.
“You should come with me,” she offers, although it feels like an order. “Possibly I can be of some assistance.”
“How so?” Rahnee inquires.
“The circumstances of your resurrection aside,” she coughs. “Rhea must be looking for you. I have resources you might require.”
Rahnee glances back and I nod. There doesn’t seem to be any reason to go it alone. We agree, but before we depart, Michelle’s guys help us rearrange the locker so the white Mustang can be driven inside. She pauses to remove the necklace from the rear view mirror and put it on, then takes a moment to cover it with a sheet while we wait. She clearly feels a connection to that car. Once it’s hidden away we join our benefactor in the limousine and are swept out onto the Autobahn.
Michelle doesn’t ask why Rahnee is holding a half full wine glass in her lap, but the smell is undeniably strong. I’m not sure if it’s the contents or her, but neither option is pleasant. When she presses on the underside of her finger, causing a crimson droplet to fall into the glass Michelle taps the window button and drops it down several inches. The slight breeze does negate the aroma a bit.
Chapter Fifteen
Rahnee’s only interest is getting to a gunsmith of some kind. Michelle offers to take her to one the next day, receiving grumbles in return. It seems my travel partner is in a hurry. Not being in a rush myself, I look forward to my first good night’s sleep since this ordeal began. The night starts out promising, but when nightmares come calling, I slip downstairs for a glass of milk or some wine. The constant image of Rahnee’s walking corpse is branded on my brain. I pass a large room with bookshelves on the walls. Inside, I notice Rahnee and Michelle still up.
Michelle sits staring through reading glasses in a tall chair wrapped in a fuzzy blanket. Her feet are propped up on a raised stool. Rahnee resides in a dining room chair next to a small table with a chess set on top. The board is marble, the game pieces carved from the same. I watch as Rahnee moves, then Michelle calls out her move. Rahnee scoots the pieces around on the board, while Michelle is mummified in the blanket a few feet away. Her vision is clearly better than I gave her credit.
“Edward,” Michelle calls out, coughing into her hand. “Did we wake you?”
“Not at all. Just getting a drink.”
“This one is killing me,” she complains, pointing at Rahnee. “I have never taken such a drubbing in all my life.”
“She’s good?”
“Not good,” Michelle frowns. “Bloody brilliant. I’m a Senior Master and she just beat me in ten moves.”
“Senior?”
“Not age related my boy,” she coughs. “It’s next under Grand Master in the ranking system. I’ve played several Grand Masters and held my o
wn longer than ten moves.”
“I didn’t realize you were a chess wizard,” I smile at Rahnee.
“She’s over stating the matter.”
“Hardly,” Michelle scoffs. “I’d say she’s cheating, but who’d listen to me.”
It seems out of character from what I have been lead to believe, but possibly there’s more to her than meets the eye. You can’t always judge a book by the cover, or a person by the reports of others. I excuse myself and leave them to it. What I really want is a drink.
The following day we drive several hours, before pulling up outside a bright silver building. Even though its downtown, the establishment in question is set apart from the shops next to it by an empty lot on either side. A sign proclaiming Gun Range Open in red letters reads across a scrolling electronic board. Michelle hands Rahnee an envelope, then one of her footmen pulls the door open. She slips out, balancing her wine glass with care. I’m leaning toward staying in the limo, but she orders me out before the door can shut.
“You too Edward,” she demands, then, hands me the glass when I have risen. “Make yourself useful.”
“Good luck to you both,” Michelle offers without getting out. “I would hope to see you again, but find this unlikely.”
“Your sister was slightly more optimistic,” Rahnee chuckles, nodding in her direction and winking.
“True, but my sister’s optimism played a large part in her demise.”
“If that logic holds I’ll live forever,” Rahnee remarks, slapping the roof as the car door is pulled shut.
I follow her through the entrance and into the overly air conditioned room. It’s chilled like a morgue with rows of glass toped displays reminding me of autopsy slabs. Is my preoccupation with the macabre in some way perpetuated by my new un-dead friend? A man in a red polo shirt attends to her. On the back of his shirt, the words A bullet a day keeps the bad guys away is printed in white block letters. She hands over the envelope, inducing a look of immediate respect. His original approach was all slick sales guy, but it’s now replaced by lowered eyes and decisive action. It must be a good letter.
He leads us to the back of the shop through a stock room. Locked cabinets and shelves laden with ammunition fill the space. In the far reaches of the building is a worn wooden door. He indicates we should wait then slips in. Moments later, he returns, holding the door open for us. The room is well lit and tables run along the walls on four sides. One long table inhabits the center of the room, large florescent light fixtures hanging over it. There are tools and boxes littering the tables, along with guns of every size and shape. A short man wearing a stocking cap and grimy overalls sits on a lone stool. He nods at us, then opens the letter, reading quietly to himself. Several minutes pass before he tucks it in the breast pocket of his forest green overalls and stands.
“Rhett,” he offers, holding out his hand to Rahnee. “What I do for you?” he continues in a stilted Russian accent.
“Rahnee,” she shakes. “I need you to load some shotgun shells for me.”
“That not problem Ronnie. Load with what?”
“It’s Rah-nee,” she corrects him. “Rah-nee.”
“Yes, yes, Rah-nee. Load with what?”
She turns and holds out her hand for the glass. I pass it over and she dangles it from her fingertips.
“What this?” he mutters, lowering his head so the lights overhead shine through the crimson fluid.
“The milk of human kindness,” she snorts. “Can you put it inside a shell?”
“Sure, sure” he grunts, shaking his head and putting his hands up. “I soak some wadding in it, then load. You need slug with or just wad of cotton?”
“Big slug and I need a pump 12 gauge to shoot-em with.”
He backs up and sorts through a series of long boxes under the center bench. Finding his target, he lays it on the bench and flips open the top. Inside is a gleaming silver shotgun. The pump action grip is a dark grey and the stock matches it. He blows off some bits of packing foam, then holds it out to Rahnee. She takes it, handing the wine glass to me, and scans it over.
“Khaftroski 500,” he recites proudly. “Russian Military used to use.”
“Used to?”
“They got something else now, but I know guy who knows a guy.”
“Holds how many?”
“Eight in sleeve, one in chamber,” he explains. “How many shells you want. How much wine you want in each?”
“Seventeen will be more than enough. Use all of it and don’t get any sparks or candles near it. When you’re done, smash the glass and bury the shards.”
“It flammable?” he squints and shrugs.
“Yeah, and water won’t put it out so be careful.”
“Whatever you want lady,” he nods, taking the shotgun back. “When you need by?”
“Yesterday.”
“Sure, sure,” Rhett replies, wagging a finger at her. “Can have tonight. Come back after close. Let say eight.”
“How much?”
“No money,” he frowns. “Is for Michelle.”
“She buy a lot of guns?” Rhanee asks, passing the glass to the Russian.
“Her people well-armed,” he winks. “Come back eight. I have then.”
Rahnee turns and then runs her fingertip around the rim of the glass, widening her eyes at the gunsmith. He nods enthusiastically. It feels like she’s trying to impress upon his how flammable the liquid might be, but he’s hard to read. I hope we don’t come back and find the place burned to the ground.
Once this exchange ends, Rahnee pushes past me and we thread our way to the front of the store. Standing on the sidewalk we find the limo nowhere to be seen. I wasn’t sure if Michelle was waiting for us or not. Apparently not. Seemly unconcerned, my partner turns right and strolls down the street. I follow along, the wind blowing in my face reddening my cheeks.
“Where might we be headed?”
“You got money?” she remarks gruffly, not turning my way.
“Yes of course.”
“Then I am going to have a drink,” she explains, pointing at a sign advertising Happy Hour All Day a block down the smoothly paved street.
“Right, yes, I should have guessed.”
For Germany, the inside of the bar has an oddly Irish theme. It’s narrow, but deep, the building housing a men’s clothing store to the right and an Antique dealer on the left. The structure appears to be very old with exposed brick inside and out. A walk through in the rear between the bar and antique showroom also indicates the vintage nature of the building. The bartender explains that one person owns both establishments. Do people get drunk then wander out the wrong door by accident and wind up owning antiques?
We sit at the bar as my companion sucks down rocks glasses of fifty-year-old scotch. The Mc Callen’s bottle rests on the over shellacked bar top, left there at Rahnee’s instruction. I am not sure what the price was before she swiped my card for it, but would imagine it was expensive. The only caveat was that whatever we don’t drink stays here. Apparently, they don’t have the correct license to sell take out. I doubt she will have any trouble finishing it however. We have at least five hours to kill before her weapon is prepared.
Her un-holy tolerance reminds me of my dear Beatrix, who could on occasion drink her male comrades under the table. I attribute this to her constant proximity to Dorian, who was a drunkard of epic proportions. She certainly did not drink like that around me.
Watching her, I recall an interesting bit of cinema that reminds me of Rahnee’s situation. In it, the main character had time-traveled from the future. In this case the future was a dreadful smog ridden place. Isn’t it always? The time-traveler smoked constantly, causing other characters to comment on it. It was later revealed that her lungs were so used to the pollution in her own time, she was forced to smoke to keep from passing out. I’m watching Rahnee pour down another rocks glass full of scotch and pondering if her drinking is similar. Is she just trying to replace the formald
ehyde?
“Did you drink this much before you died?”
“Nope.”
“Drinking to forget?”
“Nope.”
“Trying to replace the embalming fluid you lost back at the church?”
To this she turns her head my way and gives me an angry look. I fear she may have a go at me, but then the scowl softens into a smile and she actually chuckles. The brief glimpse of emotion is stunning to witness.
“It hurts,” she mutters, then pours herself another drink.
That’s all she offers and I shrug and wait for to clarify. After a moment she notices this and the frown returns.
“Being alive,” she rolls her eyes and points her glass at me. “Breathing, thinking, all of it hurts.”
“Is it that you haven’t healed completely or some lingering damage done while you resided underground for decades?”
“Neither,” she mumbles, watching a drunk stumble coming out of the bathroom. “It’s like an ankle bracelet on a parolee. It’s just so I don’t get too comfortable.”
Unable to make much sense from our exchange, I try a sip of my coffee. I’m not sure where they got the beans for this, but it’s surprisingly good given the inexpensive brewing station used to make it. A half dozen shabbily dressed men surround us as they slosh through a variety of spirits, but mostly beer. Three dusty overhead television screens relay the news, while a single one sitting on the counter behind the bar is tuned to a game show. Several of the men wager on the contestants, the prizes being free drinks.
I sit blowing on a freshly poured second cup, then decide watching her stare blankly at her drink is tedious beyond measure. I’ll try a different line of questioning.
“How’d you get so good at Chess?”
“Lots of practice,” she grumbles.
“Play growing up?”
“Nope.”
Her short answers leave me at a loss. She notices and turns her head to stare at me.
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“It’s okay,” she sighs, taking a drink. “If you must know, I learned after they buried me.”