Finishing The Job

by Harley Fox

  “You know,” I say as I turn back to Trista, “that’s the kind of life I work against. The clients I have coming in, the ones who need help … they’re usually the ones who’ve been mostly affected by this economic gap. Taken advantage of by the upper class.”

  Trista nods. I watch the guy again. He’s loudly complaining on his phone.

  “… some run-down shit stain of a burger joint. Yeah! That’s what it’s actually called, The Burger Joint! … I know, I should sue them. Try to get some food poisoning case going on. That’ll shut this place down for sure. Here hold on, I gotta hit the head.”

  He gets up from his table, leaving a hardly-touched burger on the tray, and makes his way to the bathrooms at the back.

  “Come on,” Trista says, and I hear her chair scrape back as I turn to look at her again. She’s staring at the place where he was.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Come on,” she repeats, so I push myself to standing. “We’re gonna do something to him.”

  I think she’s going to spit in his food or something, but instead of heading over to his table she turns and makes for the front door instead. I follow as we step out into the lamp-lit parking lot.

  “Where are we going?” I ask her, but she doesn’t say anything as she heads for his red Porsche. “Trista? What are you doing?”

  “Keep a watch,” she says as she opens the front door and sits down in the seat. Her head ducks underneath the wheel and I watch her arms move as she first yanks, and then fiddles with something.

  I feel exposed, standing here. The man could come back from the bathroom at any time. In the passenger seat I hear a couple of sparks, and then the engine to the car starts up. My eyes widen and Trista sits up, her eyes alight.

  “Get in,” she tells me.

  “Trista, are you crazy? What are you doing?”

  “Get in!” she urges, swinging her legs in and pulling the front door closed. I glance through the restaurant window inside and see the man walking out of the bathroom. He stops when he looks out, at me, at his car headlights shining light, at Trista behind the wheel. His mouth opens and he yells something I can’t hear.

  A kick of adrenaline hits me and my feet are moving me before I realize it. He’s striding through the restaurant for the front door. Other customers are craning their necks now, watching the spectacle unfold. The door to the restaurant opens as I reach the passenger door of the Porsche.

  “Hey!” he shouts.

  I look at him and we lock eyes.

  “I, uh …” And then I yank the car door open and climb in. He rushes forward as I pull it shut.

  “Hey! Stop! Thief!”

  His words sound muffled and angry as Trista backs out of the space, having already dropped it into Reverse. The man is running after us as she cranks the wheel to the left, forcing us to go in a circle, and then drops it to second gear and peels forwards, forcing him to jump back, still yelling as he runs after us. We leave the parking lot and speed out into the street. I’m laughing, smiling widely, as Trista quickly navigates the streets. The man and the restaurant disappear from view when we take a hard turn around a corner.

  “Holy shit!” I cry out, still smiling. “Trista … what made you … I mean … why did you do that?”

  She shrugs, and I swear I can see a small smile on her lips.

  “That asshole deserves it,” she says with a shrug.

  I collapse back into the seat. My heart is racing. I’m breathing hard.

  “Where are we going?” I ask her, and Trista shrugs again.

  “Wherever we want.”

  We zoom down roads, taking turns down small alleys, Trista swiftly navigating in between other cars on the street. She tells me that, as a former cop, she knows where all the speed traps are but, more importantly, where they’re not. When we get to a safe area she speeds the car up until I’m almost pushed back into the seat, the two of us flying down the desolate roads.

  We drive for half an hour, moving up and down the city, making short work of the long stretches of road that Santa Espera offers. Slowly we meander our way east, until we reach the edge of the city, where the highways offer the promise of faraway places and the desert stretches out into infinity. Trista merges onto a highway but gets off at the first exit, for the desert.

  It’s here that she slows down her speed.

  We’re on a dirtier road now. There are no other cars around. Heading north, to our left are the bright lights of Santa Espera. To our right is the dark bottom and star-filled top of the desert. Both of us are silent as we stare out the passenger window, out into this abyss. But Trista’s silence feels heavier than mine. I glance back at her but she makes no motion of returning my gaze. Her eyes seem distant and pensive.

  Finally she speaks. “I almost died in this desert.”

  The words don’t sound conversational or meant to inform. It’s almost like she’s speaking to herself. I watch her speak, but Trista’s still looking out the window at the desert. I don’t say anything, giving her space to go on.

  “The day before yesterday. My superior, Devon … the deputy captain … he took me out here to kill me. He was going to … rape me first. He tried to rape me, once before. But I broke his nose instead.”

  She sneers at this last part, as though remembering.

  “I was saved … by Flynn, and Lance, and Katie. Flynn shot Devon in the shoulder. I shot him between his legs. Three times. And then I killed him. Lance and Katie buried him in the grave he dug for me. There’s a dead dog buried over top of him. Devon brought it. He said it’s used to throw off police dogs, in case they come looking for a buried body.”

  Jesus. Trista’s mouth closes and she keeps looking out the window. Her eyes still look far-away and distant. I wait for her to keep talking, but she doesn’t. Finally I speak up.

  “How do you feel?”

  She shivers a bit, her eyes turning to me, looking at me as though realizing for the first time that I’m there.

  “How do I feel?” she repeats, and I nod. She blinks, looks down. Thinks for a second.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know how I feel. When Devon … tried to do that to me, something happened. It’s like I … left … myself. Like I’m not in my body anymore.” I nod, not responding. Trista’s silent for a moment. “And Flynn,” she says. “He … I don’t know what to do. When he’s around it’s like a new level is added to what I’m trying to do. He keeps reminding me that I … that I could die, or fuck this up. I didn’t go into the Bullets thinking I would fall in love.” Her eyes meet mine, a look of urgency in them. “I didn’t want to connect with anyone. I was in my own … but now … it’s too real.” She drops her gaze. “I could fuck this up and it would hurt him. And I don’t want to hurt him. But I can’t stop now. Not when I’m so close.”

  She blinks and I see the dim trail of tears run down her cheeks.

  “I feel so tired all the time,” Trista tells me. “Like I have so many people telling me how to live my life all the time, but the voices are all in my head. And I don’t know how to make them shut up.”

  I can feel my throat start to tighten. I reach to the wheel and put a hand on top of one of Trista’s. Her eyes drop down to the gesture. She doesn’t pull away.

  “It sounds like you’ve taken on a lot,” I say to her in the quiet car. “All of this with Will Silver … taking care of your mom, all on your own … having to deal with love … it’s a lot.”

  She nods, blinks. More tears roll down.

  “But hey,” I say, “at least you’re not almost 8 months pregnant!”

  She lets out a short laugh, and I smile. Her gaze swings to my belly, then up to my face.

  “How do you do it?” she asks. “You seem so put together. How do you take care of everything?”

  I give her hand a light squeeze. “I remind myself that I can only do so much. And that it’s not all up to me to fix. And that I have others in my life who are willing to help me when I need it
. And you do too.”

  Trista doesn’t say anything. Instead she slowly nods, then moves her gaze back out the passenger window. I do the same. She’s silent for a few seconds before speaking.

  “I’m glad I did it,” she says.

  “Did what?”

  “Killed Devon.” I turn back and look at her. The distance in her eyes seems less now than it did before. “For years I thought I would always be beneath him. That he would always have this control over me, either in the job or outside of it. And then I killed him.” She swallows. “I don’t regret it one bit.”

  My hand is still on hers on the wheel, and she spreads her fingers, allowing mine to slip through just a bit. Then she closes them again, giving them a squeeze. It only lasts for a moment, and then she opens her fingers again and pulls her hand away, moving it down to the gearshift and dropping it into first.

  “You ever done donuts?” she asks me.

  “What?”

  It’s all I manage to get out before Trista presses down on the gas and propels the car forward, turning the wheel and forcing the car to spin around in circles. Trista yells as I’m flattened against the door of the car, screaming and laughing and generally feeling terrified. The engine revs louder and she shifts into higher and higher gears, until I can almost smell the burning rubber of the tires. It feels like I’m stuck in the craziest carnival ride I’ve ever been in. Sand pings and ricochets off the car exterior. Plumes of dust and smoke surround us outside.

  And when I look over at Trista, I see a light in her eyes that I’ve never seen before.

  As suddenly as the donuts started, Trista stops them by straightening out the wheel and taking us back onto the dirty road and out to the highway. My head is still spinning as I try to stabilize myself in the passenger seat. Trista takes an exit off the highway back into Santa Espera. She’s drumming her hands on the steering wheel.

  “I guess we should give the car back,” she says to me as we find ourselves back on the city streets. My heart rate has returned to normal by now.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. We’re north of where we came in, amid some old electrical plants and power stations. “Do you think the guy’s still at the restaurant?”

  “Probably not,” Trista says. “But that’s where I’m going to …”

  She slows down, and I hear in the silence the faint sound of sirens. We pass by an electrical plant and see blue and red flashing lights, accompanied by flickering orange light filtered through plumes of smoke.

  “Holy shit,” I say. “Something’s on fire.”

  But Trista’s eyes are wide. She’s stopped the car.

  “There’s a drug facility here,” she says in almost a hush. I look at her.

  “Do you think …”

  “Flynn.”

  And then she presses down on the gas, too hard. I’m flung back into my seat.

  “Trista,” I say as she zooms forward. “Be careful. If they catch you …”

  She nods, slows the car down.

  “Down there,” I point to a darkened space between buildings, not a street but wide enough for the car to fit through. Trista takes the turn and we’re drenched in shadow. She creeps along. Her window rolls down. I smell the acrid, chemical burn of the fire right away, and I can hear noises. The whines of the police and firefighter sirens, but also people yelling, angry sounds. Car doors slamming. The hiss and crackle of flames being fought.

  We reach the edge of the building and Trista noses the car out just enough for us to see around the corner. The large red firetrucks appear, spraying something that looks like foam into the flaming building and over top of it. There are police cars too, too many of them. And in the midst of all of this, a circle of officers all focused on something in the center. Or, rather, someone.

  I gasp when I see it. Trista is silent. Practically collapsed on the ground in the circle of officers is a man with short blond hair, wearing a black leather jacket that only belongs to the Bullets. Officers are taking turns approaching him to punch him in the face, or kick him in the stomach as he struggles to get up.

  “Flynn,” I hear Trista whisper.

  She opens her car door but I reach out, grab a hold of her. She looks back to see me shake my head.

  “Don’t,” I say to her, in a low voice despite the loud noises of the scene.

  Her eyes are shimmering but she doesn’t try to pull herself away from me. We hear someone yell and both turn to observe the horror unfolding before us.

  Flynn looks beaten up, his face bloody and bruised. One of the officers laughs as he approaches Flynn, grabs his hair, and yanks his head back. The officer is laughing wildly, and yet despite the state Flynn is in, we watch him make a face as he reaches up and grabs a hold of the officer’s uniform. The guy’s face turns from happy to scared in an instant before Flynn yanks down, pulling the officer face-first to the ground.

  An uproar occurs and the rest of the officers swarm, pulling their colleague away from Flynn, and then all descending on him at once. Trista makes an audible cry at this, but we’re helpless to watch as these officers of the law descend upon one man, every one of them landing blows. Finally somebody yells and the group disbands, the crowd opening up to show Flynn lying motionless, face down on the ground.

  My heart is breaking. I can see by Trista’s body that she’s breathing hard, watching this. The energy of the crowd has dissipated. They disperse, leaving Flynn where he is. He’s hardly breathing. Finally an ambulance shows up, lights flashing, and when the orderlies come out they exchange a few words with the cops before strapping Flynn onto a gurney and taking him away.

  Trista

  It feels like my brain has stopped.

  Flynn. What did they do to Flynn?

  Even though I saw it, it’s like information is slowly seeping into my brain, like old oil being pushed through a dish towel.

  “Trista? Trista?”

  Someone’s voice. Merryn’s. She’s close by. Turn your head. I do, and see her staring at me.

  “We should go,” she’s saying.

  “What?” But Flynn.

  “We should go. We don’t want them to catch us hiding out like this.”

  “But Flynn …”

  “He’s gone. They took him away. Come on, back out through the alley slowly. Let’s get out of here.”

  I’m starting to feel my body again. Since telling Merryn, since stealing the car and doing donuts in the desert. What happened to me happened, but that doesn’t mean it has to define me. Doesn’t have to keep controlling me, like how Devon kept trying to. He’s dead now. I killed him.

  I put the car in reverse, like Merryn says, and slowly back out through the alley, keeping the body of the car contained to the shadows. When we reach the opening I stop, listening, waiting to see if there’s anyone else out there. But all I can hear is the purr of the car’s motor so I back out all the way, then turn away from the burning building and those fucking cops, the people I worked alongside every day. Bile rises in my throat and I grimace as I swallow it back down. Pieces of shit. How could they do that to him?

  We drive slowly, quietly, speeding back up only when we reach the main streets again. Merryn is quiet in the seat next to me. I feel like she’s waiting for me to say something.

  “I guess I should take the car back.” I’m not sure if that’s what she wants. She turns her head and gives me a curious look.

  “Yeah,” she says. Silence for a few long moments. And then, “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah,” I reply. “Why?”

  Merryn shifts, her large body moving with her. “Well … Flynn …”

  “Right.” The image of him lying on the dirty ground, unmoving, pops in my head. How does that make you feel? “He shouldn’t have gotten caught.”

  “They shouldn’t have beaten him like they did,” Merryn says. Bile greets me again and I swallow it back down. “We could have warned him. Lindsay told me that Will knew about last night. That he was increasing security on the places.”
/>
  We could have warned him. Would he have listened? Flynn’s voice in my head: Without you I’ve got nothing. Without you … I am nothing.

  Of course he would have listened. He loved me. Loves me.

  “Yeah,” I reply. I feel Merryn look at me again and then she turns away, doesn’t say anything. We continue driving in silence.

  Soon enough The Burger Joint appears, but instead of taking a left into the parking lot I drive past it.

  “Hey, that was the place,” Merryn says.

  “I’ll drop you off at my place,” I tell her. “It’s late. I can walk back on my own.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Besides … I need some time to think.”

  No argument to that. We navigate through the streets until we’re at my apartment. I get out with Merryn and unlock the doors for her, telling her I’ll be back later. She goes upstairs and I return to the hotwired car, climbing in, pulling the door closed behind me. I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turn around and go back the way we came, back to the restaurant.

  The place is closed, the only lights on inside being the ones over the counter. That man isn’t here. I pull the car into the lot and slide it in between two white parking lines. I pull the handbrake, then reach underneath and untwist the wires I’ve connected together. The motor cuts off. Straightening up, I get out of the car, make sure the doors are locked, and shut it up. Then I turn and start walking back towards home.

  It’s full dark now, and areas of the street that aren’t lit up by lamps are drenched in blackness. A certain breed of evil lives in this blackness. The type of evil that police training warns us about, has us run drills against. They teach us what to expect, how to interact in order to dampen emotions while simultaneously keeping a sense of control.

  But what if this blackness isn’t the only type of evil out there?

  I knew the police force was corrupt when I was in it. But I worked inside all day. I hardly went out. The drips and drabs I heard about were rumors, whispers behind hands and hurriedly shredded reports. It’s different when you see those people who are meant to protect you actually beating the shit out of someone you love. It’s different when you’re forced to stand in place because you know that if they knew you were there, they’d beat the shit out of you too, and there would be no stopping them.