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There’s no sign of Brenda along the way, nothing to indicate that she’d come or gone. I’m not sure how I feel about that. In a way, it makes everything that's happened between us feel almost like a dream. Did I really watch Glenn go over that cliff? Did I really bed the woman who hired me? Or was it all a fantasy, something I will wake up from any minute and laugh to myself for being so absurd?
But it wasn’t a dream. As I cross the city line, a sheriff’s car races by headed in the opposite direction. Instinct tells me I know exactly where the uniformed officer is going. The question that begs to be answered is whether or not Brenda called in the hopes of me being caught and fingered for the crime, or if she assumed I’d already be absent from the scene and was just playing out the plan as we’d discussed.
With a few changes that hadn’t involved her ditching me in the wee hours of the morning and leaving me to fend for myself should I be caught, literally, with my pants down.
I want answers. My mind tends to leap to conclusions, and the ones I’m leaning toward aren’t in her favor. I want nothing more than for them to not be true. If they are and she made the wrong decision and moved against me, then I’ll have to do unthinkable. I tell myself to shake it off. If worse comes to worst and I have to end her life, there will be no one to blame but herself. She knew the risks going into this, and I’m doing what any red-blooded human would in that situation: fend for himself. Looking out for number one is the only thing that makes sense to me in this life.
I keep watch in the rearview mirror all the way back to my apartment. I’ve made my decision. I can’t stay there anymore. Changes needed to be made. Since I’ve carried out this final assignment, it’s time for that retirement I’ve been looking forward to. And I’m not even going to call in for the last half of the money Faith owes me.
Since I don’t know where we stand, I’m not going to take any more unnecessary risks. I’ve already done enough damage by risking my own ass. The last thing I need to worry about is fussing over the final payment she owes me. It’s just asking for trouble that I don’t need or want.
Nothing is going to stand in my way of leaving the country and carving out a peaceful existence.
I should have known it wouldn’t be that easy.
The moment I enter the lobby to the tall building housing luxury apartments, John appears, attaching himself to my side like a barnacle. Or a leech. I grit my teeth but keep the conversation one-sided. John isn’t the type to take subtle hints, or any hint at all, as the case is. He yaks away, oblivious to my lack of response, verbal or facial. The cold shoulder would be enough for a normal person to back off, but not John. John isn’t normal.
“Looks like you got some sun this weekend,” John is observing as the elevator makes its ascent. “Beachside or poolside?” When I don’t offer any answer, he says, “That’s cool. I understand the need for privacy. Lucky lady, I’m guessing?” He winks and nudges his arm with a pointy elbow suggestively.
My irritation grows.
“After my fiancée broke up with me, I went to a club. I know, I know. What would a guy like me be doing in a club? I was thinking the same thing, but then I said, ‘John, you’re not getting any younger. Better go fishing while the catching is still good.’” He chuckles as if anything he said was the least bit funny, but I don’t join in. I’m not in a laughing mood. But at least the mystery of why John is so clingy and desperate has finally been cleared up.
Finally seeming to notice, John asked, “I take it your weekend didn’t go as planned? Man, women, I tell ya. They can make ya or break ya.”
Whatever the hell that meant. I’m not going to put in the time or energy trying to figure it out. My focus is singular: pack a bag or two and hit the road before anything came up that might stand in my way.
Right now, that’s John, and John needs to back off before I have to do something about it. I considered from the beginning that it might come down to that end, but it isn’t as if I wanted to do it. I’m not a total monster. Just someone who doesn’t like to have his personal boundaries crossed.
Right now, John is stomping all over them.
“Look, John,” I finally say as the elevator chimes and coasts to a stop on my floor. “I’m not in the mood for chitchat. It’s been a long couple of days.”
“Say no more, buddy! Go home, rest up. Maybe I’ll see you in the gym later?”
I step off onto my floor and throw a non-committal “Maybe” over my shoulder. It’s enough to appease the poor, lonely bastard. At least he doesn’t follow me.
In my apartment, I do just what I’d set out to do. I pull the bugout bag from the top shelf in my closet and added a couple of essential items to keep me occupied on the long trip ahead. On the way back out, I don’t bother stopping to take one last look at the place that’s served as “home” for the better half of the last two years. I don’t have a home. Never had one. I don’t consider any one place special because they are all just functional, serving the solitary purpose to rest my mind and body, always disposable, always something I intended to eventually walk away from. Like I’m doing now.
Without looking back, I close the door and don’t bother taking the time to lock it. There is nothing inside of any value and nothing of mine that can be considered personal. All of my worldly possessions are in the bag on my back, and that’s all I need. Clean, simple, efficient.
I take the stairs down to the first floor to avoid John, in case the guy is still roaming around the building, and get back into my vehicle without incident. My attention is on the road, but I am fully aware of my surroundings. Any sign of a police vehicle spikes the hairs on the back of my neck. The police radio mounted on the dash, a Christmas gift from Tony, keeps me in a constant loop so I won’t be caught unaware. If a bulletin goes out, I’ll be one of the first to know about it.
There are some nice perks of being in connection with a mafia. They have access to cool stuff that I wouldn’t normally be able to get my hands on.
Fifteen minutes on the interstate, I spot the exit that started me on this path and, against my better judgment, can’t resist the urge to take it.
I find myself pulling onto the quiet street in the middle-class neighborhood a few minutes later, pulling to a stop in front of the plain white four-story house. A single yellow light is on in a second-floor window. Faith’s bedroom. Confirmation that she’s made it home safely releases a pent-up breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Had I been concerned for her safety? I realize a small part of me had, in fact, been worried about her. The stupid, misguided part, no doubt. I’ve never in my life been concerned about anyone other than myself, so why start now?
I should drive away. There’ no reason for me to be here. I’ve already satisfied that part of myself that needed to know where she’d ended up, so why am I still lingering, watching? Waiting? For what? It isn’t as if we had a love connection. One night of passionate sex didn’t mean a damn thing. I can’t and shouldn’t make more out of it than it was.
Again, I’m screwing up. I know it even as I continue watching myself do it. It’s like a train wreck in slow motion. I can see the destruction coming, but I can’t look away, can’t seem to remove myself from the equation.
Perhaps because it’s already too late…
Twenty-Two
