Tell Me to Go

by Charlotte Byrd

“What do you want?” Nicholas says.

  “The girl is coming with me.”

  “No,” Nicholas says, but then the perpetrator points the gun at him.

  “I’m not here to kill anyone, but I’m ready to do it,” he says. “Don’t get in my way.”

  My head is spinning. He’s here for me? Why? Who is he? What does he want with me?

  “You mind if I pull up my pants?” Nicholas says.

  His voice sounds strange. Casual somehow.

  Sing- songy even.

  The usual intensity is gone.

  But why? Maybe to appear calmer or not so threatening. Though why would he seem threatening?

  The guy shakes his head no.

  “C’mon, man,” Nicholas whines. He actually elongates the a in man so that it resembles a sound that a sheep would make.

  The man grabs me by my arm and pulls me toward him.

  I look back at Nicholas. My eyes open wide. His hands are strong and powerful and they pinch at my neck. I try to resist but he keeps waving his gun over my head.

  The gun goes off piercing my ear drum.

  When my head stops pounding long enough for me to open my eyes, I see the guy lying on his back with a little black dot in between his eyes.

  “Are you okay?” Nicholas says, throwing his arms around me.

  Tears stream down my face making it impossible for me to speak.

  He holds me for a few minutes and lets me cry on his shoulder. I feel safe in his arms, even though I had just watched him execute a man in front of me.

  “Should I call the police?” I ask, keeping my eyes closed. Nicholas pulls away abruptly.

  “Absolutely not.”

  I reach out for him again, but he just walks away.

  “Not now,” he says curtly.

  Nicholas picks up his phone. Okay, he wants to make the call to the cops. That makes sense.

  I don’t even know how to begin to explain what just happened.

  “Yes, I’m calling for Katherine Hepburn. Urgency level 9,” he says and hangs up.

  Katherine Hepburn, the dead movie star? Is that someone’s name? Why did he call her instead of the cops?

  He walks over to the sink and opens the lower cupboard.

  “Do you have any…?” he asks, turning around all of the bottles and searching through the mess of crap underneath there.

  Before I can answer him, he pulls out a pair of Sydney’s canary yellow cleaning gloves.

  “Why do you need those?” I ask.

  My blood runs cold. He needs them to hide evidence.

  “But you did nothing wrong,” I plead.

  My voice gets really high and uneven, even cracking, as a result of my disappointment. “He burst in here and pointed his gun at us. He was going to kidnap me. I’m sure that the police will understand.”

  As I talk, Nicholas continues to work.

  He pats down the body and checks his pockets.

  What is he looking for?

  “No identification,” Nicholas says. “He’s a professional.”

  “Professional what?” I gasp.

  “Killer.”

  The word ping-pongs around my head like an echo.

  Professional killer. What did a professional killer want with me? I don’t know anything. I haven’t done anything. Why would someone even bother to hire someone like this?

  Nicholas grabs a bottle of bleach from under the sink and puts it on the counter. There isn’t much blood.

  Actually, there’s hardly any at all. I should probably offer to help him clean up, but I can’t make a single muscle in my body budge.

  The buzzer goes off. I nearly jump up in place.

  My heart starts to race.

  I get drenched in sweat, and I start to shiver at the same time.

  “Don’t worry,” Nicholas says. “It’s Katherine Hepburn.”

  When he opens the door, a well put together woman in her fifties comes in. She has an expensive haircut and she smells of Chanel No. 5 perfume. Dressed like a lawyer on television, she carries a large leather purse on her shoulder. She doesn’t look anything like the movie star, yet she somehow gives off a similar vibe.

  Nicholas is about to close the door behind her, but then two men appear. Outfitted in hoodies with the word, Daly Moving Company, and back support belts with suspenders on top, they are carrying flat boxes as well as large bags big enough to fit a huge living room rug. Or a body.

  36

  When they take care of the problem…

  My breathing slows down along with my heartbeat. A little bit of fear dissipates with each exhalation.

  Without saying a word, the movers just get to work. Katherine Hepburn gives them instructions and they do as they are told.

  First, they unzip the rug bag and lay it flat on the floor. It’s black canvas on the outside and plastic on the side. Very convenient in case there’s bleeding. The bag looks expensive, exactly the type of bag that this type of woman would have.

  They place the body inside the bag and zip it closed. I am surprised by how little blood there is on the floor.

  The woman motions to Nicholas and he kneels down and soaks up the blood with the paper towels. Afterward, he pours bleach on the spot and rubs until all of the visible residue is gone.

  Katherine Hepburn opens her bag without taking it off her shoulder and pulls out a small device. Someone kills the lights. She sprays something onto the floor. The device emits a cool blue light.

  “Is it not out?” I ask him.

  “The Luminol is reacting with the bleach right there,” Nicholas says. “That’s why it’s all bright like that.”

  Katherine Hepburn takes slow careful steps away from where the body was lying.

  “What is she doing?” I ask.

  “Checking for hidden blood splatter,” he explains.

  Nicholas, the movers, and I wait while she carefully makes her way around the perimeter, spraying and illuminating as she sees fit.

  Once she is satisfied that there are no particles of blood anywhere else in the apartment, she turns on her heels and tells the movers to get started.

  Her voice is low, quiet, and authoritative.

  The movers take the boxes that they brought with them and fold them up. They tape the bottom and the top but don’t put anything inside.

  They make a total of four of them. Even though the boxes are empty, there is visible strain on their faces once they lift them. Katherine Hepburn opens the door for them and they disappear down the hallway.

  “What are they doing?” I ask.

  “You are moving some of your stuff to storage,” Nicholas says. “You hired the Daly company to help you. You are also selling this rug here to a buyer from a rug clearinghouse in New York. You don’t know her name but you found her through her advertisement in the Boston Magazine.”

  I nod. The story comes out of his mouth so naturally I almost believe it even though I know the truth.

  Katherine Hepburn pulls out a copy of the magazine and places it on my coffee table.

  “Is your ad really in there?” I ask.

  “Of course,” she says.

  Taking out a large plastic Ziplock bag from her purse, she opens it for Nicholas who places all of the blood-soaked paper towels into it.

  He sprays some bleach on the spot where they were laying, wipes it with another sheet, and places that into her bag as well.

  Everything about this operation is so professional and efficient that it makes my head spin. I pick up the magazine and go to the back where most of the ads are.

  “Page one thirty-five,” Katherine Hepburn says.

  The movers come back.

  Arguing about the Patriots, they leave the front door wide open and grab the black bag, one on each side.

  “Shit, this rug is no joke,” one of them says.

  They let the door slam behind them.

  I flip to the page that she told me and there at the bottom I see that someone had circled Prestige Rug Compa
ny’s advertisement in thin blue ink.

  “Thank you very much, ma’am,” Katherine Hepburn says, handing me a check for $700 made out in my name. Prestige Rug Company’s name and address are prominently displayed at the top. It’s signed by K. C. Prestige. “It was a pleasure doing business with you.”

  “Thank you,” I mumble. “You, too.”

  She walks out of the door, just at the movers come back for their last load.

  “We’ll drive this right over to the storage unit,” one of them says. “Thanks again.”

  They let the door slam again and then Nicholas and I are alone.

  Their smiles and their acting are so convincing that I have to look around for a second and remind myself of what really happened.

  Or maybe I shouldn’t.

  Maybe it’s better to just pretend and improvise a different outcome just like they are.

  “Well, that was…efficient,” I say slowly, not entirely sure if that’s the right word for it.

  “I need a drink. You want one?” Nicholas asks.

  “Oh, God, yes!”

  Nicholas pours us both generous amounts of whiskey and we sit down on the couch.

  The amber colored liquid ignites my taste buds with a pleasing combination of leather, cedar wood, and candied almonds.

  It burns my throat as it slides down and leaves a bit of an orange pith aftertaste.

  “Why didn’t you want to call the police?” I ask even though I suspect that I already know the answer.

  “Olive, I have to tell you something,” Nicholas says.

  37

  When I find out why…

  I nod. I don’t need to brace myself for impact. I already know what he’s about to say.

  That guy, the professional killer, wasn’t really after me. He may have wanted to kidnap me but this whole thing has to do with Nicholas and the kind of business that he’s in.

  “Someone is after you,” he says. “I killed this one but they aren’t going to stop.”

  I turn to face him. His words don’t make any sense.

  “What are you talking about?” I ask when he doesn’t elaborate.

  “I was foolish enough to think that I could protect you,” he says without turning toward me.

  “Remember when I told you that Ashley asked me to watch out for you?” he asks. I nod. “There’s a contract out on your head.”

  I sit back into the couch. I press the nails of my hand into the palms of my other until they leave creases.

  “The reason why Owen got a parole hearing is that he provided testimony against someone over something that happened in prison. I don’t know the details but that’s why the district attorney arranged for his hearing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the people he testified against are out for blood. He doesn’t have a wife or children, you are the closest living member of his family. He loves you and they want him to hurt.”

  “How do you know this?” I ask, shaking my head in disbelief.

  “I’m a pretty well connected guy, Olive. I have feelers set up on the streets. They tell me what they hear.”

  “And what is that?”

  “These guys want to make him pay.”

  No, something doesn’t make sense. Owen loves me. He would never set me up like this. He’s not our mother. He would never betray me.

  “He doesn’t know about this,” Nicholas says. “If that’s what you are thinking. He thinks that his life is in danger in prison but I doubt that he knows that they would go so low as to try to kidnap and kill his sister.”

  That makes me feel good but only momentarily.

  “That’s why I didn’t want you to come back to Boston,” Nicholas continues. “I know that you must’ve thought that I was some sort of possessive asshole, but I didn’t want to tell you this and I didn’t know how else to protect you.”

  My mind quickly reviews the highlights of everything that has happened ever since I met him.

  “So, this whole time, this offer you made me…I thought you needed me to be your partner. I thought that’s why you were paying me.” My words rush out all at once, in fragments, barely making any sense.

  “I couldn’t very well kidnap you against your will,” Nicholas says. “But I needed to protect you.”

  “For Ashley?” I ask.

  “At first, but then…for me.”

  “For you?” I ask. I feel an invisible feather tickle the back of my throat and cough.

  “Yeah, I kinda grew to like you,” Nicholas says, giving me a little kick with his foot. The flecks of gold in his eyes light up.

  “So, what now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know but we need to be very careful. These men that he testified against have very powerful friends. That guy I killed, he is one of the best assassins out there. The only reason I got the upper hand was that he got distracted.”

  “What exactly happened?”

  “It’s always difficult when you have two people to keep the gun on, especially if you’re not exactly willing to kill immediately,” Nicholas explains. “He wanted to take you somewhere. Probably to his boss who would use you as leverage to get Owen to do something.”

  “To take back his confession?” I ask.

  “Maybe.” He shrugs. “Or something else entirely. I have no idea. The problem was that he didn’t want to kill me. He didn’t know I would be here and he definitely didn’t know who I was. That’s why I was acting so aloof.”

  I nod my head, processing everything that he’s saying.

  “When I saw him look at you, I grabbed his gun out of his hand and shot him.”

  “Just like that?” I ask.

  “You wanted me to talk to him first?” He laughs.

  I run my fingers around the rim of my empty glass. The whiskey makes me feel warm and cozy, slowing down my thoughts to something less than the speed of sound.

  My phone rings. I look at the screen. It’s a private number. I’m tempted to make it go to voicemail, but at the very last moment I don’t.

  As soon as I hear the robotic voice on the other end and wait for it to make the connection, I know that it’s Owen.

  “Guess what?” he says. He is so excited he can barely contain himself. “They granted my parole.”

  I’m stunned. My tongue touches the roof of my mouth. He says my name over and over again before I can bring myself to respond.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “I’m just really happy for you.”

  Nicholas furrows his brow, confused. I hold out my palm to tell him to wait.

  “Is this normal for them to grant parole so quickly?” I ask.

  Nicholas nods, understanding immediately what I’m talking about.

  “I don’t know, but who cares, I got it!” Owen says. He takes a beat. “You don’t seem very excited.”

  “No, no, it’s not that,” I say quickly. “I am very excited.”

  I shift my weight from one side to another and cross and uncross my arms. Nicholas puts his arms around me. Having his body so close to mine calms me down a bit.

  “So, what happens now?” I raise my voice, forcing the excitement.

  “They told me that they will be releasing me tomorrow. Actually tonight. They always do it in the middle of the night, starting the process around one a.m.”

  “Why is that?” I ask.

  “There are a bunch of steps,” Owen says. “They take me to a series of waiting rooms. There is a lot to process. The stuff that I collected in prison. Books, writings, things like that. And then they have to return the belongings that I brought here as well.”

  I nod along pretending that any of this makes sense.

  “Okay, don’t take this the wrong way,” I say. “But isn’t it a little bit suspicious that you’re getting released so…soon?”

  There’s a long pause. “What exactly are you saying?”

  I shake my head. “Did you….do something to make this happen?”r />
  I know that this is the wrong thing to ask just as the words come out of my mouth.

  “What the fuck are you saying, Olive?” Owen demands to know. The tone of his voice shifts from loving brother to convicted felon.

  “Nothing. I’m not saying anything.”

  “What the fuck are you implying then?”

  Owen’s education has come a long way since he first went in. When he started doing time, he was an angry young man who couldn’t formulate a coherent sentence about his feelings or anything that was happening to him.

  But when he learned to read and write and then spent years educating himself in his cell and the prison library, he developed words for his thoughts and feelings.

  He was no longer the irate toddler who knew what he wanted but couldn’t quite express it.

  “I am just surprised by how this whole thing has unfolded, that’s all,” I play dumb.

  I want to ask him who he ratted on, but this isn’t the right time or place. Everything we are saying is being recorded. He knows it as well as I do. Besides, as soon as he is out, he will have plenty of time to explain himself.

  “You’re not the only one,” Owen says. “But it has happened to a few of my friends. There’s a major overcrowding problem so they’re letting out some non-violent, well-behaving inmates on parole earlier than they probably would have otherwise. The new governor has done a lot to make it happen.”

  “That’s great,” I say under my breath.

  Oh, hmmm. Maybe this is it then. Nothing suspicious. Maybe the guy who broke into my apartment had nothing to do with Owen. I was so quick to judge him and to put the blame on him. Nicholas’ explanation seemed so plausible, but what if I was wrong? What if that guy had something to do with Nicholas instead?

  A robot voice comes on the line and tells us that we only have a minute left.

  “Will you be here to pick me up?” Owen asks.

  “When? Where?”

  “At the front gate of the prison. Six a.m.,” he says. “Be there at six but it may take longer. Sometimes there’s a delay and it’s out of my control.”

  “Yes, of course, I’ll wait,” I say. “After all of these years I’m pretty used to working around their schedule.”