A/N: It's been a while but here's something that's been inkling around in my brain for a bit. Thanks to Bluenose for the help.
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Moment by Moment
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5:45 AM
Silence. It echoes in the tiny space of his apartment but not in his mind. In his mind is her laughter: suggesting, inviting, even coaxing at first, then amusing and intimating. And his laughter joins hers. But soon hers turns cruel, mocking and spiteful. And his dies. Hers continues, sharpening to a needling point that pricks him until he bleeds. That's when he begins to clean and polish – the metal cold to the touch but, the gleam bright and hot in the light of the lone lamp. This is something he knows and understands – the barrel extending his reach, the butt burrowing securely in his palm, the trigger curling comfortingly around his finger. It is an object he can command, from which he can elicit a desired behavior, obtain concrete results, without fail, time and time again.
And soon she'll know and understand too.
5:46 AM
With a toss of her head she flips her hair back over her shoulders, raises her chin to the mirror, puckers then glosses the ruby red skillfully across her lips. She caps the tube, tosses it into her bag then smoothes her hands over curves that fill the standard green and black barista's uniform into a coolly minted lushness. The district manager visits her shop on Thursdays, always arriving in a convertible – an ice blue machine slung low to the ground. She's caught his eyes on her more than once – she gathers her bag and puckers once more to the mirror – soon, it will be more than just his eyes on her. She hurries down the hall. Hearing whimpers as she passes the first door she raps loudly on the second door.
"Ma, the kid's up; I gotta get to work."
5:52 AM
She lays Lucy on the bed next to him who bats at his closed eyelids then curls her fingers around his nose. His hand encloses hers, dislodges it gently from his nose and secures it in the crook of his neck. Her tiny legs flail in protest against his stomach and Lindsay nudges his shoulder.
"Danny, I'm on shift soon."
"mmm'kay"
His eyes remain closed but he wraps an arm around the baby, pulling her snug against his chest. A squall erupts from Lucy at her complete confinement.
"Danny, she's up. You have to get up too."
"It's my day off," he mutters as he flops onto his back releasing Lucy to throw an arm over his eyes. Lucy kicks and squeals at her release. Lindsay sits on the bed beside her, holding a palm just above the soles of her feet. Lucy gurgles as she braces and thrusts against the palm.
"What do you think I do on my day off?"
His finger and thumb dig relentlessly into his eyes. Then he props onto an elbow and waves her on.
"I'm up."
5:54 AM
He always attracted attention in his dress blues but was rarely conscious of it. That is until now; now, when it's no longer a part of him; now when he looks like any other average Joe on the street – whatever average is in this city. She had loved him in his dress blues, hung on his every word, made him feel as if the moon was his to give to her. And she had made him laugh. That night, he thanked her for that – among other things – then shipped out the next morning for an eighteen month tour.
He's not laughing now.
5:55 AM
Ben is waiting outside the shop for her, his tongue lolling and licking across his lips like the loyal puppy dog he is. Tabitha – she calls her Tabby to annoy her – won't arrive until 5:59 and counting which Tabby does, she knows, to annoy her. She unlocks the door, Ben rushes through to switch on the lights and put on the house blend for the regulars. She retrieves the cash drawer from safe in the office, places it into the register then fills the display case with assorted pastries, muffins and bagels. Tabby sails through the door just behind the first regular, Mr. Belmont, who prefers the house blend black, but never fails to leave a tip in the jar when she waits on him. She glares at Tabby then steps up to the counter to wish Mr. Belmont a good morning.
6:05 AM
Lindsay checks her watch as she approaches the coffee shop, hurrying on when she sees the time. Pausing at the corner for the signal to change, she about faces and heads back to the coffee shop. Arriving five minutes beyond the start of the shift is nothing compared to arriving punctually but inappropriately caffeinated. She's relieved to see the coffee shop relatively empty as she enters.
Luck is on her side.
6:06 AM
He does not hesitate to enter the coffee shop, filing in behind a petite brunette with a hurry in her step. The brunette places her order, pushes money across the counter then steps aside for him. The cash drawer slams shut as she notices him but her words slide out sweetly between her pouted lips.
"Why, Conrad, what brings you around?"
He has never been very good with words, particularly with her, but he never tried as hard with words as he did with her. But words didn't work; now he withdraws the rifle from beneath his coat and cradles it casually in the crook of his arm.
"You brought me around, Bridget."
She wants to laugh at him like she usually does when she wants to unbalance him but that rifle cradled in his arms makes her think twice. Instead she flips her hair over shoulder with an inviting toss of her head and says, "How about a coffee on the house and we go sit over there and talk about it?" nodding towards a table in the corner of the shop next to the window.
Not a muscle twitches as he replies, "It's time to close up shop, Bridget."
Now she laughs and pushes away from the counter. "Are you crazy? I have customers in here and it's coming up on the rush."
It's a single fluid movement that brings the rifle to his shoulder.
6:09 AM
A movement like that of the male customer beside her is completely out of place in a coffee shop and yet Lindsay recognizes it instantly for what it is. Her brain fires into assessment mode. At the moment only herself and the barista behind the counter at whom the rifle is aimed are the only ones who seem aware of the situation. To the barista's credit she remains calm as she walks from behind the counter, past the man with the rifle to the door. The man turns in place, the rifle dropping from his shoulder to his waist, his hands remaining positioned for action. He retreats a couple of steps, widening his view to include everyone in the shop. His eyes shift quickly to the service corridor that leads to the toilets and the rear exit then back again. The lock clicks loudly, the light buzz of human conversation falls away to startled silence. A few gasps; one "Oh my God, he's got a gun!" then a jarring metal clatter from behind the coffee counter and the rifle is at shoulder level again.
"Hands up!" A quick jerk of the rifle accompanies his words. "Everyone over there."
Lindsay moves with the others but with backward steps so that she can continue her assessment. The man's calmness at securing the shop and handling hostages—her stomach hurtles upward; she forces it to a halt it with a hard swallow—the way he handles the rifle mark him as a trained user in tense situations, police, maybe military.
The barista starts to move towards the group congregating in the corner. The rifle waves her to a halt. "Not you, Bridget,"
Lindsay makes a mental note of the barista's name.
Bridget's hands whiten in their grip on the chair behind her. "What do you want, Conrad? Tell me what you want. We can work something out I'm sure if you can just tell me what you—"
Now she knows the gunman's name.
"I want you to line those chairs up – one for everyone here."
Bridget turns, pulling chairs from the tables setting them into a sloppy row. Conrad lowers the gun to his waist again and steps forward, nudging the chairs into precise alignment with his foot then steps back, motioning the group to the chairs. They move sluggishly, reluctant to bring themselves closer to a madman with a gun. Lindsay leads the way. She wants to say or do something to reassure them but she doesn't want to call attention to herself. For now, her advantage remains in her anonymity. There are nine of them counting herself, Bridget and Conrad. She sits first then an elderly man, mopping his forehead repeatedly with a crumpled napkin, a middle aged business man whose starched collar is digging into his florid neck, the other two shop employees are next followed by two girls with backpacks, probably university students.
"Hands on your knees. Keep 'em there where I can see them." Seven pairs of hands appear down the line. A cell phone trills and all eyes are on Bridget.
"Who is it?" Conrad demands.
Bridget fumbles at her waist for the phone, drops it, retrieves it. It is the first sign of nervousness that Lindsay has seen from her. Conrad takes the phone from her, checking the display.
"Kevin? Who's Kevin?"
"District manager. He comes in on Thursdays." She reaches for the phone. "In fact I'm expecting him any minute."
He holds it out of her reach. "Bullshit. White-collars don't drag their ass out of bed this early for some—" His fingers tighten around the phone. "You scamming bitch."
The phone falls silent; Bridget drops her hand. "I don't know what you're talking about … really, Conrad," her voice pitching higher, "you're not making any sense."
"I'm not making any sense?" He taps the phone against his chest; the emotion mounts in his voice. "I'm not making any sense? Then why don't you explain—" The cell phone trills again; Conrad checks the display then thrusts it in her face, too close for her to read it. She averts her face, refusing to meet his eyes or acknowledge his accusations, her luscious lips thinned to a furious slash. "Say goodbye to Kevin." He opens his hand; the phone clatters to the floor. He brings the butt of the rifle down on it hard; once, twice, it cracks; another blow and it ruptures and he kicks it aside. There is a small squeal from one the students but Conrad's focus is entirely on Bridget's defiance. "Now, explain it to me … and all these folks sitting here and we'll let them be the judge of who's not making any sense."
This is her chance.
Lindsay slips her hand beneath her jacket, feeling for the phone attached at her waist, switching it to vibrate then carefully feeling the buttons, counting over and down, pressing one button then another. She slithers her hand back to her knee. It's the only thing she can do for now. So for now she waits – and hopes.
6:15 AM
Danny shuffles into the kitchen, Lucy propped on his hip, grousing more to keep himself awake than in any real irritation towards Lucy. "… just 'cause your mom's a country girl doesn't mean you have to be one too." Lucy gurgles at the sound of his voice, monkey gripping the back of his t-shirt with one hand, the other reaching for his lips as they move. "But since you're up with the chickens, baby girl, I need coffee. I'll never be able to keep my eyes open and on you if I don't have coffee. And then where will I be?" He grabs the coffee can out of the cabinet. "The doghouse, that's where. Lemme tell you something about being in the doghouse." He pulls the lid off with his teeth shaking the near empty can in frustration. "It sucks." He gently pries Lucy's fingers from their triumphant death grip on his lip. She grunts and stiffens, taking a swipe at his face once he releases her hand. He exaggerates the impact, dipping her low across the ground. She squeals as her swoops her up. "You and I are going out for coffee, baby girl."
6:16 AM
Conrad calms himself as he stares at her. She tosses her head; her hair flips behind her shoulders but still she stares resolutely ahead. He knows her silence won't last long; it's not her nature. He lifts the rifle, ingratiating the barrel beneath the heavy curtain of hair hanging down her back, caressing the sleek metal across her neck. Again she tosses her head; he leans in. "You know now that I've had a chance to think about it; I realize what a clever woman you are Bridget. So clever that I want you to share it with everyone here."
Then he hears it, under her breath, but distinctly. "Fuck you, Conrad." A small smile twists his mouth
"Come up here, old man." Conrad gestures to the elderly man as if he were beckoning him over for a friendly chat. There is no inclination to movement from the chair by the elderly man, only agitation in the play of his hands poised on his knees. "I said Move! old man."
The elderly man pushes himself off the chair with one hand and steadies himself with the other on a nearby table. He mops the now tattered napkin across his brow as he shuffles forward. He leans in as he reaches her. "Are you okay, Bridget?"
"You're not here to quiz her about her health, old man, ask her about Garret."
The elderly man looks at the gunman. His hand strays to his forehead again. "I need to sit down."
"Ask her!"
"Bridget … please … who's Garret?"
Bridget stares at Mr. Belmont – rheumy eyes, sagging jowls, incessant wrinkles – probably set for the rest of his life with a fat retirement package but what has he to live for? In a fucking coffee shop every morning of his life, wiling around the hours. Well not her. She has plans. She'll be out of this coffee shop in spite of …she condescends Mr. Belmont a reply and Conrad a look, even though she has to look up. "He's my son."
That admission wins her the barrel against her jugular. She can feel the pulsing, the whooshing, the rushing of the life-sustaining vein in glorious defiance of the cold maniacal metal that threatens it. Like the Archduke of Austria. It's the only piece of history she remembers but if she has to die in a coffee shop let it be like the Archduke.
And then she laughs.
He grabs a fistful of her hair, her graceful necking arching beyond bending but her words spewing as they've always spewed. He knew they'd come. And he lets them spew, watching the quavering arch of her neck, the throat muscles convulsing at each word.
"That's right, Conrad. My son! Not yours! Mine! And if you'd stuck to the plan Garrett and I'd be set for life. And when you're set for life … who needs a fucking man?"
He knows then that the noble instrument against her neck is too good for her; it falls away with a clatter and a discharge heard by neither of them as his hands close around her neck, around her neck to cease the spew from her mouth, to cease the pulse of life within her.
6:19 AM
Danny wonders at the crowd gathered in front of the Columbia Perkhouse as he emerges from the apartment building. "I don't remember their coffee being that good." He shifts Lucy higher up on his hip as he approaches the crowd. That's when he hears it. There's no mistaking that sound. It registers with some but not others so he hurries toward the crowd, shouting, "Down, down, everyone down." He hears a squall; he pivots sharply towards it then realizes – it's Lucy on his hip.