Steven James - The Rook

Thursday, November 5, 2008

Washington, DC

5:32 p.m.

The Chevy Tahoe sloshed to a stop in the soggy patch of unseason-ably thick snow, and Creighton Melice stepped into the twilight.

He scanned the decrepit Washington DC neighborhood. Drug dealers on the corners. A few blank faces staring at him through the windows of dead buildings. Thick shadows spreading across the street. Creighton drew in a breath of the stale air. Ah yes. Being in the rotting core of the city as the day died around him made Creighton Melice feel right at home.

His lawyer, Jacob Weldon, whispered nervously out the window of the SUV. “So, do you want me to wait for you, then?”

Creighton glanced at him. Weldon. A timid little man with over-ripe eyes.

“No. I’ll be all right.”

“Be careful.” Weldon sounded relieved.

“I always am.”

Less than three hours ago Creighton had been in custody. Dank cell. Second-degree murder charges-and most likely a long prison sentence. But then, just as Creighton was rehearsing his story, Weldon showed up and announced he’d made bail. “You’re a free man,” he said.

“Don’t screw with me.”

“I’m serious.”

“Who? Who paid it?”

Weldon shook his head. “I don’t know. Someone. A friend.”

Creighton scowled. “How could you not know? Didn’t he have to sign for it?”

“Sent someone. A big guy, I’ve seen him before, sitting in on the preliminaries. But he was just a delivery boy. Someone else footed the bill.”

“A friend, huh? Well, none of my friends have that kind of money.”

“Maybe you made a new one. C’mon, let’s get you out of this place. Whoever it was wants to see you.”

So they left the jail, drove around long enough to make sure no cops were trying to keep an eye on him, and then ended up here at 1311 Donovan Street in front of this vacant gray building wearing a tilted sign that read “The Blue Lizard Lounge.”

The place Creighton’s new friend had chosen for the meeting.

After Weldon’s Tahoe had disappeared around the corner, Creighton scoured the ground for a weapon, snagged a broken beer bottle, and leaned his hand against the dilapidated dance club’s metal door. It clung to its latch for a moment and then creaked open.

A hallway stretched before him, lit only by a meager network of lightbulbs dangling at odd angles every six feet or so.

He didn’t like any of this. The meeting. The confined space.

Some guy he didn’t even know paying his bail. Creighton tightened his grip on the neck of the bottle. He’d only used a broken bottle as a weapon once. That night had ended well for him, not so well for the guy who’d been hitting on the woman who was about to become his girlfriend. He figured he could do at least as much damage tonight if he needed to.

As Creighton approached the end of the hallway, he could see two doors, one on each side. A single word had been scrawled on each door. And, while it was hard to tell for sure in the dim light, the words looked like they might have been painted with blood.

He reached out his hand. Felt the word Pain.

Still damp.

Tasted it.

Yes. Blood.

The word Freedom had been painted on the door across the hall.

Creighton glanced behind him. Only an empty hallway. Then he inspected the doors, checked for light seeping beneath them.

Nothing. Looked around the hallway one more time.

Nothing. Just an empty hallway that terminated here. At these two doors.

Freedom or pain.

Creighton pressed his ear up to each door in turn. Listened.

Not a sound.

He needed to make a choice.

The decision was easy.

Creighton chose pain.

With a soft click, the door mouthed open into a narrow entryway. Maybe fifteen feet ahead of him, a tightly focused light sliced through the center of an adjoining room, probably the abandoned club’s dance floor. A spotlight?

Why a spotlight?

Creighton smelled cigarette smoke. Someone was waiting for him.

His new friend.

Creighton crossed the entryway, and as he stepped into the harsh light, a voice halted him. “That’s far enough.” The voice was electronically altered, but to Creighton, the speaker sounded male.

Creighton paused.

At the other end of the room, about twenty-five feet away, sat a figure with an industrial-strength halogen work lamp glowing behind his chair. Even though the person was starkly backlit, Creighton could clearly see that whoever it was had a gun.

“You chose the correct door, Creighton.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see.” He shielded his eyes, then gestured toward the gun. “So, did you set me free just so you could shoot me?”

Electronic laughter ricocheted around the room. The person motioned his gun toward the bottle Creighton was holding. “And did you come here just so you could slice me?”

“Maybe.”

A pause. “I want to offer you something.”

“I don’t work for anyone, and you can’t buy me off. So, if you’re gonna shoot me, make it a good shot because if you just wound me, I’m coming for you.” Creighton raised the cruelly tipped weapon.

“I’m pretty quick, and if I make it across the room, I’m going to bury this in your belly. How’s that for an offer?”

“Now, now. Don’t I even get a thank-you? Your bail was no small sum, and we both know you won’t show up for the trial.

That’s quite a little chunk of change I paid just to have you come here and threaten me.”

Creighton tried to catch the tenor of the person’s real voice, but whoever it was, he must have had a microphone up to his mouth that changed the pitch and tone of every word as he spoke.

“Well,” said Creighton. “I never asked for your help.”

A coarse voice coming through the mic. “Mr. Melice, I’ve been, how shall I say, following your career.”

“So, you’re a fan. Well, that’s just great.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I am a fan. You have a great gift.”

“Oh, is that what you call it.” It wasn’t really a question. Silence stained the room. Creighton waited for the guy to reply, and when he didn’t, Creighton turned his head and tapped the broken bottle against the back of his neck. “The base of the neck, right there, or maybe the back of the head, would be your best choice. Although from that range you better know what you’re doing. I’m turning to go now. Take your best shot.” Creighton expected to hear the click as the guy snapped off the safety; it would tell him a lot if he did. None of the guys he’d worked with ever used a safety.

Creighton took two steps. Then heard the voice again.

“I know why you chose this door.”

Creighton paused.

“I can get you what you want.”

Creighton turned. “No one can get me what I want.”

“My friend, you wouldn’t be here unless I could. I never would have bothered with you. You’re the one who posted the videos. I read your blog. I know what you want.”

Creighton wanted to ask how he’d been able to link the videos and blog to him, but obviously it had happened, and at this point that was all that mattered. “I’m listening.”

“There’s something I would like you to help me procure. Your background, skill set, and… unique tastes… make you eminently qualified for this job. When I have it in hand, I’ll give you the one thing no one else on the planet can give you.”