The Intruder
The intruder twisted from his grasp, impossibly fast. Before he could adjust the angle of his forward swoop, she ducked to avoid his slashing claws and firmly dug a sharp elbow into his privates. Bent over in pain and gasping for breath, he saw her run down the hallway, the only sound the rustle of her black clothing and the thumping of her rubber soles on the floor. She reached the man in the wheelchair and sank down on one knee. With a roar, he pushed himself forward, past the classrooms to his right and a precariously teetering flower pot. His right fist connected with the intruder's shoulder as she reached for a weapon strapped to her back.
The blades pierced her chest, arresting her motion. The weapon, not a dagger but a grey metal vial, fell to the floor, the faint chink barely audible over the intruder's last gurgling breath. She crumpled to the floor before the man in the wheelchair, a dark pool of blood spreading from the wound. The man still sat, mouth half open in surprise, speechless.
The men regarded one another wearily. They had had their differences in the past about violent incidents such as this, but the threat had been real. The man in the wheelchair bent over the body. Though only in his late fifties, he seemed older than his years in the early autumn light. He was saddened not only by the loss of life, but also by the malicious intent that had brought the woman to her death. The grey vial had rolled, assisted by gravity and an imperceptible incline in the floor, and now came to a rest by the toe cap of the other man's boot. Warily, he picked it up and held it to the light, as if to determine the contents by willing the metal into transparency.
"Could be a weapon." he muttered.
The man in the wheelchair cast another look at the body. There hadn't been enough time to truly determine any deeper intent beyond the immediate threat of the intruder. But he did not believe the contents of the tube to be harmful. He held his hand out for the item and carefully unscrewed the top. There was no gust of poison gas, no heat-seeking projectile erupting from the vial. He peered at the small piece of paper rolled up inside it. He flattened it with one hand and read.
"We should get rid of the body." the other murmured gruffly.
"Yes, we should." He turned the wheelchair and disappeared into an elevator.
The man knelt to pick up the body. He noticed the small piece of paper that had fluttered to the ground and absently stashed it in a front pocket of his old jean jacket.
Later, when the body had been disposed of, he read it and then built a bonfire. He lit the note only when the fire was already hot, the flames licking at the low clouds of the afternoon sky. He held it by one corner between thumb and forefinger and waited for the last white fleck of paper to be blackened by before he dropped it into the fire and walked away.
The fire was visible from the east-facing wing of the house, and the man in the wheelchair was able to watch the fire from his study. It would be a long time before either man would forget the note.
* * *
"Dear Citizen,
To increase efficiency in debt collection, Westchester City Council is pleased to introduce its new initiative of courier-delivered parking tickets.
You are in violation of s2 Road Traffic Act 1988, and are hereby required to pay an on-the-spot fine of $45.00.
Please see overleaf for details. Westchester City Council would like to thank you for your co-operation in this matter."
* * *
The professor didn't drive into town often, and it was a pity he had forgotten to put his disabled person's badge in the window. Councils, Logan thought with a snort. Damn bloodsuckers wouldn't stop at anything.
* * *
The End