by C. F. Waller
“Come again?
“In the afterlife there was quite a bit of downtime,” she explains, waving her glass about as she speaks.
“Wow, so you had seventy years of practice.”
“Way more than that,” she exhales, shaking her head.
“How so? Your tomb stone reads—.”
“I know what it reads,” she interrupts. “Time passes more quickly in the afterlife. A year here might be ten or a hundred once you’re gone. I might have been buried for seventy years, but for me it was a lot longer.”
As her words sink in I wonder if this has anything to do with her disinterest in her daughter or husband. If her numbers are even close too accurate, she may have been gone thousands of years. At least to her it would feel that way. The brief time she was alive may feel like a split second to her. How would I feel after that much time?
“You might say time flies when you’re on a cloud,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood.
She turns to look at me stone faced, her green eyes glowing.
“I wouldn’t know. Not a lot of clouds where they sent me.”
We sit in uncomfortable silence while I ponder her ultimate destination. Eventually I decide to let it go. It can’t possibly matter to me.
“As you’re the Chess wiz, what’s your next move?”
“Why, planning on coming along?”
“Unlikely, but since your husband’s whereabouts are unknown it’s—.”
“He’s not my husband,” she snaps, tipping up her glass and draining it.
“I was lead to believe—,”
“Never made it official,” she coughs, setting her glass down and reaching for the bottle. “We met, I got pregnant, I died, end of story.”
This is curious. My assumption appears to have been misguided. Given this revelation, they could only have been together nine months or so. Is this another clue as to why she seems uninterested? Did Arron mislead Jennifer on this topic. Possibly telling a young girl she was a product of a one-night-stand seemed cruel.
“But you are going after him?”
“In a way,” she replies, tilting her head to the side as she spins the glass with her thumb and forefinger. “Geographically speaking.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“I thought you wanted to know about Beatrix?”
“I would very much like to know about her.”
“Right, well,” she mutters, rolling her bloodshot eyes. “Let’s get this over with so you can go about your merry way.”
I wait, subconsciously holding my breath. When the pause exceeds my air supply, I gulp. She’s watching me and a crooked smile crosses her lips, but it’s replaced by her ever present blank look. I honestly wonder if she’s actually alive or not when she looks me in the eyes. It’s unfortunate that we never met while she lived. Possibly her look of blank detachment isn’t new. I’m wondering this, when I realize she’s talking.
“She and Dorian were standing together. They were with a guy who worked for the same people who hired me to catch them.”
“But you were supposed to apprehend, not murder?”
“Originally, but when the Queen of the Immortals showed up, the parameters of the deal changed,” she informs me. “I agreed to dispose of Bee and Dorian in return for my life.”
“You’re a bit of a Pirate then,” I scoff. “Your allegiance was for sale.”
“My allegiance has always been more a guideline than a rule,” she groans. “Technically still is. Do you want to hear this or not?”
“I do. Please continue.”
“Right,” she nods, taking a long swig of scotch. “I tried to shoot your friends and he shoots me instead. Apparently Dorian had made a deal with him for their protection.”
“Your organization was full of untrustworthy types.”
“Whatever,” she huffs. “I go down, then Bee unsheathes this sword and runs the guy through from behind. Arron told me the point came a half foot out the front.”
“Arron told you?”
“Yes, I had just taken a bullet to the chest,” she reminds me. “Thank god for Kevlar. Anyway, she jerks it out, but as he goes down, he fires and hits Bee in the chest.”
“So you didn’t technically see it?”
“I saw Dorian crouched over her corpse when I got up,” she argues.
“Why would she kill the man protecting her?”
“While I never had the chance to ask any of the parties involved, my guess is that Dorian was planning on running—.”
“My Beatrix wasn’t a runner.”
“Exactly,” she nods, pointing her drink at me and then tipping it up, “and she didn’t.”
“Might I inquire what became of her remains?”
At this query, her arm freezes over the bar as she reaches for the bottle. Her eyes narrow, a puzzled look washing over her face. Does she know what I am thinking. A long moment passes, then, she drops her half empty glass on the bar top and crosses her arms.
“Beatrix burned,” she relates dryly. “The whole place went up like a forest fire. Arron and I barely avoided being flash fried.”
“Oh,” I sigh and pause. “But you never actually saw this happen with your own eyes.”
“Listen up Edward. Everything in a half mile radius was reduced to ash. There were huge steel shipping containers stacked all around her and the inside ring melted like a Dali painting. She didn’t get up and walk away after we ran. Jennifer can’t bring her back for you.”
The last part of her verbal barrage brings a cold sweat to my forearms. Is it because she has deduced my reason for hanging around or that when the words hit the air my intent shocked even me? Lowering my eyes, I study the dingy linoleum floor and try not to cry. It would appear that my beloved is lost forever. My reason for remaining entangled in this debacle has evaporated. The time to run is upon me.
“If it’s any solace she didn’t suffer.”
“And how did you come by that information?” I answer in a cracking voice, trying to remain stoic.
“She told me it didn’t hurt too—,” she mutters, then, freezes without looking my way, changing her stream of thought. “I mean Arron went right over and she was gone. Sounded like it was quick.”
There’s a pause while I wait for her to explain her slip, but she doesn’t speak. She can’t have talked to Bee so it’s was probably the scotch confusing her. A simple miss-speak on her part. She’s been through a lot the last few days. I watch her for a clue, but Rahnee just stares at the bar top.
“Thank you.”
“You got everything you need?” she remarks.
“Yes, that’s fine,” I shudder, shaking thoughts of resurrecting Bee out of my head. “I appreciate the re-telling.”
“And now you’re going to disappear?”
“Almost certainly,” I exhale, trying to regain my composure.
“Run fast, run far,” she whispers.
Pushing myself away from the bar, I stand and peer across it. Various sizes of glasses are stacked in rows just beyond the edge. Reaching across, I snatch a short one off the top and place it on the bar. I grab Rahnee’s bottle, but it’s virtually empty. When I tip it over only a few drops of amber liquid wind up in my glass.
“How is it you remain upright?”
“Until recently I was pumped full of embalming fluid,” she points out, pushing her half full glass down the bar in front of me. “Or maybe it’s the immortal dude whose life force Jenn gave me. Either way I appear to be the ultimate designated driver.”
“Agreed,” I shrug, taking the glass and drinking it down in three gasping chugs.
“That’s gotta burn.”
I nod frantically as the scorching alcohol races down my throat. The urge to vomit is strong, but once it goes down a warm feeling fills my limbs. I have never been a drunkard, but then again I have never been much of anything remotely adventurous. I swallow hard and tap the empty glass on the bar.
“I’ll have another,” I blurt out weak
ly.
The bartender comes down and Rahnee gets us another bottle. Concern that the entire contents of a second bottle might push even her limit, he pours us each one glass and takes the bottle back. I hold mine up and she taps hers on the side.
“To Beatrix,” I sigh.
“To Beatrix.”
I drink slower this time, not wanting to embarrass myself by losing control of my stomach. The scotch filled corpse sitting next to me returns her gaze to the bar top and I regain my stool and lean over my glass, holding it with two hands. Did I seriously want to turn Beatrix into whatever is sitting next to me?
“To see her again,” I whisper to myself. “Probably.”
“You say something?”
“No,” I shake my head, but then a thought comes to mind. “Once you’re armed, how is it you’re going to find this Estate? Unless you let them take you, in which case you would be disarmed, you’re at a crossroads for a direction.”
“I have a pretty good idea where they are?”
“Pray tell how?”
“The guy who Jenn zapped to bring me back,” she bobs her head from side to side. “He knew and now so do I.”
I do recall Jennifer suggesting that when she touched people their problems rubbed off on her. It was the reason for the gloves. What does Rahnee know?
“You know everything he did?”
“Not exactly,” she shrugs, waffling a hand back and forth over the bar. “It’s more like a photo album. I can see all the places he been. I can see the Estate and more importantly,” she taps her glass on the bar top for emphasis. “I can see him coming and going from their little hideaway.”
“Can you see your husb—,” I start but pause, “Can you see Arron?”
She nods, slapping her glass down and whistling at the barkeep. “Dry over here.”
“And you can see Rhea?”
“Yeah,” she bobs her head as she looks down. “And she’s not looking so great.”
Time passes quickly as we share several more glasses. We talk little, preferring to ponder our next course of action in silence. Rahnee excuses herself to go to the restroom. I need to go as well, but when I put a foot down on the floor, the room swirls. Amused, she walks me to the back. When she takes her hands off me near the gentlemen’s room door, I trip and she has to grab me and pin me to the wall. We wind up awkwardly face to face.
“Are you okay?” she asks, leaning away.
“Are you?”
There’s no reply and in the dim light the green part of her eye has become a thin ring around her dilated pupil. As I stare into the black pools only inches away, I cannot tell if she’s a living person or an ambulatory dead body. When I got this close, I assumed it would be obvious. She doesn’t answer my question so I roll on the wall to face the door and try to enter.
“Thanks,” she suddenly blurts out behind me.
“For what,” I mumble, then burp.
After a pause, I am pushed through the spring loaded door into the foul smelling restroom.
“Just thanks,” she reaffirms through the thin plywood door.
Equipped with only a urinal, I lean my head on the wall as I relieve myself. Stamped on the top of the porcelain, the information 3.8 liters flow rate glares back at me in blue letters. Who uses liters these days? It takes me several minutes to button my fly and tuck in my shirt. Pulling down on my vest, I struggle with the door eventually being whacked on my posterior by the aggressive wooden frame as I exit. I bump into two men on stools during the return trip, one time being chastised profanely for my miss-step. He better be careful or I’ll send Rahnee back to sort him out.
My drinking companion is nowhere to be seen, but women often require more time than men to perform this task. I slide onto my stool and sip on my drink, which over time has become less foul tasting. When the bartender comes down the bar and removes Rahnee’s glass, I protest.
“Excuse me, that is my friends,” I mumble drunkenly. “She’s in the ladies.”
“She left pal,” he grunts, wiping down the over shellacked wood with a towel. “You’re good though. She paid and left a huge tip. You need another?”
I empty my jacket on the bar, dropping a half dozen tiny notebooks before I find my wallet. My swipe card is not inside. My phone is likewise missing forcing me to inquire as to the time. So, that’s why she said thanks. She was robbing me.
“Eight thirty,” he informs me. “Did you want another?”
“No,” I stutter, scooping up my belongings and wobbling to the front door.
A chilly breeze greets me, but is somewhat negated by the lack of feeling on my face. My feet have difficulty moving in a straight line and I have to catch myself on two separate cars. The second time I slap a hand on a car window the alarm sounds. My temples pound as the waa, waa, waa, rings in the air. The gun shop is closed, but the light is on. Inside Rhett is talking to an older man holding a mop handle.
“Excuse me,” I shout, pounding on the glass door. “Hello.”
At first, he waves me off, but then a look of recognition washes over his face. He taps on a keypad, presumably shutting off an alarm of some kind, then cranks the deadbolt.
“What you want now?” he asks gruffly.
“I misplaced my friend. Has she been here yet?”
“Yeah,” he declares, recoiling from the smell of my breath. “Lady long gone. We closed.”
“Might I ask—,” I beg, but the door shuts in my face and the bolt snaps shut.
I watch him disappear into the building, lights flicking off as he does so. Turning my back on the door, I lean there trying to organize my thoughts. I was planning on extricating myself from this torrid drama, but for some reason I feel abandoned. She did steal my swipe card after all. While that can be replaced, it is inconvenient for the time being. In hopes the bartender’s offer of another drink is still valid, I stagger back to the sidewalk. To my surprise, I am not alone.
“Mr. Grey, how nice to finally see you in the flesh.”
Standing in front of me is a woman dressed in a fur coat and matching hat. She’s full-figured, boarding on oversized in tight leather pants and unflattering fur boots. Standing no more than five feet tall, she is dwarfed by a second woman in similar dress. This taller woman takes me roughly by the arm as a car pulls up to the curb.
“Come with us Edward,” the first woman orders in a syrupy sweet voice. “Your presence is required elsewhere.”
“Do you work for Michelle?” I demand, then burp a foul acid tasting belch.
“Wait,” the shorter woman orders, putting a hand on the tall gal’s shoulder. “Who is Michelle?”
As I hang off the curb, halfway into the car door a thought jumps to the front of my mind. These ladies are not in the employ of Michelle. More likely they work for Rhea, Queen of the Immortals as Rahnee had dubbed her. If this is so, the prognosis for me is grim, but better not bring another into it. I would not want to be the reason Michelle was captured after all her years in hiding.
“Waitress,” I mutter in my most confused voice. “She was getting me another drink.”
“He’s sauced,” the tall woman complains.
“Maybe,” her counterpart mutters, one finger hovering in the air.
“Where’s my drink?” I add, trying to get them off the topic of Michelle.
“Fine, get him in and let’s go.”
I am shoved roughly into the backseat and joined by the taller of the two. Once we are moving she removes her fur hat and a cascade of black hair falls down her shoulders. Her lips are painted bright red and her tongue licks at them, as if trying to wipe off the cold. Her eye lashes are impossibly long and when she turns to stare at me they flutter in a hypnotizing way.
“Where is the un-dead woman?” she whispers, cocking her head to one side.
I shake my head slowly, deciding to share nothing. These are Rhea’s minions.
“Don’t bother,” her chubby partner grouses from the front seat. “Let’s just get him to the
plane so we can find the other one and get out of this freezer.”
“Other one?” I mumble.
“Yes, the daughter,” Long Lashes whispers so as not to draw attention from her superior in the front seat. “Tell me where Jennifer Faust is.”
I shake my head again, becoming greatly concerned for Jenn.
“We will find her either way,” she taunts me in a husky whisper, leaning so close her lashes flutter on my earlobe. “Tell me her location and I promise not to hurt her?”
“That decision is clearly not yours to make.”
She snaps her jaw closed next to my ear, her perfect teeth crashing together, causing me to jump.
“Maybe, but I might make it worse for her now.”
“Give her a big hug for me,” I whisper, imagining Jenn grabbing her by the arm and sucking her dry.
She huffs and faces forward. As the car weaves through traffic, I notice she’s wearing long tapered gloves. While this is not a shock given the temperature, these look like several layers. Do they know about Jenn’s gift? Scanning my memories as they float in scotch, I recall that two men had come for Jenn and we only buried one. Did the other one report back what he had seen? I am drawn out of my thoughts by a cell phone ringing in the front seat.
“Yeah, we are on the way back with one,” she explains, then pauses to listen. “Edward Grey, yes I am aware that he is supposed to be dead,” another pause. “Well, the Cartographer fellow was wrong,” another pause. “He mentioned someone named Michelle. Is there anyone else un-accounted for he might be talking about?” another pause. “Piss off Phoebe, you can ask him yourself when he gets there.”
She slaps the phone shut without looking back. She mentioned the Cartographer. Is Anthony still alive? If he is, no doubt he wouldn’t reveal Michelle to them, or would he? Why is he with the very people trying to exterminate us? As I ponder this, it occurs to me the gist of the call indicates I am being taken to the Estate for further questioning. More likely for execution. I would very much like to see Arron again after all these years. Struggling to recall, I am sure he was only five-years-old the last time we were together. If Rahnee is to be believed, he is also the last living person who actually saw Beatrix alive. Does that still matter?