The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination by R.F. Bright Page B
Authors: R.F. Bright
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there’s any problems, you call me. I’m Cassandra. OK? I mean it, you call me.”
“OK, thanks,” said Camille, and hung up.
She looked at her notes: Murthy. Harbinger International. Her leg muscles were throbbing and her neck ached. She walked to the living room. The smell of burned toast made her mouth water and her stomach churn. The living room was big enough for her to turn figure eights if she kept her steps close. A little movement might help.
She walked the first figure eight in chirpy little steps. The second, much faster with a short stutter step. The third was dancy, the rest free form. In five minutes she felt great. She twirled up to the windows, searching for her reflection, then jockeyed into the best light. She tossed her hair, turned a dramatic shoulder to the glass and made her Lauren Bacall face — “Yes. We’ve met.”
13
M acIan circled the Village of Lily, then landed on the identical spot he’d landed on before. Pastor Scott stepped forward, shadowed by Max, wearing the tattered pea-coat, and Fred. MacIan pulled the Peregrine closer to the crowd this time. Pastor Scott reached out to Max for the pouch. Fred stepped between them, glowering, “Are you crazy?” Pastor Scott shrank back, apologetically.
MacIan poked his head out as the wind-dome lifted and motioned for Max to come. Max ran to the Peregrine, holding the pouch out to MacIan.
“I have to go to New York. Wanna come?”
Max looked to his father.
Fred shooed him off with both hands. Go on. Go.
Max clutched the pouch to his chest, jumped in, and away they went.
Once in the air, MacIan pointed. “Gager’s courier pouch?”
Max held it up.
“Hang onto it till we get there.”
MacIan scrolled down the list of Recent Destinations, then tapped > Gutenberg N.J. The Peregrine took control. It was faster without human interference, and within an hour they were dropping down into Camille’s parking lot. A hearse was waiting, as was Camille in a beige trench coat.
She watched Arthur’s body coming off the Peregrine and into the hearse. It was mortifying, but the initial blow had come and gone and she would now do what was expected. The hearse drifted away, and she aimed her hollow eyes across the parking lot and caught a second look at MacIan. From this distance, he filled his frame just right. He was better looking than she remembered, certainly an outdoors type. There was nothing cute about him, and that was OK. He was a soldier, not a model. She dragged herself forward, legs heavy, clearly exhausted. “You have some papers for me to sign, no doubt,” she said, pleasantly.
“Sorry,” said MacIan.
“It’s not you. It’s the system,” she said, trying to be funny as she took the clipboard and pen. MacIan motioned to Max to hand over the courier’s pouch.
“This is Max. He’s the one who found your father.”
Max stepped forward wearing a pink face and a dopey grin. He raked off his crude hat and extended his hand. Camille brushed past it and wrapped him in her arms.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she said. The clipboard slipped from her hand and hit the asphalt. All three bent for it, clumsily. Max prevailed and handed it to her, then the courier’s pouch.
Camille held the clipboard in one hand, the courier’s pouch in the other. It was too much. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, and led the way up to her place.
* * *
O nce inside , Max went straight for the windows, overwhelmed by the panoramic view. Camille put her things down and took off her trench coat. MacIan waited and watched and couldn’t help but notice how she’d transformed. She was a good bit taller than he remembered, and slender but by no means skinny. She wore black gabardine slacks and a charcoal-grey cashmere sweater. Hair neatly combed, but a little windblown. She looks nice, he thought. Really nice.
Camille felt unusually safe with these rustic creatures standing before her billion-dollar view. It was pleasantly
“OK, thanks,” said Camille, and hung up.
She looked at her notes: Murthy. Harbinger International. Her leg muscles were throbbing and her neck ached. She walked to the living room. The smell of burned toast made her mouth water and her stomach churn. The living room was big enough for her to turn figure eights if she kept her steps close. A little movement might help.
She walked the first figure eight in chirpy little steps. The second, much faster with a short stutter step. The third was dancy, the rest free form. In five minutes she felt great. She twirled up to the windows, searching for her reflection, then jockeyed into the best light. She tossed her hair, turned a dramatic shoulder to the glass and made her Lauren Bacall face — “Yes. We’ve met.”
13
M acIan circled the Village of Lily, then landed on the identical spot he’d landed on before. Pastor Scott stepped forward, shadowed by Max, wearing the tattered pea-coat, and Fred. MacIan pulled the Peregrine closer to the crowd this time. Pastor Scott reached out to Max for the pouch. Fred stepped between them, glowering, “Are you crazy?” Pastor Scott shrank back, apologetically.
MacIan poked his head out as the wind-dome lifted and motioned for Max to come. Max ran to the Peregrine, holding the pouch out to MacIan.
“I have to go to New York. Wanna come?”
Max looked to his father.
Fred shooed him off with both hands. Go on. Go.
Max clutched the pouch to his chest, jumped in, and away they went.
Once in the air, MacIan pointed. “Gager’s courier pouch?”
Max held it up.
“Hang onto it till we get there.”
MacIan scrolled down the list of Recent Destinations, then tapped > Gutenberg N.J. The Peregrine took control. It was faster without human interference, and within an hour they were dropping down into Camille’s parking lot. A hearse was waiting, as was Camille in a beige trench coat.
She watched Arthur’s body coming off the Peregrine and into the hearse. It was mortifying, but the initial blow had come and gone and she would now do what was expected. The hearse drifted away, and she aimed her hollow eyes across the parking lot and caught a second look at MacIan. From this distance, he filled his frame just right. He was better looking than she remembered, certainly an outdoors type. There was nothing cute about him, and that was OK. He was a soldier, not a model. She dragged herself forward, legs heavy, clearly exhausted. “You have some papers for me to sign, no doubt,” she said, pleasantly.
“Sorry,” said MacIan.
“It’s not you. It’s the system,” she said, trying to be funny as she took the clipboard and pen. MacIan motioned to Max to hand over the courier’s pouch.
“This is Max. He’s the one who found your father.”
Max stepped forward wearing a pink face and a dopey grin. He raked off his crude hat and extended his hand. Camille brushed past it and wrapped him in her arms.
“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she said. The clipboard slipped from her hand and hit the asphalt. All three bent for it, clumsily. Max prevailed and handed it to her, then the courier’s pouch.
Camille held the clipboard in one hand, the courier’s pouch in the other. It was too much. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” she said, and led the way up to her place.
* * *
O nce inside , Max went straight for the windows, overwhelmed by the panoramic view. Camille put her things down and took off her trench coat. MacIan waited and watched and couldn’t help but notice how she’d transformed. She was a good bit taller than he remembered, and slender but by no means skinny. She wore black gabardine slacks and a charcoal-grey cashmere sweater. Hair neatly combed, but a little windblown. She looks nice, he thought. Really nice.
Camille felt unusually safe with these rustic creatures standing before her billion-dollar view. It was pleasantly
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