Broken Ends

An Important Notice to Readers...

     Although this fiction blog is illustrated with photos of dolls, and dollhouse miniatures, the language and content of the storyline is intended for an adult audience.  Please be advised.

Thank You,

The Author

           

Beckett waits

      The top of his head felt ready to explode, and the wet shirt clung to him as a reminder of what a total shit of a human being he really was.  She deserved better.  Some picket fence life with a mini van in her drive way, and squalling babies tugging at her legs.  Despite what he told her brother, he was the primary cause of her unhappiness, and no amount of double speak logic was going to change that.  He needed to take care business, and then sever any ties they shared.  Money would see to her future in a way that would hopefully abase some of the guilt he bore, but until the psycho bitch was dealt with, none of that could happen.

            It was difficult to keep from scanning the parking lot for her car,  to keep from zeroing in on the silver Taurus he knew was stalling somewhere in the sea of vehicles.  He forced himself to stare at the things in front of him, not wanting to provide any clue that he knew she was there, had known of her presence for the last ten hours.  But for this to work, to put an end to this once and for all, she had to be convinced that he was oblivious to her involvement.

            Beckett slid into the seat of the patrol car, and tapped at the small receiver button on the dash board.  "You there, Nolan?"

           "Aye, Sir.  We're on the west side of the building. The white laundry truck parked next to the
loading dock."

           "You're sure she can't pick up this signal?"

           "No, Sir.  We have this particular frequency jammed.  It will appear normal on her end, but she won't hear a word of our conversation.  We have learned a thing or two about her methods in the past month.  Gotta say, the bitch is good.  Very good.  It's a shame we don't have her working for our side."

           "You can start a fuckn' fan club for her when this is over, Nolan.  Until then, I just need you to do what you're told."

           "Damn, Beck.  I didn't mean to make light of any of this.  But I've never seen a civie this...this precise before.  It's like she's had pro training."

           "Yeah...well...she's been able to get by so far on ingenuity and talent.  That end's today"

           "Yes, Sir.  We got eyes on the ground, and in the air.  She won't drop shit us this time."

            "I hope the hell not.  I'll let you know when I've made contact."

             "Aye, Captain.   Remember...by the book, okay.  No last minute changes.  Anything but the plan leaves us open to attention."

              He didn't reply, instead hitting the button and ending the transmission.  Glancing up toward the mirror, he tried to see the trail of cars behind him.  Daylight made her easier to see, but rush hour traffic offered plenty of vehicles to hide behind.  As he turned the corner, he caught sight of the Taurus six cars behind him, keeping a cautious pace.  She would probably expect him to head home, back to the flat on Kessler Street.  It would seem the most normal thing to do, to shower and change before heading back to the station or the hospital.  Normal is what he wanted.  No reason for her to expect anything was amiss.

_______________________________

          It was cowardly.  There was no denying that.  But with Patrick in Maureen's room, and she insisting that he leave her alone, it was the perfect opportunity to slip away from the hospital.  He had been there since yesterday afternoon, and the drama and stress of the last few hours had stripped him of any reasonable chance for efficiency.  What he needed was a hot shower and some breakfast, and then maybe he could spend some time seeking divine assistance over what to do next.   Not desiring a long, dreary bus ride, he opted for a taxi, and was shortly on route back to Holy Family.

          Thursday was glorious, all blue skies and warm sunshine.  Around him, the town got to the business of another day, unaware that for he and those he held dearest, the world had changed in a deeply sad way.  It appeared that his sister would physically recover from her injuries without any lasting effects, but the same could not be said for her heart.  With grief over the loss of her baby, and the betrayal she felt by both her husband and brother,  it was doubtful she could ever go back to being the care free, light hearted soul she had been 24 hours before.

          The cab dropped him off in front of the rectory, and it seemed like he had been away for days instead of hours.  The weariness hit him all at once, and even the fifty feet to the front door seemed much too far to go.  He stopped to pick up the newspaper on the walkway, and in doing so, glanced down the street.  There was Beckett's patrol car, parked outside the deli, indicating that the man had probably returned home to the flat he shared with Maureen.  Good intentions poked at him, urging a visit and perhaps a heart to heart with the man that had married his sister.  It was the shepherd-like thing to do, a plan of action expected of man with a calling.  But Beckett wasn't a member of his flock, not even a believer as he had argued a million times before.   And in the shape Kevin found himself in, he doubted he had little to offer in the way of any spiritual advice.  So plans for a visit were put off for another time, when surely he would be better apt to handle the fallout.

          Months, even years later, he would often wonder how things might have turned out differently if he had only made the alternative choice on that perfect Thursday morning.

Fr. Kevin notices Beckett's patrol car

_________________________

         For Beckett, waiting was always the hardest part of any op, finding the time wasted until the target made their next move more akin to purgatory than hell.  He took a shower and changed clothes, made a sandwich, fixed the constant drip in the kitchen faucet, and did 400 push ups, yet still she had not called.  He wondered if he had misjudged the woman.  Had she changed in the time since she disappeared?  Now, that was a stupid question.  Of course she had changed.  If anything, she had become more of a sociopath than she had been before.  That was apparent in everything she had done since the day she fled his cabin.

           He had known she was broken the moment he had met her.  It was, perhaps, what drew him to her in the first place  He had recognized a kindred soul, someone whose needs crazily matched his own.  She was beautiful, willing, and not afraid to play on the dark side of the street.  Why he ever considered marrying the woman was beyond him.  In his entire adult life, he never imagined committing to any woman, and suddenly found himself contemplating a union with not one, but two of them, in the course of a year.  It pointed to a problem with his mindset, and when this was over, his focus needed to be on things he could control.

          He kicked out a kitchen chair and flopped into it.  The table was still covered with the remnants of Maureen's dinner menu from the night before, and with a broad arm he swept it all off, the bowls, the vegetables, and the cookbook flying in several directions.  A head of lettuce bounced off the back of the chair, hitting the long side table behind him, and knocking over the picture frame standing on it.  The wedding photograph of he and Maureen crashed to the floor, the glass splintering into tiny, jagged pieces.

             Before he could dwell on the irony of that, the cell phone chirped in his pocket.  He pulled it out and smiled,  the first time in fifteen hours.  She had taken the bait, as he knew she would.  He slipped the tracking device off his wrist, and ground it under his heel.  Nolan would be pissed, but that couldn't be helped.

               "This is between you and me, Cassie baby."

                He tucked the Semi automatic into his waistband, and the Sig into the holster at his ankle.  Then he headed down the stairs, the glass crunching under his heel.

Copyright Victoria T. Rocus 2014
All Rights Reserved