Since the show will be off for a couple of weeks I suppose I'll really be diverging from it now. Thanks for the review Fuchsia Grasshopper :)
Oswald broke into her apartment a second time with ease and something like arrogance. One would imagine that in Liza's position she would be more cautious, make some attempt to at least secure her home. Maybe he hadn't given her enough of a scare.
The purse he had stolen the compact from was nowhere to be seen. Probably dangling from Liza's elbow at that moment. There was another bag on the table and a long cream colored coat draped across the back of a chair. Where to put it? The bag was large and full of a jumble of the usual nonsensical feminine objects that found their way into bags and purses. The jacket had deep pockets and carried an overwhelming smell of lilacs. Not necessarily a bad overwhelming, but the kind that quickened his pulse.
The compact would go unnoticed in the bag for quite some time. It would be noticed quickly in the jacket she wore often and she would question: "Did I put this here? I don't remember..." And then she would forget about it. Or she would wonder each time she used it. Oswald would always choose to add that sense of unease. He slipped the compact into the silky pocket. After considering waiting for her and giving her another fright, he left the apartment as it was except for a missing compact now misplaced in a coat pocket.
The sign read Sullivan's Joinery and the windows were dark, the door locked. Maybe Grady wasn't in. Oswald tried to peer through the windows but it was so dim and dusty he couldn't make out much beyond the eerie frozen clocks in the window. He was about to turn away and search for a back door when he heard a buzz and the unmistakable noise of a lock click. His eyes scanned the door for a camera but in true Grady style, it was not visible.
The clock shop looked like it had not been used in some time. Everything was covered in a layer of dust, untouched and unused like a time capsule or a tomb. A curtain behind the curtain glowed with light and muffled the quiet mutterings of a radio. Behind it, Oswald found a cluttered living room nearly as dusty as the shop. There were bits of machinery and piles of books and blueprints scattered everywhere, almost burying a couch and an armchair. The small kitchen in the corner was the only space fairly free of mess and to the right was a work area, the most chaotic jumble of them all.
"I thought you'd never turn up," Grady pulled the magnifying goggles off her head. She sat at a long table lit by several glaring lamps surrounded by layers of sketches and designs tacked all over the walls. It was difficult to tell what she was working on but it seemed to involve inserting a blade into the heel of a shoe.
"I've been busy as of late," said Oswald. "And I ran into a little trouble."
"What kind of trouble?" Grady frowned.
"A temporary setback, I assure you," he laughed nervously as though he weren't sure if this was true.
"I'm going to put some tea on. It's good for the nerves." She clattered through some pots and pans and set a battered kettle on the stove. "You can have a seat if you want. Just push things on the floor, it doesn't matter..."
Oswald was about to set a stack of papers on the floor when he heard a deep growl behind him. Slowly he turned and came face to face with an enormous grey dog. The shaggy head was level with his chest and the beast showed him his yellowed teeth.
"Alright Fionn, you're a day late and a dollar short," Grady barked at the dog. Fionn's demeanor changed immediately. He sat obediently and wagged his long tail. "Useless," Grady muttered. "He's meant to guard the place but I'm meaner than he is."
Oswald was not convinced and kept his eyes on the giant dog, hand clutched on his umbrella although it would be useless against such an enormous creature. Grady handed him the tea and rolled her eyes at Fionn. "Really, ignore him. He's harmless."
She plopped down into the armchair, winced, and pulled a large wrench out of the cushions. "Anway, what sort of trouble are you in?"
Oswald let the tea warm his hands, eyes on the murky depths. "Falcone believed that Maroni stole his money with my help. He's wasn't pleased with me at all. But I convinced him he has a mole and that I will find it."
Grady raised her eyebrows but wasn't perturbed. "Damned good thing that compact worked then, eh? I've got at least three conversations between Liza and Fish. It should be all the evidence you need."
"Good," Oswald sipped at the tea. "It will wait though. Liza is a time bomb. And timing is everything."
"I'm not sure I follow you," said Grady.
"You will," Oswald grinned. "I've already planted the seeds of suspicion. Falcone may trust Fish now, but he will watch her more closely than he did before. It does no good to get rid of her before the time is right. There will be no room for us to profit. It will be Falcone's victory, not ours."
"I see your point, but you promised Falcone to find his mole. He has sense, but he's not the most patient man either. You must believe me on that one. Don't cross him." The line between her brows and the cold light in her eyes spoke of old memories. And as quickly as this expression appeared, it vanished. Replaced by her gapped tooth grin and almost manic smile. "Unless of course you can get away with it. Then cross him all you like."
"Already done. The mole is dead. Or so Falcone believes. You may hate him Grady, but you must admire his style at least. The man died face down in his dinner in front of all of Falcone's associates and there he stayed until the meal was over," Oswald's face glowed with the thought. "You could see the fear in Fish's eyes."
Grady did not appear as impressed as he with this turn of events. "Well done then. Maybe she'll think twice before blowing up another one of his vans. If Fish is blowing things up, why can't I?" She dropped her empty tea cup on the coffee table and sighed.
"Explosions are a little conspicuous," said Oswald. "I wouldn't have thought that was your style."
"Who doesn't love a good explosion," Grady shrugged. "But this does give me an idea. What Fish did was a bold move. Maybe someone should hit her back. I agree we should wait, so nothing too devastating. But enough to make her nervous."
"Go on..." said Oswald. Anything that hurt Fish was music to his ears.
"Fish is about to make a nice little bit of money. Thursday this week. Falcone doesn't know. It will go untaxed... It would so hurt her pride if something were to happen to that money. To see it go up in smoke the same way Falcone's did. It would make her think, wouldn't it? Wonder who's watching her. Fish doesn't fear you yet, Oswald. But she will."
Oswald folded his hands on the coffee table. "What exactly do you propose?"
It was beautiful. From high on a lonely hill Oswald watched the truck pull onto the abandoned pier. Fish never handled these things in person but how sweet it would have been for her to see it. The sound was softened by the thin layer of snow like a deep bass drum. The explosion was not large, but contained and practical. Very Grady. It bloomed like a fierce orange flower, enhanced by the setting sun. It took the dock below and dragged the van and the money into the depths leaving not much behind apart from some sparks and ashes and the smoky smell of revenge.
It was a such a relief to see. Because there was a problem. The van had arrived an hour before it was expected.
Grady knew to leave herself time. She always did. The explosives were rigged beneath the dock well ahead of schedule and then she would wait in the abandoned warehouse up the hill. From there she would detonate. Grady shivered in the damp air and stood to admire her handiwork. Then she heard the crunch of gravel. She pushed up a sleeve to check her watches (she had three) and all of them showed that it was far too early. There wasn't even a proper road down to the docks. No reason for anyone else to be here. If a vehicle was coming, it was most likely her target. In any case, it wasn't good news. Caught on the dock she was exposed. Nowhere to go. Her eyes flicked around her surroundings. About fifty feet down the shore stood another dock, this one half fallen into the river.
It was December. The water would be very unpleasant but it would take some time to die of exposure. There wasn't a choice. Grady dove.
It was like the time she had received an electric shock. Her body spasmed and she felt the air she held her in lungs escape in bubbles from her nose. Her heavy jacket absorbed the water like a sponge. The combination of the downy material and the objects in the pockets weighed her down as if she wore a suit of stone. It was not difficult to stay hidden with her head below the surface. She fought. Grady had never been a wonderful swimmer but when her life depended on it, she could do anything well enough to get by.
She was dizzy from lack of oxygen and had no idea how close she was to the shelter of the broken docks. Heavy boots kicked, her arms reached for the surface and she allowed herself one moment of saving, stinging breath. Through the droplets in her eyes she saw the blurred shape of the dock within a few lengths reach and dove under again. Her arms and legs were seizing, stiff, heavy as lead. Her lungs burned and cried for air. And then the water pushed her into a tangle of rubble. Something snagged her leg and she watched dark blood bloom around her. Hands pushing against the slippery pieces of the dock, she pulled herself above water. Air never tasted so good. Hugging a post for support, she bobbed concealed beneath the dock. At least she could breath, but her body was quaking with shivers.
On the opposite dock she watched the van park and flick it's headlights off. She couldn't feel her fingers, had little control of her hands, but managed to reach into her shirt where she had stuffed the detonator. She had the foresight to waterproof it as she had the other components of the device. Just in case.
When she hit the button, she could have sworn she heard heavenly music. For a moment the cold was forgotten. The flames were fast, hot, and brilliant. A great wonderful wave swallowed the van and dock whole, rippling out and swamping her. Her mouth filled with water. After a minute of chaos, she surfaced again choking. No sign of the van except for the floating pieces and more importantly, no sign of any passengers.
Her fingers fought for a hold on the damp mossy dock but slipped and shook. Her arms were like rubber, unlikely to even lift her.
"Don't die here," she told herself. "This is not how you die. You always knew how you would die. And this isn't it."
She kicked with her feet, trying desperately to boost herself up onto the dock but she couldn't get high enough. The more she struggled, the weaker she became, the more she choked on her gasping breath.
And then something yanked hard on the back of her jacket. She jerked upwards in reach of the dock and threw up her arms, catching the edge with her elbows. Someone was pulling her out.
"Come on. Help me," she heard him gasp.
She found a foothold and pushed upwards. He grabbed her beneath the arms and tugged. They fell onto the dock in a sopping tangle.
"Grady, are you insane?" hissed Oswald. "Why didn't you run?"
Grady lay on her back, staring at the murky clouds above. She had expected to feel warmer out of the water but she didn't. "They would have seen," she managed to say around her chattering teeth.
"So they would have seen and they would have died, taking the information to the grave with them." His eyes scanned the smoking wreckage, searching for survivors.
"I couldn't risk it," she whispered. The sky seemed brighter now, the snow whiter. Was she getting warmer?
"You and I have very different definitions of the word risk. Get this off, it's full of water." Oswald yanked at her sodden jacket and Grady tried to shrug out of it but her mind and limbs didn't seem connected. He gave her a rough shake.
"Stay awake Grady or you're lost!" he shouted.
"Yeah, I'm fine..." she muttered. As consciousness returned so did the horrible cold. Oswald pulled his jacket tight around her shoulders.
"My driver is coming," he said. "We need to get out of here."
"Your driver shouldn't see -," she began to protest but he wound a scarf around her head like a mummy and speech became almost impossible.
She was as unpredictable as Oswald had feared, but he couldn't allow her to die yet. Not after she risked her life to ensure well executed revenge. Not when she had so many more uses.
