“How can you hate the Beatles?” Christine Marshall--Swan--asked.

“How can you not? They suck.” Ferret pressed the button on the radio and switched to the local hard rock station. Metallica blared.

“Come on,” he continued. “Their early stuff was okay, and then Bob Dylan introduces them to pot and they go crazy. ‘Hey Jude’ is quite possibly the worst song ever written. Eight minutes of ‘na na na na.’”

“What?” Christine watched the light turn green and felt the car accelerate onto Route 19. She breathed deeply through her nose. Her muscles tensed. “You’re an idiot.” End of conversation.

Her shoulders tightened with aggravation just talking to him, but the sound of their voices had seemed better than listening to the rain. However, Ferret's hating the Beatles, and “Hey Jude,” of all songs, was just about enough to make her prefer the sound of rain.

The mist spattered onto the windshield. Ferret flicked the wipers up another notch. It wasn’t raining hard, but the wind was blowing the water all over the place. Ferret squinted, and Christine could tell he couldn’t see the road clearly.

Ferret took his eyes off the road, glaring at her. She ignored his glance. The whole afternoon hadn’t gone very well. He'd kept fighting her, and the Pig almost got away, but they were home free now.

She listened to Ferret take a deep breath through his nose, eyes off her and back on the road. “So, you like working for your uncle?” he asked.

“What did I tell you?” Her turn to glare. She hated the code names, hated using them, but they were a necessary security.

Another deep breath. “You like working for Swordfish?”

“I do what I have to do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means it’s my job. I do it. Professionally. I don’t talk about it.”

“Jeez. I’m just asking.”

“Uh huh. Anything else you want to ask?”

He paused a second at her tone. “Yeah. You seeing anyone?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

He shifted in his seat and appeared to re-focus on the driving.

She pictured Mike. Her heart fluttered and that bothered her. She couldn't find any logic behind the feeling. But still, as much as the thrill was bothersome, she liked having it.

Mike had taken off from his night job to be with her, and then she got this call. It happened to them all the time, either one getting a call and having to run off, so Mike was used to it. She'd told him to wait up tonight though. Mike had been acting funny since Sunday dinner at her uncle’s, the first time she had introduced Mike to him. She wanted to talk to Mike about it.

She shook her head. As much as she tried to refer to her uncle as Swordfish, as much as she tried to keep professionalism in her life, she still found it difficult to not think of him as her uncle.

“Here’s the exit,” she said.

The signs for Route 80 glistened in the rain and streetlights. “East or west?” He seemed uncertain.

Jesus Christ. Every time she had given him an order he had disagreed with her or asked a dopey question, just to piss her off. “East. New York is east. The Hudson River is east.”

“Yeah.”

She watched him. With his stupid codename. He looked to her like a ferret, too, dark hair, hawkish nose, and small. In the Pig’s house, he had been quick, but not especially competent. Giving the Pig a chance to run, and then needing to shoot him in the back. Kept calling the Pig by his real name. Even tried to tell her his own first and last name. She'd had to stop him before he could say it. Unprofessional. The job wasn’t as she had wanted it to be. It wasn’t calculating. Like a ferret, her new partner was all over the place, doing what he had to do and then checking out what was in the fridge. Hyperactive.  He couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand, needed someone to rein him in. She didn't understand why her uncle had paired them together. But she understood why her uncle made her call this guy Ferret.

Her codename, Swan, was her uncle’s idea of a compliment. Graceful and beautiful, Christine had been told. Her uncle called himself Swordfish just because it sounded cool, she guessed.

Ferret followed the exit right, checking his blind spot and braking a little on the curve. Still going too fast, Christine thought.

She felt the car speed up, Ferret hitting the gas, but something was wrong. The front wheels slid in the rain. She heard Ferret say, “Shit.”

Christine’s entire body braced, and she couldn’t look away from the passenger window. The car slammed into the guard rail, bounced, and slammed into it again. A shard of glass floated through the air. The guard rail bent. The car against the rail was like fingernails on chalkboard.

She wondered for a second about Ferret; if he was okay, why wasn’t he reacting? Turn the wheel, do something, damn it. She felt the window against her head, but didn’t realize she'd hit it until the car stopped sliding.

They were silent, taking everything in. The rain continued to spray against the windshield. Cars roared by on 80. Behind them, someone honked, not able to get past. The car was facing north instead of east. The hard rock on the radio had gone from Metallica to Alice in Chains.

“Jesus,” Ferret said. “You okay?”

Christine rubbed her head, feeling a slight bump. Nothing to worry about. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

“Shit!” Ferret punched the steering wheel. “Fuck!”

“Calm down,” Christine said. “Are you okay?”

He took a breath. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay.” Nodding toward the trunk, he said, “You think he’s okay?”

What an ass. “Ferret,”— she felt stupid just saying it—“he’s dead. I don’t think you need to worry about him. He’s got a bullet in the back. A little car accident is no big deal to him. So shut the fuck up. It’s us we have to worry about. Get us the hell out of here.”

Ferret’s hands shook as he jammed the stick shift into reverse. The tires spun, but the car didn’t move. The engine whined.

“We’re stuck.” Ferret said. He punched the steering wheel again. “Fuck!”

She stared at him. Watching him bang on the wheel and dash was not going to help. “Listen. If we stay here like this, we are shit out of luck, do you understand me? We have to get the car out of here before the troopers arrive. Swordfish isn’t going to like it if we're caught with the Pig in the back, blood everywhere.”

“Yeah. The fuckin’ car just slipped. We hydroplaned. I wasn’t going too fast. I just . . . Fuck!”

“I know,” she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.

Mike was nothing like Ferret. He wouldn’t let anything get to him, would make the right choices. Mike acted. She had been caught out in the rain with him once as well. They'd been walking back from a local restaurant, when the sky opened up. Instead of standing around cursing, Mike had covered her with his jacket and then ushered them home quickly.

She needed Ferret to pull himself together. They had to think this through and come up with the most logical choice, but he was just sitting there, cursing.

A car pulled up around them, honking the horn.

“We’re stuck?” she asked.

Ferret tried reverse again. Nothing. The tires spun, but the car didn’t move.

“We’re stuck,” Ferret repeated. His face went red, he opened his mouth, probably to let out another string of f-bombs.

“Stop. We need to think here. There is a solution to this problem, we just have to break it down.”

“Yeah, well, I suck at word problems.”

“I don’t.”

Ferret crossed his eyes. “What are you, some kind of a teacher?”

“Math major. Seven years ago. Princeton.”

Ferret punched the steering wheel. “Big fucking whoop. The cops are gonna be here soon, Swan. Listen, there’s an exit down the way a little bit. I just saw the sign. We could make a run for it. Walk down the exit and disappear into Paterson.”

“At one o’clock in the morning? In the rain?”

“Yeah. Come on, they can’t trace the car. They won’t find the body immediately.”

He was babbling, and she just wanted him to shut up. She needed to think this through. Christine was in charge, not Ferret. This was her call. But he kept going.

“The only thing we have to worry about is the blood on your blouse. Cop sees that, he’s gonna start asking questions. And he might see the gun in the back seat.”

Behind them horns blared. They didn’t hear sirens. Yet. They had to do something.

Christine and Ferret both turned toward the revolver in the back seat. But she leaned in and grabbed the gun just before Ferret could reach it. Then she pushed her door open. The fender was bent into the door frame, so she had to shove hard. The door creaked, but finally gave way.

It was raining harder now, large drops crashing into the pavement, streams running down the shoulder. Christine started to walk, not waiting for him.

“Jesus Christ. I didn’t think you’d listen to me.” He was jogging, trying to catch up with her. A car nearly side-swiped him as he straddled the shoulder line. Like a ferret, he couldn’t even walk straight.

“Stay in the shoulder, God damn it.”

He caught up with her, falling into step. The puddles splashed around them. Cars beeped and honked, churning water in their direction. Her blouse was soaked through and Ferret probably had a good view of her breasts. She didn’t care. She just gripped the gun tighter.

This simply hadn’t been her day. First getting pulled away from a nice romantic dinner with Mike. She never got jobs without at least a week to plan. And she was never paired with a partner, either. If her uncle hadn’t said the job was an emergency, that someone was about to talk, she wouldn’t have done it. Then the whole situation kept getting worse. Ferret missed the Pig with the first shot and got him with the second. Now this. Everything felt wrong, almost jinxed. And she didn’t even believe in jinxes.

“So. What do we do when we get into Paterson?” Ferret asked.

“How far is the exit?”

“About half a mile.”

“And where will we end up?”

“According to the sign, Market Street.”

“Hang on, I want to get the hair out of my face.”

“I’ll hold the gun,” Ferret said.

Christine put the gun into the waist of her jeans. She didn’t want to risk it slipping in the rain, but she couldn’t stand her hair in her face anymore. She needed to be able to see everything, all her options. She ran her hands through her hair, pushing it back and pulling it into a pony tail. Water ran down her face, but she didn’t let it bother her. It was better than wet hair.

“What do we do now?” Ferret asked again.

“I don’t know. This is your play.”

“Mine? How is it mine?”

“You got us into the accident. Your idea to leave the car. Your play.”

She slid the gun out of her jeans. Kept walking. Behind her, Ferret slowed down.

“Well if this is my play, I should carry the gun.”

Something tickled the back of her brain. “Not a chance,” she said.

“All right. All right. We get off the exit and find an all night convenience store.”

“Yeah and then what? Get a Slurpee and call it a night?”

She was sick of Ferret. Not listening to her. Needling her with stupid questions. Hating the Beatles. Who did this guy think he was, anyway?

“No. Hear me out. We find a pay phone and call up Swordfish. Explain the situation. He’ll send a car to pick us up.”

She stopped walking. Standing there in the shoulder, letting the rain wash over her, not blinking at him. He turned toward her.

“What?” Ferret stopped short, nearly sliding across the shoulder where the cars were wooshing by.

“How long have you been working for Swordfish?”

“I’ve been working for him for about six months.”

“How many of these jobs have you done?”

Ferret looked around, watching the cars. “A few.”

“This is your first, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. That’s why he put me with you.”

“Exactly. I’ve been doing this for years.” Her mind flashed a second to handing her resume to the CIA, not knowing after the background check, she’d have to find work with her uncle. “And there’s one thing. Swordfish will not want to hear about it. He does not want to be linked to these things in any way.”

“Come on. We’re in deep shit. He has to help us out.”

“He won’t. We’ll be in even deeper shit if we call him. We had a job. Kill the Pig, get rid of the body and the car. Then he’d pick us up. But because you can’t drive, everything is all messed up.”

Ferret took a step toward her. His eyes narrowed, burning with rage.

“Gimme the gun. I’m sick of this. What’s got your panties in a twist? Did you have to come out at a bad time? We have to pull you away from your pal Mike?”

In her brain, the gears clicked a little more. “What?” How did he know about Mike? She saw him go for the gun in the car, ask for the gun twice as they were walking. Her brain started putting pieces of the puzzle together. He was going to kill her.

“Don’t be stupid and give me the gun.  I’m bigger than you, and I’m stronger. If I have to, I’ll break your neck. Let’s make this easy.”

“What are you talking about?” Her hand dropped down to the gun at her waist.

“Come on, sweetheart, think about it. Didn’t it bother you that you got the call for this tonight? Have you ever worked with someone else? You’re supposed to die tonight. That’s why I’m here. Swordfish’s orders. We get the Pig and you. Two birds with one stone.” He twitched and kind of did a bounce with his feet. He wasn’t stationary, but shuffled back and forth, still acting like his codename. “The only reason you’re still alive now is, if I killed you with Miller back there, you wouldn’t have fit into the trunk with him. Get it?”

She hardly noticed the slip-up, Ferret using the victim’s true last name. She worried about everything else. Tried to rationalize it, like a word problem, but something was missing. Not enough clues to put it all together. She hadn’t done anything wrong. She never made mistakes. But she had the gun. Ferret was still an idiot, talking from a point of weakness, waiting to get the gun. Did he just expect her to hand it to him?

“How do you know about Mike?” she asked.

He rubbed his face hard, smiling. “How do you think I know? Swordfish. Why do you think all of this is happening? You’re getting sloppy. Give me the God damn gun.”

“What about Mike?” she asked.

No answer. He took another step forward. “Step back,” she said. Her fingers wrapped around the barrel.

The light bulb must’ve gone off in Ferret’s mind, his eyes widened. She still had the gun and might use it. He took a step back.

Enough of this shit. Ferret took another step back. If she shot him, they might trace the gun. Trace her.

She did some quick calculations in her head. Watched Ferret twitching, thought about momentum. Sorted the situation out as she thought. Knew the way Ferret moved.

Back at the Pig’s home, she'd tossed Ferret an end of the carpet to wrap up the body. Ferret hadn't caught it easily; he'd bobbled it in his hand and stepped back. He was clumsy, awkward, couldn’t even walk a straight line.

Behind Ferret, in the closest lane, the cars sped by.

She took a deep breath, knowing she was taking a major risk. Never give up your weapon. Unless giving up your weapon is your weapon.

“You know what?” she said. “I’m sick of this shit. Fine. I don’t care. Kill me. You're going to do it, anyway.”

She pulled the gun from her waistband and tossed it at his shoulder, hoping that luck and timing were on her side.

He almost didn’t see it coming, put his hands up and caught it awkwardly. At the same moment he stepped backward with the catch. His feet crossed the shoulder into the right lane of traffic.

Ferret didn’t even have a chance to scream. The car made contact with a sickening thump.

Ferret’s body, now a helicopter blade, spun wildly in the air. The legs whipped. The car spun out and then righted itself. Brake lights erupted on the highway. Ferret’s legs rotated around in the air, snapping his body straight, only for it to crumple again as gravity took hold. He hit the ground with a horrible thud. Her heart pounded and she felt an enormous thrill of satisfaction. Her idea had worked. Ferret was roadkill.

Brakes screeched and cars skidded. Ferret got hit at least once more. She could see the gun skidding, also hit by a car. Out of nowhere, sirens blared.

The police would think the gun was Ferret’s. The solution played out: Ferret kills the Pig, gets in a car accident, runs, gets hit by a car, and drops the gun. Christine, gloves still covering her fingertips, wasn't linked at all.

The next part was getting away. She turned east and sprinted, full of nausea from the fear of being caught. Water splashed up around her, threatening to slow her pace. She wouldn’t let it; her sneakers soaked through, everything soaked through. She couldn’t move smoothly; it was a ragged jog, water everywhere. She kept pumping her legs hard, through the wetness, through the sore muscles.

Huffing, she saw the exit up ahead. Traffic was too stopped up for her to have to worry about avoiding it as she ran down the ramp.

Her mind raced. Taking long, deep breaths, she slowed it down and looked at her options. Nothing like this was ever supposed to happen to her.

She had only two choices: Get the hell out of the state. Get away from everything. Or she could wait for the police and hope to explain away the problem.

Running had to be the best solution.

She angled down the long exit. Sprinting down the middle, splashing puddles up to her ankles.

Looking around, she saw only rundown buildings. It was too wet for anyone to be around, and it was too late for any local traffic. A traffic light blinked yellow. The rundown buildings watched her. Rain covered everything.

Two black and whites, sirens wailing, pulled up--one in front and one behind her--stopping her run, dead. Two pair of cop eyes focused on the blood on her pants and put her in cuffs. And, as she thought, she realized.

This way might be better than killing her uncle.

 ***

Christine made sure her first phone call was a useful one. She wanted to know what had happened, why Ferret had been given the job of killing her.

“Yes?” a voice answered.

“Get me my uncle.”

A pause. Then: “He’s asleep.”

“I don’t care. Wake him up. You know he’ll want to talk to me.”

“Hold on.”

There was some shuffling. Then she heard her uncle’s voice groggy from sleep. “What is it?”

“Uncle John?”

“S-Swan? What—Is there a problem?” Using the codename, not knowing she was in a police station.

“I’d say so.”

“What is it?”

“You want me dead.”

“Swan—I—"

“Don’t even fuck around. I want to know why.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ferret’s dead. He said you wanted to kill me.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“You got sloppy, Swan.”

“How? I don’t know why. Ferret said something about Mike.”

“You picked the wrong guy. Mike was a Sullivan.”

“What do you mean?” But his words already had a meaning to her. The Sullivans were out to get what was left of her uncle’s business. She hadn’t thought much of Mike's last name when he had met her, but it made sense. He was always running off, lived like she did. He never really said what his work was. Just a night job. She'd run a check, knew he wasn’t a Fed or a cop, but she hadn't looked closely enough. She'd slipped up.

“You know what I mean. Where are you, Christine? We need to talk.”

“What about Mike?”

“Mike’s dead. I need to talk to you now. Clear this up.”

“You won’t find me.” Mike dead? She had to think. Her head pounded and she felt dizzy with what might be grief, or could be outrage at Mike using her, her uncle's betrayal.    

“We will eventually.”

“Not unless I want you to find me. I won’t make a mistake again.”

“I don’t want to do this, Christine. I’m sorry. It’s just business. I didn't know what you told him. What you’ll tell his family. Maybe he got to you already. Maybe you’re with them. I couldn't trust you. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“Not as sorry as you’re going to be. I’m telling the cops everything.”

“Jesus. Think about what you’re doing, Swan. Where are you? What is this number on the Caller ID?”

“My name is Christine.”

She hung up the phone, and nodded to the cop who was watching her. The cop took her into an interrogation room.

Inside, a table was set up with a cup of coffee on it, some chairs, and a mirror that ran along one wall. She assumed it was two-way. The walls were painted a sickly yellow, and the floor was a cold tile, like she remembered schools’ floors being. Two detectives in suits came and sat down

She told them everything. How she worked for her uncle as a driver, driving people to and from hits  (not mentioning that she was underreporting the part she played). How she'd got into a car accident tonight. How Ferret had killed the Pig and then got himself killed. How she knew the dirty secrets of her uncle’s business. She told them that if they'd taped her one phone call just now, they had her uncle talking about Mike’s death.

Yes, she was willing to testify. She wanted to put her uncle away. 

After she was finished, about an hour and a half later, they informed her they were going move her to a holding cell for the evening. They had asked for use of a cell in Clifton, the next town over, because the Paterson cell was crowded with drunks, and the two detectives wanted her isolated. They were also afraid her Uncle John might come looking for her in the station she was in.

In the car, she rode in the back, two cops in the front.

“I’m thinking of picking up Rubber Soul at CD World tomorrow. Got a few extra bucks this week. Always wanted a Beatles album,” the cop in the passenger seat said.

“Good choice. ‘In My Life’ is one of my favorite songs,” the driver answered.

The tune ran through her head as she listened to them talk. Thinking about the lyrics she pondered a way to start her life over. Maybe pick a new name. Christine Lennon? Christine McCartney? Christine Harrison. That had a nice ring to it.

The rain had slowed into a drizzle, and the driver hardly used his wipers. He pulled onto Route 80, traffic at a crawl.  On the eastern side, two fire trucks hosed down the asphalt. An ambulance sat, flashing lights spinning. A couple of EMS workers stood near a stretcher.

“Jesus Christ,” the passenger cop said, looking at the scene.

Christine gave the `accident' the briefest glance. “Just drive,” she said.

The driver stepped on the gas as traffic began to roll again. Christine watched the long road ahead unfold.

Copyright(c) 2003 by David White