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Maddox
It’s a quarter to dawn and the dogs are singing.
There’s no sun, only painted pinks and purples across the skyline, threatening its ultimate arrival. The night flew by in a haze of faces, drinks, drugs, and busybodies, all rubbing up against me. My first gasp of fresh air, a fetid stink from the Mississippi river, is the sweetest I’ve ever breathed, but a man’s got to do what a man does.
I stand on the edge of the Mark Twain Riverboat’s third story, while drunks file off the thin ramps of wood and steel to the muddy soil beneath. They jeer and sing, reminiscing the evening we shared. A prominent dinner cruise and tourist attraction here in Hannibal, turned to twisted debauchery at the hands of the Harrison family.
It was a night to celebrate Quincy Harrison’s achievements; something to do with garnering trust down the river in Saint Louis. I should have paid more attention to what was going on around me, but I didn’t. The only reason I’m on this rickety riverboat is for her: Isabella Romani.
Whatever curse her father, The King, Bruno, cast on me, holds strong. I’m lost on this triple-decker testament to time. I look down, hidden on high, as Isabella wades through the crowd; showing her face on behalf of her father, keeping the peace. The Braddocks, Romanis, Slaters, and Harrisons are all congregating together in good faith—I’m surprised some local radical didn’t have the Mark Twain blown up to get rid of us.
What the hell am I doing?
Even as I give in to this strange primal urge, I can’t find any reason or logic to it. I’ve spent my days and nights finding new ways to be in Isabella’s presence; passing on any reason, to get another glance of her.
Saving her from Vik left me a mess; a wayward son, a lost cause searching for meaning in the madness. Worst of all? There is no logic behind it. I don’t feel any different about Isabella now, then I did the night I killed her assailant. I have no thumping heart filled with joy and no stirrings of emotion in that empty shell; so what was this, apart from a waste of my time?
It’s been a week since The King gave me my impossible task. I really should focus on it and get ready to deal with the judge. So, why can’t I? Why do I feel locked in a perpetual state of watching and longing? Of making sure that Isabella’s safe?
It’s not as if she’s alone at any given time. Isabella always has either Dominic, her bodyguard, by her side, or me, and I’m the one with a pistol ready in my hand. So, she’s danced with her underlings, mingled with these sorry fools, and weighed heavily on my woeful mind.
What foolish yearning is this? What absurdity and lustful dreaming? Why can’t I take my eyes off Isabella? I feel like a schoolboy, who’s dripping in sweat and clutched by nervous remorse. Then, Isabella is gone, in the back of an Escalade escorted by an entourage of The King’s most loyal. I should feel free, now, not having her here, to torment my aching soul, but I’m left with a burning desire to be at her side still.
What twisted hand has fate dealt me to make me feel this way?
* * *
After a few hours of sleep, I’m back on my feet and out into the world. Although I’m somewhat lost in whatever dream Isabella fosters in me, I’m not completely oblivious to my task. During the last, painstaking seven days, I’ve done my due diligence on Judge Emma Blake, learning her routines.
She is a punctual woman. Every morning she stops at the same coffee shop, ordering a flat white cappuccino – no sugar, extra cream – and an all-bran muffin. Afterward, she disappears into the district courthouse until noon, emerging only for a quick lunch – typically, a takeaway from the Broadway Bar N Grill, one block over. Finally, she locks herself away until evening, before clocking off at five-thirty, at the earliest, but never later than six.
Emma never goes home without making a stop at the local grocer. A small, family-owned shop near her house, on the border of Hannibal’s city limits. She buys ingredients for dinner, toiletries, and other essential items.
Emma Blake’s habitual nature makes my job so much easier.
I stand outside the grocery store’s double doors, waiting. My cell phone is clutched haphazardly against my ear, but I am aware of every minute detail of my surroundings. Children are playing out in the parking lot, laughing and screaming in glee as they glide around on skateboards or roller-skates. Men and women shuffle from their vehicles towards the grocer, exhausted from a long day’s work. A few corner shops along the strip mall have patrons and owners standing outside, enjoying a cigarette or some conversation. I’m treating this meeting as I would any task; with expert precision and a fine eye for detail.
Emma’s set to exit the building any second now. I start my prepping and planning for the unfortunate accident that will bring us closer together.
“Evening, Tom,” I say into the receiver, so any passers-by think I’m actually on a call. There’s no one there, of course. It’s just me, holding a phone, making it all seem as real as possible. This is a delicate game. Even if no one here knows the judge or me, suspicion has to be avoided at all costs.
“You have any word on that little investment we spoke about?” I speak loudly enough for people to hear, but not over the top so they might wish to eavesdrop. I leave a believable time for my specter to answer.
“They’re asking how much?” I conjure false emotion, annoyance being the first to show “We can’t do it. That’s crazy talk.”
Then, I see Emma approaching the double doors. This close up, she’s shorter than I thought and softer around the edges – not fat, chubby is a better term. She’s conventionally attractive; a somewhat symmetrical face, long blonde hair let loose after a day of work, and curves in all the right places. I’d place her as older than I am, somewhere in her late thirties, nearing forty. But, that’s an easy assumption to make considering she’s a criminal appeals’ court judge. At least thirty-five, with ten years of practicing law.
If we met under different circumstances, I might have found her an acceptable partner. Maybe not to have and to hold, but a fling nonetheless. She is clutching two paper bags underneath her arms, as though nursing twin babies. So far, so good.
I make my move towards her.
“They’re not even offering pennies on the dollar, I’m not going to accept it,” I say, adding a few more words here and there.
As I approach Emma, I turn my gaze towards someone in the distance. There’s no real ruckus, but what reason would Emma have to think anything of my mindless wandering? I am taking long strides, walking with absolute determination, and as I turn my head back towards her, it’s already too late.
Though my distraction is a fallacy, Emma’s is real. She doesn’t see me coming, but wanders along without a care in the world. That’s exactly what I needed, Emma off her guard.
