This week's chapter title comes from the song "This Ain't A Scene, It's An Arm's Race," by Fall-Out Boy.
Chapter Four – This Ain't A Scene
The lunch crowd at the Barney's on Orange was intense. Rarely was it ever like this, but it was close to graduation, and everyone was rushing around, trying to get everything done. Located only a few blocks off her end of campus – or what used to be her end, anyway – Callie found it a very easy stop to grab a good, cheap sandwich.
"You're going to have to share a table," the waitress, Tammy, told her as she seated her at a newly-cleared row. A booth on one side and about six chairs across on the other, it was just waiting to be filled.
Callie hardly paid attention as she sat down and flipped open the menu. The waitress was seating two others, and they were spaced apart, but she knew that wouldn't last long, as another group came in through the door. As she had gotten the coveted corner, the other two – both of them men – had to scoot down, so that she was effectively surrounded, so that the other three could stay together.
"Oh, wait," said the man sitting beside her, suddenly patting down his bag, "dammit, I forgot my wallet. Could you excuse me?"
Callie hauled herself out of the seat and let the guy go. When she sat back down, the man across from her was grinning.
"Worst nightmare, personally," he said. "Losing my wallet, I mean. I couldn't image going anywhere without it."
"Me neither," Callie said, smiling and chuckling politely. Then she went back to the menu.
"You know, I'm embarrassed to admit, I haven't been in here before, but it seems like a crazy popular place," the man went on, apparently oblivious to the fact that she wanted to be left alone. She looked up at him again, and was struck by the brightness and the roundness of his eyes. Glacier-blue. Brilliant. He had the appearance of someone who had just come in from the cold, with his high cheeks a soft pink, and his mouth a full coral-rose pout. He was attractive, she had to admit. "So what is it that makes everyone want to come in here?"
"Usually the sandwiches," she said. It was difficult, playing nice. The last time she had talked to an attractive guy, he'd put a gun to her head. But he didn't look anything like Vincent. He was young, with longish brown hair and a wide smile. She tried to let down her guard.
"Uh huh…" He picked up the menu. "Which one do you come in for?"
"The club, usually," she said, "but today it feels like a meatloaf sandwich day."
"Ah." He looked at that item, pressed his lips together and raised his eyebrows, a facial expression to show keen interest. "My mother used to make those for me for lunch, always on Tuesdays. Monday night meatloaf." He grinned at her, charming.
She nodded back. "My father usually does spaghetti," she said. "You know what it's like to get cold spaghetti in your lunch box?"
He chortled. "I couldn't imagine. But cold pizza works, and so does pasta salad, so I guess it can't be that different, can it?"
"Oh, it can," she laughed. The waitress came over, anxious to serve the customers and get them out the door. Callie ordered a meatloaf sandwich and a rootbeer, and her new lunch companion did the same.
"I'm sorry," the man said, leaning a bit closer to her, "I didn't even get your name."
"Calliope," she said. "It's Greek, from my grandmother. You?"
"Jackson," he said. "Nothing special about it, really. Although I think my parents were having a bit of fun at my expense, because my last name is Rippner."
Her eyebrows shot up. "That wasn't very nice of your parents," she said with a shocked smile.
"Nope," he said. "But you…Calliope. That was a Greek muse, wasn't it? Of poetry or something?"
"Heroic poetry," she confirmed. She considered it for a moment. "When I was little my father called me his kaleidoscope. Come to think of it, I think that was my high school nick-name, too."
"Yeah, I learned a long time ago to stay away from nicknames," Jackson agreed. "So are you a student?"
"I'm finishing," she said. "Graduating this month."
He frowned at her. "Huh. You know, it's the strangest thing," he said, looking at her closely. "But all of a sudden you seem really familiar."
"I do?" Something prickled in the back of her head. This is a nice guy, she told herself. This is not Vincent. "Are you a student as well?"
"No, not a student. I work as a manager. But you…did you ever…did you ever drive a cab?"
The shock vibrated into her spine. Then she let out a gasping laugh. "Um…up until about two weeks ago, yeah." She narrowed her gaze, studying him. "You know me from that?"
His mouth split into a very wide grin. "I think so! Yeah, I must have ridden in your cab at some point. Not too many pretty female cab drivers around here, to be honest."
"No, not really," she agreed. "Well, I must have made an impression. Usually all anybody sees of a cab driver is the back of his head."
"Her head, in your case," Jackson corrected her playfully. "So why did you quit?"
"Oh, I was just doing it to make some money through college," she said, suddenly feeling a jolt in her stomach. She hadn't said she quit, but Jackson must have been assuming. He was just lucky, guessing correctly, she told herself. "And it just didn't hold the same thrill for me anymore."
"Yeah," Jackson said, rubbing his lips with two fingers. "Yeah, I guess getting dragged around all night by a hit man would do that to you."
The world slowed. Callie felt everything around her grind down, like a movie where the projector was running out of steam. Her ears were humming and all other sound was blocked out by the sound of her own heartbeat. Finally, she licked her lips, swallowed, and said in a scratchy voice, "What did you just say?"
"You heard me." His voice had gone quiet, but she could hear it perfectly. Her mind was somehow aware of the noise around her, but she didn't hear it. There was just him. He tossed his head, casually. "It's perfectly understandable, Calliope. That kind of experience would be highly traumatic. In fact, I'm sure that possibly nobody else alive has the kind of story that you do. But that's why you're writing it, aren't you?"
She pressed her lips together and swallowed hard. Her throat felt like it had grown cactus thorns. "What do you know about what I'm writing?"
"I've read it," he said, glancing around, making sure nobody was eavesdropping on their conversation. "Not too bad, really. Kind of hastily written, but the first half looks like the edits are going pretty well. Not the kind of thing you could publish raw, but—"
She slapped the table. Her fork did a neat little flip and landed half-way between them. The water glass rattled, and a shadow fell over them. They both looked up and saw the waitress staring down at them, eyebrow rising quizzically, holding their soft drinks.
"Something wrong?" she asked.
Callie looked back at Jackson, who met her eyes without blinking. Then he turned back to the waitress and flashed her a winning smile. "My friend just gets a bit too enthusiastic about proving her point," he said apologetically. He turned back to Callie. "Calm down, sweetie, you don't want to embarrass us both."
The waitress looked from one to the other, put down the root beers and went about her business as usual. Callie leaned forward on her hand, her eyes boring holes into Jackson's face. She had lived through Vincent – if this punk thought he could play her--
"What the hell do you want?" she hissed at him.
"Easy, gunpowder," he said, his voice still low, casual. "I was actually complementing you. I understand where it's all coming from, you know. I mean, something like that, happening to a young woman seeking to enter the field of criminal psychology, could be a career builder for you. It's already gotten the attention of the head of Crazy Ant's. I hear he's already reserving a position for you."
She just glared at him, eyes sizzling. She wanted to smash this rodent under her heel. She was going to die alone; there simply weren't any trustworthy men in this world anymore.
"And that's wonderful. No reason why it can't all happen. Except for publishing this particular book. There really isn't any need of that."
"Who do you work for?" she asked in an undertone.
"Doesn't matter," he answered, "except for the fact that they are extremely well funded, and are happy to offer you enough money to keep you very comfortable for the rest of your life, in exchange for you burying this book. Burying it deep."
"You work for Felix Reyes-Torrena?"
Jackson shook his head. "He's a small fish. But small fish are important, to protect the big fish. And really, Callie, if I may call you Callie…that's what everyone calls you now, correct?"
Her eyes were going to smolder in her sockets.
The waitress came back with two plates of food. Jackson looked up at her, flashing her another charming grin. "Could I get that to go, please? I'm sorry, but it turns out I'm going to be leaving sooner than I thought."
The waitress left Callie's place and rolled her eyes, holding Jackson's in her hand. Jackson pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket, reached up and slipped it into her apron, and she winked at him, getting the message.
"And really, Callie, what good would this really do you, anyway? I mean, if you publish this story, it's going to attract all kinds of attention, and I'm sure not all of it will be favorable. I mean, you really think Vincent will like it if he sees his name in print?"
She flinched. "You know him?" she asked. "You know Vincent?"
He pressed his lips together and stared at her. "I can't guarantee your safety if you decide to continue on your current course," he said, matter-of-factly. "But when you come to your senses, I'll be in touch."
"How?" she asked, as the waitress returned with a brown paper bag. Jackson took it, handing her a fifty.
"I have my ways," he said, and to the waitress he added, "This should cover both tabs, shouldn't it?"
The waitress gave him the brightest smile they'd seen from her all day. Jackson winked at Callie, put the bag under his arm and headed out the door.
Callie looked down at her pre-paid lunch. She wasn't hungry anymore.
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Somewhere in a nondiscriminate apartment in L.A., a telephone rang. A man with a receding hairline, a handsome face and a Southern Welsh accent answered.
"Cash."
"Trent. It's V."
"Yeah, they told me you were coming."
"Airport? My flight arrives at eight o'clock Sunday night."
"Same time man. Not normal to see you again so soon."
"I've got some unfinished business."
"Yeah, your pack is light. Anything else you need?"
"Nope. Thanks." The line went dead.
Trent Cash nervously toed the twin bags that sat underneath the table. He was making the exactly same drop, only tonight and at a train station. Same intel, same everything. But he wasn't paid to ask questions or to give heads-up. Whatever was going on, it wasn't his business. He was just an extremely well-paid bag boy.
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"Well, in a way, I'm almost glad," Laurie said. "Means I don't have to waste time speculating anymore."
"So he called you too?" Callie asked again, still incredulous. "I just don't believe it. I mean, what is the big deal? It's not like the Justice department can even make solid connections – you know if they could I'd be in witness protection like that." She snapped her fingers. It echoed strangely in the late afternoon sunlight of Laurie's office. "I'm not even allowed to use Felix's name."
"It's not about Felix, I don't think," Laurie said carefully. "I think this has more to do with Vincent."
Callie looked away. The color had long since left her cheeks, before she'd come in here to talk. Now she was turning slight yellow in pallor.
"I know it's upsetting, but we've already discussed the strangeness of him leaving you alive."
"I know," she snapped, harsher than she intended. It had been a rough day. Still, Laurie didn't deserve it. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I'm just sick of it."
Laurie shrugged. "I'm sick of walking with a cane. Doesn't mean I can change it." He watched her carefully, as she dragged her eyes back to him. "You may have to face the possibility that this isn't over."
"I don't think I could take it if I had to see Vincent again."
"It's not Vincent directly that I'm concerned about. But maybe the people who paid Vincent are annoyed that you're alive and with a story to tell. Your dad and I were talking, and I've been making some arrangements. I guess now is as good a time as any to tell you."
Callie straightened a bit in her seat. "Tell me what?"
"Well, I'm working on fixing it so that you can come and stay here at the institute for a bit. Maybe a few weeks, maybe a month – I'm already going to give you an internship, based on the work we've been doing together, it's not that far-fetched. We could just say that it's starting early."
"But why here?"
"Because it's a prison," Laurie pointed out logically. "Because the resident doctors' quarters are very well guarded to keep any unfortunately accidents from happening. And it's a very unlikely place for anyone to come looking for you. Who doesn't want to land in a bunch of trouble, at any rate."
She grumbled. "Just stick me in the Fed Penn in Terre Haute, why don't you."
"Well, I think you'll like our meal plan better." He kept his face straight. "And the clean sheets."
"So you've just arranged for this on your own?" she asked. "Without even talking to me first?"
"It was your father's idea," Laurie admitted. "I didn't make him any promises. I figured I should tell you before I go back to him."
"You figured right." She bit her lip. "I'll have to talk to my brother, see what he thinks."
"Well, your brother thinks you should have a concealed weapons permit and carry a .22 millimeter," Laurie quipped. "It's not hard to figure out where he'll land on this one."
"Don't be so sure. Ray might think he's capable of protecting me on his own, with some friends. He feels responsible for a lot of it…for not getting me away from Vincent when he had a chance." She grew silent and thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe that's the best reason to come here, though. I don't want Ray taking any more responsibility for me than he already has."
Laurie nodded. "There's something else we need to talk about."
She raised her eyebrows at him. The "now what" expression was a classic. But they were only a week and a half into the work, so it was expected that there was much, much more to do. "Vincent again?" she asked wearily, reading his mind.
He said, "I think we should take it from a different angle." He pulled out his recorder, set it on the desk, and pressed the red recording button. "We've been talking about you and your experiences, but we have to go the other way now. We have to look at things from Vincent's point of view." Laurie scooted closer to his desk, templing his fingers together as he usually did when he was about to be profound. "It's vital that, as doctors, we can show empathy, even for the worst kind of people. Especially you must, Callie, because Vincent himself is totally without empathy. He's incapable of it."
"Then how can we know what he's feeling?" she asked, struggling through the dark haze to follow his path, trying to be reasonable, logical, and think like a doctor.
"He's without empathy, not without his own emotions. He can't relate to people. Now, a lot of this is speculation, because we can't actually talk to the subject, but we can analyze him from his behaviors. For instance –" Laurie ruffled the papers on his desk, her manuscript. And then he paused.
"What is it?" she asked.
"It just…bugs me to think that Rippner was in my office. That he got a hold of a copy of this."
She barked a laugh, but swallowed it quickly. "It bugs you," she snorted.
"Eh. Okay, back to the subject. I was going for this example…" Laurie flipped the pages.
"Wait a minute," Callie said, leaning forward. "Who else has seen that manuscript, other than you or me?"
"Nobody else I know of, except for Rippner, if it's like he claimed."
"Well, what if we dusted it for prints?" she suggested. "I mean, maybe we can find Rippner's prints on it, and maybe that might lead us somewhere?"
"Where?" Laurie asked.
Callie shrugged. "I don't know…fingerprints always lead somewhere on Law and Order!"
Laurie chuckled. "You watch too much television. First of all, you know how hard it is to match up fingerprints? Only if they're already fingerprinted as known criminals is it even possible – or if they're State employees. And that even depends on the state. Even if we got this Rippner guy's fingerprints, what good does it to us? The worst we have on him is breaking and entering."
"But still, Laurie—"
"And do you know how long it takes for things like that to come back? How many search engines you have to use, how many different resources you have to contact? It would take a minimum of two weeks to even get a hit—"
Suddenly, Callie's cellular phone went off. Scowling, she reached into her pocket, and would have let it go to voicemail, except that it was her brother's number. Something told her to take it.
"Hello?"
"Callie, it's Ray. I've gone some incredible news for you. We got a match on Vincent's fingerprints."
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Disclaimer: I forgot the disclaimer. I don't own anything. And right now, Vincent is pretty pissed.
Vincent: (glowering silently in the corner)
Me: He's mad because of Jack—
Vincent: DON'T say his name.
Me: That the other guy from that other movie was in this chapter more than him.
Vincent: Whose fing fanfic is this, anyway?
Me: (sighs) Yours, of course, dear. Anyway, back to my disclaimer. I don't own Vincent and I don't own Ja—
Vincent: I said--!
Me: Geeze, you are just a big whiny baby! I don't own the other guy, either. I also don't own Ray—
Vincent: Who'd want him?
Me: Don't be such a shit. You're on a plane right now, there's not a lot I can do with you. You know how long a flight from Thailand to the U.S. takes? I mean, it's not pretty. Anyway, you'll be in the next chapter. Lots and lots.
Vincent: Liar. You're a liar. You're trying to build up all this tension, all this…this… build up between me and Callie, and how long it's been since we've seen each other, yadda yadda. So when we do see each other again it'll explode.
Me: Okay, you got me. What's wrong with that, anyway? But you will be in the next chapter, I promise!
Vincent: Yeah, I'd like to see you explain that whole fingerprint thing. Most everybody knows one of the first things professional assassins do is acid wash their fingerprints.
Me: Tom Cruise would never use acid wash on his hands. So you're a glowing exception, sweetheart.
Vincent: Now you're just making me look stupid.
Me: Hey, suspend the disbelief for me, here! I gotta move this story along somehow! Anyway, the rest of you guys need to go and review. Go on now! I know you're out there, I can see you on my Stats page!