Untitled

A story by Jared Waddell

---

	The silence hangs in the dead-still air like a heavy fog. The 
guard retreats slowly down the hall, climbing into the observation booth 
and closing the door quietly behind him.
	Dane's eyes look her slowly over, head to toes and back again as 
though he's sizing her up for a fight. His cold gray eyes betray to 
trace of emotion, as though all his feelings are sealed deeply away, 
behind the doors of a safe.
	Her bright green eyes seem formless, timeless, showing nothing of 
her mood. She mirrors his cold appraisal with a slight smirk. His eyes 
narrow.
	"We shouldn't be prey to our emotions, we should learn to coexist 
with them." His words carry the weight of a thousand years of wisdom, 
trying to reach through an endless void.
	Thought consumes her for a moment. He blinks. Her eyes briefly 
unfocus, looking to some distant memory. He blinks again. There is a 
sound somewhere in the building, a fan turning itself on in the dis- 
tance. He shifts his weight to his left foot. She leans slowly onto the 
bars of her cell. The silence between them is filled with no voiceless 
screams, no scalding insults reeled back by a disciplined tongue, no 
expectations, no false pretenses. It is a comfortable understanding. A 
time for thinking, for reflection.
	He shifts his weight back to his right foot. A twitch by his right 
eye betrays an inner thought, moving a piece of important information to 
another part of his brain. He looks off into the distance.
	"I have a question." She says, beginning the old back-and-forth.
	His eyes land on her. "Ask away."
	She takes a deep breath, and blows it out. "Have you ever followed 
your own advice?"
	"Not very well. See where I am now?"
	"See what side of the bars you're on?"
	"Like I said, see where I am now?"
	She bites her lower lip a bit, then moves back into her cell and 
sits on the bed.
	He crosses his arms, a meaningless gesture here. "Sarah, ser- 
iously. What am I supposed to do?"
	"I don't know, win the lottery?"
	The sarcasm whizzes past Dane's ear.
	"Can't afford the price of freedom." He says.
	"Freedom is a cage of conditions you build around yourself."
	"Forgiveness is not a choice or a virtue. It just is."
	"Thanks, I could do without though."
	"Anytime." He looks over his shoulder, takes two steps back and 
sits on the bench opposite her cell.
	"I'm sorry this happened."
	"It was your idea, wasn't it."
	She can almost hear the words trickling slowly through his brain, 
dropping into place one at a time; awaiting their vocalization.
	"Yes and no."
	"I know what you mean."
	"Can you? Really?" His voice contains a whisper of emotion, a 
desperation he cannot allow free here. "He's dead, you know."
	"I figured as much." She closes her eyes briefly to blank out an 
emotion she does not want intruding.
	"Well, I never do things like this halfway." He says, a note of 
regret in his voice.
	She sniffles, her voice as flat and emotionless as when they 
began, yet almost betraying something human. "I almost still can't 
believe you were serious about it."
	"What were the words? `I've decided I'm going to kill someone on 
prom night'?" He looks at the ceiling and shrugs. "How more clearly 
could I have said it?"
	"Whose words are those?" She asks, changing the subject again.
	"Which ones?
	"The quote"
	"To whom do you think they belong?"
	"Cupid, right?"
	"Maybe you do know."
	The guard comes out of his booth, not in a hurry, he has plenty of 
time.
	Dane stands. "I'll talk with you again tomorrow."
	"Same place, same time." She says. "Don't forget."
	"I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it for the world." He smiles, a rare 
occurrence these days, and from where she sits, she can see it climbs 
his whole face, touching his eyes.
	The guard comes right up next to Dane and speaks. "Time to go, Mr. 
Calden."
	"Bye." Dane says to her slowly, another word, something else stuck 
in transit. Something he wishes to hold back.
	"See you later, Dane." She shows him a little wave.
	He walks down the hall with the guard, and is buzzed out. They 
don't look back to each other.
	What the hell have we gotten into this time Dane? She thinks.
	And how are we going to get out?

---

	Dane has business in the Queens the next morning. As he leaves, on 
foot, down fourth he finds himself stuck with the feeling that someone 
is following him.
	He picks up his pace a bit, passes a seminary, and turns right at 
the corner.
	There is only ten or so people out that Dane has seen so far, and 
someone -is- following him.
	He stops at the next intersection, punches for the light, and 
waits.
	Death this time is a Mexican lad of about twenty, wearing white 
sneakers, bleached blue jeans and a Raiders jacket. Something about the 
way the jacket fits is off. The boy steps unnecessarily close to Dane, 
reaching past him for the button as the light changes. A black car has 
pulled up and stopped at the red light, but the windows are far too dark 
for ordinary tinting.
	The grab should be simple, but Dane saw the setup coming, and is 
prepared.
	The rear passenger door opens, and Dane finds the Mexican right 
behind him, trapping him in a bear hug. Dane kicks the door shut with 
both legs, crushing the boy against the light post. Someone has their 
hand in the door and howls in pain as it flies back open. Without 
turning, Dane whips his hand back and breaks the kid's nose with a 
perfect backhand.
	The howl of pain from the car becomes a scream of rage, and a 
walking bulldozer comes out of the vehicle in a hurry, with murder in 
his dark brown eyes.
	Dane catches the kid's wrist and flings his already bleeding face 
into the windshield of the car. The bigger man, favoring his broken 
hand, comes at Dane, opening up with a short jab to throw Dane off 
balance.
	Dane counters with a quick succession of punches, but the larger 
man has good reflexes and both pull away without further injury. The 
light changes, and Dane's assailant dives back into the car's open door 
before it speeds away. Dane doesn't move a muscle to stop them. He pulls 
the Mexican back on the sidewalk, turning the kid's face to the side so 
he doesn't choke to death on his own blood.
	Dane then looks both ways before crossing the street and continu- 
ing with his journey to the asylum.

---

	Dane is now Drexler Calhan, and he has ID to prove it, along with 
his signature as he signs the personal interview release form. All the 
other signatures on it are false, so why shouldn't his be too?
	The admittance officer signs the paper too, and Dane thinks it's 
faintly ironic that only the bad guys are legitimate in this crazy 
world.
	What does that make us? He wonders idly as he is led down a short 
corridor to a soundproofed meeting room. On the way, he is shown the 
recording area, and how it's locked up tight.
	"No on will hear what you two have to say in -that- room." The 
admit. officer says proudly.
	"Thank you for the reassurance." Says Dane dryly, knowing the 
place has been wired with at least a dozen bugs. Hoping they know more 
than he does, and won't find the conversation very interesting, Dane 
moves into the soundproofed visitor's room.
	The guards wait outside.
	Sarah is technically in a mental institution, but one that is for 
all inside purposes, a jail. Built like a jail, run like a jail. She is 
not a criminal here, but is treated like on, though Dane (Drexler in 
this instance) has demanded to see her without restraints. After the 
mayor's signature hit the form (false, of course), there was no stopping 
`Drexler's' request.
	Sarah enters with an air of indifference, as though she were 
merely meeting Dane at Suchinno's for lunch. They both remain standing 
while her `escort' leaves and closes and locks the door behind them. 
They hug each other like old friends (which they are) and sit down on 
opposite side of the small table.
	"How have you been doing?" Asks Dane.
	"Fine, but the food leaves a little to be desired." She smiles 
lightly.
	Thankfully, instead of food, there is two cups of coffee set out 
for the conversational pair.
	They relax a little, just staring patiently into each other's 
eyes. After a minute, she speaks. "You have something to tell me?"
	"Many things." He says, and smiles. "But first a simple and 
pointless question."
	"Shoot."
	"How many mikes you figure are pointed at us right now?" He says 
with a totally straight face.
	She thinks for a moment. "A dozen or so?"
	Dane smiles. "Exactly what I thought."
	"And..."
	"Someone tried to kidnap me this morning."
	"When did this happen?"
	"About forty minutes ago, in Queens."
	Sarah looks around in disbelief. "Who?"
	"A Mexican kid. A big Bouncer. Some toughs in a car. Must've been 
in cahoots." He looks at her with another flashy smile. "One does have 
to have a sense of humor in a situation like this."
	She looks at his face with concern. "Any injuries I should know 
about?"
	"None." He takes another sip of coffee.
	"Well, if they weren't in `cahoots'?"
	"A lot of gruff-looking people want my autograph." A short round 
of laughter colors the room, keeping the mood light.
	They look at each other again, a stronger current of seriousness 
passing wordlessly between them.
	"Who do you think it is?" She finally asks.
	"Who do you think might want me dead?"
	"They don't do things like that." She taps out some musical number 
Dane can't quite grasp. "Got any paper?"
	"Want a pen with that?" He says and slide her a legal pad with 
several pens laid across it.
	Where he got it from, she doesn't want to know.
	They wait in wordless flow of information, both looking like they 
are trying to read each other's thoughts, but sometimes just staring off 
into space.
	After a while, she writes something on the tablet and passes it to 
Dane.
	[Who?]
	Dane returns a message.
	[Not E-Xero, but the other?]
	Sarah ponders the answer for a moment.
	[Same this morning? A network of this size?]
	Dane frowns.
	[A connections of some sort?]
	Sarah starts throwing out ideas.
	[IRA? IRS? Him?]
	Dane shakes his head at the list.
	[Something bigger. Want us alive, vulnerable.]
	Sarah writes something back and giggles.
	[Fuck them.]
	Dane smiles.
	[No thanks. MIB? Gov?]
	[Possibly, why?]
	Dane thinks on her response, and pulls off the first page. He 
writes something else, and speaks out loud.
	"Get the feeling the walls are closing in?" He says.
	"Every night."
	"I mean metaphorically."
	"You really think that's what this is?" She asks with concern.
	"What else could it be?" He says, resigning himself to whatever 
else Sarah has to say.
	"You gonna be around when this hits the fan?" She asks, her voice 
nearly shaking from worry.
	"Right here, with a small army" He gathers his few items, and gets 
up to leave. "I promise." He presses the release buzzer, and hands Sarah 
the note he wrote earlier before the guards open the door.
	They exchange good-byes and Dane leaves a scent of determination 
hard as stone lingering in the air. A decision with dangerous finality. 
Sarah wonders what he is thinking while she opens the folded piece of 
paper and reads it.

	Count to three, then prepare for the worst. We're
	leaving. Now. E-Xero might be able to help.
	They owe me.    3 - 2 - 1.

	One guard is in front of Dane, holding the door open, one hand 
behind to usher him out. Quick as lightening, something flashes in 
Dane's hand as he swings for the guard behind him. Blood turns the 
guard's uniform crimson as Sarah snatches away his gun.
	Dane grabs the guard in front of him with his free hand and drops 
the bloody knife as the guard reaches for his gun and Dane's hand at the 
same time. Dane kicks the guard's free hand, breaking some fingers and 
holds the gun in it's holster. The guard tries to shout for help, but 
Dane hits him in the windpipe and only a whisper can be heard as Dane 
rips the guard's hand away from his gun.
	Dane holds the door open with one hand, and tosses the guard 
towards the table with the other as Sarah makes for the open hallway.
	The admission office is not a high security area, and Dane and 
Sarah only have to shoot three people on the way out.
	Waiting in the car out front is a face that Sarah remembers all 
too well.
	Karl.
	Karl waves them to the back from the driver's seat with a smile. 
"Top of the mornin' to ya!" His voice ringing clearly in the early 
afternoon air. "Next stop, the... uh... airport."
	"Drive you dipshit." Grunts Dane as he tears open the Ferrari's 
door and packs himself in after Sarah. "I just don't fit in these damn 
things!" He exclaims as they pull away.
	Sarah just wonders what the next move will be. Where will they go? 
Whose names will they be using? And most of all, who all is involved?
	They pull into a nearby apartment building long enough to change 
cars and clothes, and the ride to the airport is uneventful. Sarah feels 
vaguely uncomfortable, her home being some three thousand miles away; 
not in New York, but now in LA, as she learns at the airport.
	"Just some friends who may be able to help us." Explains Dane, but 
he too seems a little edgy.
	Hasn't he even met these people? She wonders while they wait for 
Karl to return with their tickets. By the time Karl gets back, Dane is 
his usual ice-cold self. Sarah follows suit, and they board the plane 
for LA, for answers, for freedom.
	That's all she really wanted anyway, but she didn't think it would 
come now. This way. With this bunch.
	She relaxes for the first time in weeks. The final step out of 
their old lives, and first step into their new ones. The tears will fall 
soon enough, but she can sleep now, knowing Sam's killer is now six feet 
under, buried by Dane's hand.
	At least Dane's still here... but who else is in there with him?
	Well, not all their answers are in LA, but they won't be short on 
freedom in the City of Angels.


Fin.

---

Now that was weird.

I wrote this story March 29th, 1998. Late at night. It was originally 
conceived by hand, ten full pages of compacted handwriting that to this 
day remains legible. It took a good three hours to write originally, and 
more than an hour to type (I didn't keep track of time here, though). I 
have changed maybe a dozen sentences/words in the story, and made the 
necessary spelling corrections.

Then there is that little change I made at the end....

I have no plans to continue this story anywhere, or write any related 
matter. Anyone who wants to do so officially has my permission if they 
have read this text, and provide credit where credit is due.

With that, hoped you enjoyed the story!

Thank you, the author.

Rick Spiff
Student of Insanity

rick696@mail.excite.com
http://www.geocities.com/Tokyo/Subway/1888/
http://members.xoom.com/rick_spiff/