On Meetings

Six o’clock in the goddamn morning. Why did they have to meet so early on such short notice? And on a day like this? The sun was not yet up, although he doubted it would ever show itself today. The thunderstorm had raged through the night and showed no signs of stopping as morning dawned.

The roads were mostly empty, a combination of the time, the weather, and the weekend. But something told him the weather was likely the biggest deterrent; he was one of the few who was deranged enough to brave driving in a thunderstorm with lightning so aggressive it had downed four trees in the park overnight.

Well, maybe not deranged. Deranged was the sportscar that just flew by him, heading out of town at a speed more suited for a racetrack than a country road. He was out on a job—the ending of one, to be precise. And hopefully this ending would be met with a beginning. But there was no way to know. His employer was quite the secretive type.

Through the pouring rain he could see the diner come into view on the right side of the road. Not that he needed to see it—he could drive this town blind. Which he was essentially doing in this storm.

Not bothering to signal his turn to no one but the rain, he pulled into the pothole-ridden lot. Only two spots were taken, but he still backed into the far corner to ensure he was alone.

Light was at a premium in the rain, and the diner was the source of nearly all of it. The lights inside shone through the windows, and strips of silvery lights lined the outside walls, highlighting the 1950s aesthetic of the place. But his eyes tilted up, focusing instead on the neon red sign bearing the diner’s name:

Sherlock’s

An amused exhale escaped from his nose. After so many trips to this place, the irony of the name never failed to amuse him. Although this was the first time he was conducting business here; he often just came for the cheap food.

The sign was usually half-burned out, reading only as herlks in the dark, but today, it was fully lit. Sherlock’s. He thought it to be a rather odd coincidence that the name was fully displayed the first time he did business here. The detective was overhead. He couldn’t help but laugh to himself. What a ridiculous thought. He was going to worry himself with that line of thinking, so he shook it from his mind as he checked his watch. Six-twelve, it read. Only three minutes to get inside.

He grabbed his umbrella from the passenger seat and popped the door open, being careful to open the umbrella in a way to keep him as dry as possible. His left wrist got considerably wet in the few seconds it was exposed, but he managed to exit without any other water touching him. The car door shut much quieter than usual, the sound drowned out by the pounding of this rain. Double checking the doors were locked, he made his way to the front door, walking and skipping around the many holes in the pavement to avoid any deep puddles. How ridiculous he must’ve looked. Hopefully he wasn’t watching.

The door opened with an ear-piercing creak as it always did. Once inside, he got to work closing the umbrella and removing his coat and hat. He placed the umbrella in the jar by the door and hung his hat and coat in the same place he always did: the peg to the right of the broken one. Somehow, it was always open, so he always used it. How many times? He lost count. Many times had he passed through that creaky door.

Straightening his suit and tie, he scanned the small dining room, which was only one strip of tables along the windows with the counter and barstools on the other side of a rather cramped walkway. There. In the back corner. His employer. He wasn’t difficult to spot in his pitch-black suit and hat, and the fact there were only two other occupied tables made it even easier. Two teenagers were asleep at one; the other was taken by a young family with two rather squirmy children. They’d be annoying, but hardly a complication.

He gave the waitress behind the counter a nod as he walked to his table, careful not to slip on the wet floor as he did so. In a matter of seconds, he slid into the booth across from his employer.

She looked up when he sat down. Wait. She?

“Hello, Frederick,” she said.

“Where is he?”

“Killed last night.”

“Killed?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“His replacement.”

“Name?”

“Mordred.”

He relaxed his shoulders a little. Same name, same contact. Something his employer never would have given up, even under the most extreme torture. She even had the same look as him: older, wrinkled, stocky build. Same raspy voice. Was it an act? Or coincidence?

“Why the early meeting? I wasn’t scheduled to meet him until tonight,” he asked.

“With the death of Mordred, we had to act quickly. Collect and get you out on your next assignment before anything else could happen. We have deadlines to meet.”

“What can I get you two?” asked a waitress, coming from behind him. She sounded as if she could fall asleep where she stood, no doubt exhausted from the night shift.

“Coffee,” was all Mordred said.

“Coffee, eggs and bacon,” Frederick said, ordering his usual breakfast. Not that the waitress would know that. He was never here this early.

“Oh kay,” the waitress said, really drawing out the word. She didn’t bother to write anything down. The coffee arrived quickly after.

“You have the asset?” the new Mordred asked.

“Yes,” he replied, reaching into his suit. His hand reemerged holding a moderately sized envelope. It felt odd handing it to someone other than the usual Mordred, but he hadn’t a choice.

She took the smooth and crisp envelope in her dry and wrinkly hands, undoing the seal and slipping out the contents just enough to confirm what they were. She slid them back in a moment later and placed the envelope in a bag next to the window, then taking out another, smaller envelope to hand to him.

“You’ve done well, Frederick. Here’s your next assignment. I trust it is in good hands.”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“I be commanding the same respect as the deceased.”

“Apologies, sir,” Frederick said quickly.

“You’re a good man, Frederick,” Mordred said. “We need good men, now more than ever. You’ll serve us well.”

He dared not express his thanks for such a compliment, instead choosing to simply nod his acknowledgment.

“I must be going. You are welcome to enjoy your breakfast, but I don’t recommend lingering too long.” She rose without another word, grabbed her bag, and exited the diner, not bothering with a jacket as she plunged into the rain.

His food arrived a minute later. The eggs were certainly the only thing being prepared at the time, yet they somehow managed to be cold. He shook his head. First time that had ever happened here.

He read through his new assignment as he forced his way through the frigid eggs. Seemed to be a fairly standard job by the looks of it. Although this one was in a part of town he hadn’t visited in quite a while. It was quite the small town, but jobs somehow didn’t usually find their way into this corner of it.

Chugging the rest of the coffee was the only way he was able to get the last of the eggs to stay down. Not a pleasant experience. But it didn’t matter. He would soon be on his way, and he was sure he would find his way back to Sherlock’s soon.

Something sounded above the harsh rain and thunder. He furrowed his brow and cocked his head, trying to pinpoint it. Could it be? No. Wait, was it? Yes. Sirens.

Sirens. They were growing louder.

Maybe another tree had been struck and downed power lines on a main road. Maybe the sirens weren’t for him. He stared out the window, focusing on what he knew to be the entrance to the parking lot, although it was difficult to see in the darkness of the sky and density of the rain. But he could see the blue and red lights pull in.

The sirens were for him.

How? How had they found him? Fifteen years he had operated without a hitch. Why now? Why today, of all days?

None of that mattered. He had to get out of this diner. His car wasn’t an option, as much as he wanted it to be. There was no way he could reach it, seeing as it was now blocked by a fleet of police cars and a small army of cops. They desperately wanted him behind bars, that much was clear.

He had one choice of where to go: through the kitchen. There was always a back door, wasn’t there? Making sure his next assignment was carefully tucked into his suit, he jumped out of the booth and took the three steps needed to cross from the booth to the counter. Reaching out with his left hand to guide himself, he leapt over the counter, sending cases of cakes and muffins crashing to the floor as he did so.

His left foot touched down first, but it didn’t catch. It slid forward, throwing him off balance just enough to cause his right foot to miss the floor entirely. Which meant his back was the first thing to crash onto the ground. He tried to time an exhale with the fall to minimize the pain, but he missed it by a second.

“Fuck,” was all the ended up coming out. His head had avoided the dirt-caked floor by about an inch. He said his thanks for the small fortune before realizing he really should be moving.

With a groan and fiery pain shooting through his spine, he first sat up before fully committing to standing. He rose to find the entire diner staring at him in stunned silence—even the rowdy kids had blessed their parents with a moment of peace while they marveled at the man who had just thrown himself onto the floor in the company of a dozen muffins and cakes.

One glance at the coming storm of cops was enough to spur him into action. He had mere seconds before they’d burst through the door, and he didn’t want to be around when they did. The kitchen was closer to the door, but only a few steps away. He should be able to make it in time.

He ran slower than he would’ve liked towards the kitchen, not wanting to risk slipping on the wet tile floor and wasting even more time. The kitchen door swung open just as he reached it, revealing the exhausted waitress that had served him eggs from the arctic. There wasn’t enough space to go around her. He brought his arms up and shoved her off to the left, sending a tray of food flying to the floor alongside the waitress. He didn’t feel any guilt about the action—not after having eaten those eggs.

He crossed into the kitchen, the swinging door settling to a stop behind him. Two steps past and he heard a shout.

“All right, where is he?” roared one of the cops. He instantly recognized the voice as belonging to the police chief, Margaret Hopkins. Four times she had almost had him. He hoped to have the pleasure of making it five. But he’d have to find a way out first.

“Kitchen!” the downed waitress shrieked. He would only have seconds now. Not that he would’ve had much time otherwise. Still, he didn’t appreciate the waitress selling him out like that.

The kitchen was mercifully empty; the only two cooks had hidden themselves away in a corner behind hanging pots and pans, clearly wanting to avoid the fate that had befallen their coworker.

He wanted to criticize their egg-scrambling ability but realized this was far from the best time for that. Distractions were something he couldn’t afford. His eyes stayed locked on the walls, scanning for any exit he could use to escape. The back and right walls offered nothing. The kitchen continued to the left, forming a bit of an L-shape. There had to be a door at the end. The odd shape would give him a bit of cover, too.

The cops entered the kitchen as he turned towards what he hoped to be a door. To his relief, there was one waiting for him at the end. Only a few steps away. Four. Three. Two. One.

He reached out, pushed the bar in as soon as he could, and practically threw the door off its hinges. Everything in him wanted to keep running, but he forced himself to pause for just a second. There was a large trash bin just to the right. Perfect. He placed it in front of the door—not as to obstruct its opening, but rather to trip up the first cop to run through. The move would either buy him a few seconds or completely ruin his life. No way to know.

Two steps away from the diner and he realized he never considered what exactly would be back there. A million times had he been to this place. Not once had he actually looked at what was behind it. About time he found out.

The pavement ended after only two dozen paces. He was now greeted with a line of bushes, trees, and their unpleasantly tangled branches. As little as he wanted to run through the brush, he knew there wasn’t another option. Well, there wasn’t another option beyond living out the rest of his days in a jail cell. He bit his lip and reasoned that a few scrapes from branches trying to tear away his flesh was better than a life behind bars. Besides, he knew there would be a road not too far away. He should be out of the bushes in no time at all. Or so he hoped.

After spending a few seconds too many making a decision that shouldn’t have had to have been made, he launched into the muddy ground and the damp embrace of the underbrush. He dared not to look back, content to simply assume there was an army of cops chasing after him. He didn’t have to look. He knew.

Leaves smacked at his face as pointed branches slashed his sides. Any pain from the scratches was nothing compared to the lifetime of agony that awaited him if he were to be caught. What had been ground was turned into a muddy mess by the hours of brutal rain. The splashes of mud stained his already drenched trousers and the maze of puddles pulled on his shoes, trying their hardest to glue him in place. Only once did he feel as if his feet were stuck, but an extra forceful tug of his leg was enough to free himself with his shoe thankfully still attached. He pushed a thick pine branch off to the side, revealing the backyard of a house.

He needed to know no more than that; if there was a house, there would be a street. And a street was better than where he had just been. He darted past the house, not caring if he was noticed, only wanting to reach the promised pavement on the other side. His feet landed on the sidewalk. Without thinking, he turned left and broke into the fastest sprint he could muster, now aided by the certain footing of solid ground. He made it a good distance before reaching an intersection.

He paused for a moment to check the street signs. He knew where he was, but at the same time, he hadn’t a clue. The rain and the adrenaline were clouding his usually sound mind; he knew this town like the back of his hand. It was just difficult to make anything out in the rain.

Second and Holmes

Those were the streets. A shaky breath escaped him. Okay. He was oriented now. Could continue straight into town on Second Street. Could turn onto Holmes if he wanted to. Left would take him to town as well. Right would leave it. The chances of getting away while running along cornfields on the outskirts of town were bad. But he hated his odds if he stayed in town—it would be crawling with cops, of that there was no doubt. Right on Holmes was his only real option. He laughed with a shake of his head. Trusting a road named after a detective. There was no other option.

Right he went, starting in a jog before quickly reaching his top speed. He became astutely aware of the rain after having mostly blocked it out to that point. The deluge seemed to be on the side of the law, clouding his vision and slickening the sidewalk. At least while there was a sidewalk. He reached the cornfields even faster than he expected, and the sidewalk disappeared right as the rows of stalks began. He trusted the street more than the narrow strip of grass between it and the field, so he sidestepped onto the asphalt and kept his pace.

Not a single car had passed on the road, but that didn’t stop him from constantly looking over his shoulder, hoping beyond hope the cops hadn’t yet figured out where he went. About half a mile past the edge of town, he glanced back again. He saw nothing, just as he had every other time. Or was it nothing?

Headlights. Those were headlights. Oh god no. But no sirens? Couldn’t be cops, then. Could it? There wouldn’t be cops without sirens. Could there be? Cops or not, running alongside the road wasn’t a good look. He ducked into the cornfield and stopped, hoping whoever was about to drive by didn’t give him any thought. Hopefully he hadn’t even been seen.

The car stopped right next to where he hid in the stalks. It was difficult to make out any details in the dark and rain, but it didn’t seem to be police. The car—more a truck, really—was solid black with tinted windows, almost as if it were a vacuum for what little light was able to slip through the rain clouds.

He forced his breathing to slow, even though there wasn’t really a point. His lighter breath was no less audible than his harsh panting in the din of the rain. The car wasn’t moving. There weren’t any cops pouring out of it—that was at least a promising sign. But what could it be doing?

The passenger window rolled down, revealing the interior of the truck, lit by a single, small overhead light. He didn’t recognize the person driving, but they seemed to recognize him, despite the fact he was surrounded by cornstalks, rain, and darkness.

“Frederick,” the driver called as monotoned as possible. “Get in.”

He still couldn’t see the face, but he knew the voice—the voice of a ghost. Did he trust it? More than he trusted the cornstalks. Perhaps trusting the beckoning voice more than he should’ve, he ran to the car.

“Back seat,” the voice told him through the closing window as he got closer.

He had intended on getting in the back anyway but was thankful for the confirmation. The back would give him space to stretch out after an all-too-eventful morning. Besides, he had no desire to sit directly next to a ghost.

The back door flung open with a desperate pull from his hand, and he scampered inside; the car sped away as soon as his second foot was off the ground. As much as his tired legs and drenched hair wanted to breathe a sigh of relief from being in the warm and dry car, his lungs could not muster one. They first had to deal with the driver. Only they hadn’t a clue as to how.

“Hello, Frederick,” the driver said, eyes still locked on the road. But Frederick could see just enough of his reflection to see the man. Not that he really needed to—the driver’s aura told more than his face ever could. His rescuer was Mordred. His Mordred. The one that had supposedly been killed the night before. “I’m glad to see you alive.”

“Thank you, sir,” Frederick stammered. “I was told you were dead.”

“Likely by the one responsible for this,” Mordred said, pointing at a thick gash along the side of his head.

“Forgive me, sir, but what happened? Who did I meet with?” Frederick asked, his exhausted brain swirling with questions. Who had he delivered the package to? What was the assignment tucked in his coat?

“All in due time, Frederick. Few things are certain. We are never to see this town again. And all trust has been broken. You and I, Frederick, are all who remain.”

Frederick allowed himself a breath and slumped back into his seat, unable to take his eyes off the ghost of a man in front of him as they sped down the road, further and further away from his home, out into the darkness and clouds of rain.

About the Author

Ryan Everleth is a sophomore creative writing major and aspiring novelist. If he isn't hard at work on his current novel project, he's busy writing short stories that are either deadly serious or utterly bizarre--there's no in-between.