by Niles Kovach
My last class that day was Physics. The book was ponderous but the professor made us bring the thing to class. So I was saddled with it all day, along with three notebooks, a lab book, a three-ring binder, and my purse, a large bag-like affair that, collapsed and mostly empty, hung on my shoulder. I left the physics building and took a short cut to my car, walking behind the math building toward the library parking lot where my crippled beetle squatted, looking dejected. I hoped I could make it limp home, where I would make a decision about our futures.
It had been a gray day, with a drabness that dampened color and sound. In the late afternoon, the dim light faltered in an early sunset. Nothing was distinct. The lines of buildings, landmarks, trees, and signposts were smudged in a water-color dusk. There had never actually been daylight that day, only a lighter shade of night. Full night was returning, creeping along the narrow lane that I was walking on. It hid the tall man until he was right in front of me, so that I had no warning, and no opportunity to run.
"I have to talk to you," he said.
I could not, at first, remember who this was. I peered through the gloom trying to see his face. The voice was American. He was too tall to be Frank Cardova.
"Did you tell them?" he said.
It was Brent Grayson.
"Tell who?"
"You know who."
"Tell them what?"
"The money." He dragged the word out, with forced patience, his teeth clenched.
"Oh. Yes. I did."
"What did they say?"
I tried to think, tried to remember every word said, every expression. My only distinct memory was my own fear.
"Nothing," I told Grayson. "I don't think they said anything."
"Well, here. Give them this." He handed me a large brown paper bag.
I protested, not least because the bag was heavy and I had enough to carry.
"Take it. Give it to them. Give it to Charlemagne. See, here's the money. They can go back where they came from."
"Money?"
"Fifty thousand. No! Don't open it here. It's all there, don't worry. Tell them to go away."
"That's not the reason," I muttered.
"What?"
"Somebody told me you're wrong. Somebody said, 'They aren't the people and that's not the reason.' So take this back."
"What the hell are you talking about? Who said that?"
"I really don't know, and I don't want any part of it. You take this back. I've had enough."
"Oh no you haven't," he hissed. "You'll take it to them or I'll find you. You got that? I don't care what the reason is. There's fifty thousand dollars in that bag. It ought to be at least enough to buy them off. Take it. Tell them if they want more, I'll double it. Got it?"
I shrank from the menace in his face and voice. "Got it," I whispered. I was saying this a lot lately, without getting anything more than a very uneasy feeling.
Grayson returned to the shadows; I could hear his footsteps on the pavement, walking quickly at first, then breaking into a run.
I walked a few steps, trying to balance the bag of money on top of my books. It slid to the left, threatening to fall. It slid to the right. "This is not going to work," I muttered. I dropped the lot and began stuffing my books into my purse. One notebook had to be folded to fit. The others stuck out at odd angles, making the purse hang awkwardly on its one long strap. I put the strap on my shoulder. It slid off and the heavy bag thumped to the ground. I adjusted my balance, grabbed the paper bag, and was half way to a standing position, when I realized someone was standing in front of me again.
"Gimme the money," he said.
I looked up, still in a crouch, the heavy purse dangling from my left shoulder, the paper bag in my right hand. I saw a head silhouetted against the distant glow of the parking lot street lights. The hair was long and unkempt. A knife poked at me from the shadows, barely illuminated by the lights behind.
I shuffled slightly to the left, to make him turn his head so I could see his face. The knife followed me, coming closer.
"Gimme the money!" he insisted.
It was Boris. I could see him now. I could also see the parking lot to the left. There were no obstructions. I could run, but weighed down as I was, he could catch me. I could not bear the thought of giving way to him. He was so low. He was my ideal of the despicable. I did not fear him because he was so contemptible, a fawning braggart, no brains, no courage, but plenty of ambition. My mind worked for a way to disappoint him as if this were merely a mildly interesting puzzle.
"Come on. Gimme it."
"I...I can't. It's for Vasily."
"I know that. I was watching Grayson for him. Gimme it and I'll give it to him."
"Will you?"
"Sure."
"I'm not so sure there is money in here, though," I said doubtfully. "I was just looking in the bag, and it looks like just some wrapped packages. Is that how they wrap money?"
"What? Lemme see." He stooped as I brought my left hand to the right to open the paper bag. The movement started the strap of my purse sliding toward my elbow. I moved my left hand as if to stop it, but instead grabbed the strap and changed the trajectory of the swinging purse so that it swung up toward his head. The edge of my physics book caught his right eye; his head snapped backward and he fell heavily.
I ran to my car without pausing to look back. I checked the mirror as I searched for my key. Nobody coming. I found the key, but it would not go in. Tearing my eyes from the mirror to look at what I was doing, I took the key out of the light switch and put it in the ignition, checked the mirror again. Still nothing. Turned the key. Nothing. Pumped the gas pedal and turned the key again. A reluctant cranking sound. A figure emerged from the side of the math building, staggering. I turned the key again; the Volkswagen started; it limped from the parking lot, making scraping noises and pulling stiffly to the left, with me chuckling at the wheel.
CHAPTER TWELVE