by B. B. Roman
Learning to Trust
(Interviewing the Billionaire)
Part 9: Curtain Falls
Copyright 2012 B.B. Roman
Published by Bizotica
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.
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Although it happens everywhere every day, there is no way to fully (and properly) prepare to deal with death. You can brace yourself for impact (which might be imperfect), or shirk and hide, burying it all inside of you and pretending that it was never a real thing at all (also imperfect).
The problem is, when you hold onto it like that, it can become like a poison, one that rushes through your veins and eventually drowns you in an absolute sea of sorrow—unless you embrace it. By delaying, you create the literal possibility of a mountain out of a molehill, a ceaseless avalanche, a crumbling, decaying structure that houses nothing but poorly addressed regret and hurt. Going head-to-head with death hurts more up front, but lessens the long-term burden.
I lost relatives growing up like most kids. None of them were that close to me, so it wasn't that huge of a deal. Sure, I was sad when my grandmother passed away—but it wasn't for me at all what it was like for my mother. She cried and cried and cried, a significant part of her life suddenly wiped away. The only thing that remained was memories, memories that she could pretend to perceive with her senses, pretend to experience in her mind. It was only temporary pain though, and soon time began to clean the slate.
It became harder for her to remember, harder for her to feel. I wouldn't want to call it numbness, because I don't think that's what it was. It was more of a grey acceptance, something that was bland, yet satisfying enough to permit her to move on. She wanted it, yet she didn't want to admit that she did. And that was exactly how I felt right now—I was begging to be over this, even though I hadn't come to terms with any of it. Imperfect.
Is this how soldiers felt? Assassins? CEOs of companies that acted immoral and greedy? I honestly felt like my skeleton wanted to burst out of my body, my backbone and morals departing and leaving me a flimsy mess of sagging flesh and blood. As usual, I was thinking about the consequences of my actions, wishing that I'd never met with Ramón even though I was a part of something much greater than myself.
Damnit! Why had I listened to him when he told me to do the drop-off? This was his fault, right? It wasn't my fault. I just was playing along with his bigger scheme!
But people were dead. Not just that scumbag, Marcus—innocent people. There was a bomb in that briefcase and I'm the one that took it into the building. Sure, I could try to blame the guard outside for not checking the contents of the case more thoroughly. I could blame Ramón for telling me to do it. I could blame Roland for obviously masterminding the whole thing. Yes, I had to blame Roland no matter what. But there still was that inevitable fact that I took the case in there and left it.
I started to sob, thinking about how much I had hated Marcus after our encounter. He was an awful, awful man, but I hadn't wished for anything like this. Yeah, he got what was coming to him—but why did it have to be this? Thinking about the previous day—that beautiful, perfect day with Roland that every girl dreamed of—made my nausea return. I was dry heaving and crying at the same time, my tears collecting in the water of the toilet bowl.
God, people had died at my hands. Damn you, Roland!
I cursed the day I ever took the assignment to come here. All I wanted to do was move up, to get a good story and establish myself as an authority in the industry. Sure, this was a great story, all right. I was right in the middle of the action, dead center amongst the controversy. Couldn't I go to jail over this? The thought brought out even more tears.
How much could I possibly cry? I was certain I'd never work as a reporter again after this. I felt ashamed to even consider myself a reporter at all.
Time became a blur, and I stayed in the bathroom until I could stand up again. Had it been hours? Minutes? I had no clue. I left my purse and cell phone by my desk. I had to get out of there. I had to eject now. It didn't matter what I would be leaving at Roland's or anything else. I was a total wreck.
I flushed the toilet multiple times, the spiraling of the water so hypnotic to my weary, impressionable self. Oh yes, I wanted to flush it again and again, to distract myself from anything that mattered. Finally, I got a grip and walked to the sink. My eyes were swollen from all of the crying. I splashed some water against my blood-red cheeks. How appropriate! Deep breaths...
The bathroom continued to hold me like a prison, my body rejecting the possibility of progress every time I sorted out my courage. I wasn't sure if I could face the world again after that. I just had to get moving. It would get easier. I'd be able to sort out my feelings, only if I could move, only if I could—
After losing track of time again, I was finally ready to leave the bathroom. My heart was pounding as I flipped the lock on the door. Thankfully, no one had come to this bathroom while I did my languishing. It was in the end of the building that most of the employees never came to. I peeked my head into the hall. Empty.
Doing my best to maintain my composure, I walked back into my office and sat down. I needed to get out of there, but first I needed to ensure I wasn't just going to collapse into pieces if I walked too fast. I was struck with somewhat of a morbid curiosity, so I decided to check the news about the event, to see what had been released to the public. Oh yes, this was big news, all right.
12 DEAD AFTER DOWNTOWN BOMBING
Investigators struggling to piece together information about heinous downtown crime. Potential terrorism links.
This was serious as hell. Terrorism? I was praying that Ramón would figure out the connection. Oh god, I needed to call him.
They went on to mention the Provence and the collapsing apartments above the restaurant. Just reading it was making me feel ill again. This was such big news. Then I got to the part in the middle:
The only suspect is a female with dark-brown hair that was captured by area security cameras entering and leaving the restaurant around 20 minutes before the bombing occurred. If you have any information that could aid investigators, please call the police department or the anonymous tip line provided below.
Blackness—there it was, growing inside of me again like cancer.
Damnit, damnit, damnit! I was a suspect! This was impossible, the worst nightmare imaginable. Roland had held me at the secluded place in the woods so that I wouldn't know what I had done! I thought about that notification sound his phone had given right as we pulled up. It was someone telling him that it was all over. The bomb had gone off. The path was clear now. Roland's deal could finally go through. Nothing else stood in his way.
He must have jammed my phone somehow, prevented mine from receiving any signal while his continued to func
tion. I didn't think about it at all after it happened. Roland had been sloppy as hell, and I just totally missed it. Well, he hadn't been sloppy about everything. No one was suspecting him, but then again, why should they?
Suddenly there was a knocking at my door. I almost screamed. It was the receptionist.
"Hey, Marisa," she said. "I was wondering when you were gonna be back. There were a couple of guys here looking for you. Pretty serious looking. Maybe cops. I told 'em to get lost."
I continued to sit there in silence, my face totally blank. My hand started trembling on the desk, so I trapped it between my thighs. "T-t-t-thanks," I said. "I don't know what they wanted."
"Me neither. I've got to go though." She closed the door again and left. The messenger spoke—and then departed. Somebody was already after me. Were they cops? Or even worse, Marcus's goons? I wasn't sure if Ramón would have actually interacted with the local police force or just kept to FBI business.
It became very clear to me that I needed to run. I needed to go somewhere and call Ramón. I shut off my computer and gathered my things, dimming the lights in my office and staring out through the cracks in the blinds. According to my phone, it was the late afternoon—and my battery was low. Great! It was still too early for Roland's car to arrive. I guess I'd just walk somewhere and then take a cab. But to where? Should I just turn myself in to the police? At that point, I was legitimately entertaining the idea.
I crept out of my office and headed toward the door, walking briskly, but trying not to attract any additional attention. As I neared the door, I started to increase my pace, to walk faster and faster, approaching that goal, that precious—
Collision!
"Whoa, Marisa!" Frederic said. I had run right into him. Oh god, Frederic! In so many ways, he felt like the only guy I could trust. I mean, he was close to Roland, but they'd had their differences recently. For some reason, I just went for it.
"Get me out of here, Frederic," I whispered into his ear. "It's serious. You have to take me somewhere. Now."
"Marisa, I've got to—"
"I'm not fucking kidding!" I snarled. "Now. I'm in danger."
That word danger seemed to arouse something inside of him. "Okay, let's go." He turned around and led me toward his car, a BMW at the back of the lot. I climbed in and closed the door, trembling as I put the seat belt into place.
"Marisa, you really need to tell me—"
"Drive!" I screamed, the tears beginning to flow again.
"Okay, okay," he mumbled. He started up the car and backed out of the lot. A few seconds later, we were heading toward the highway. I sighed loudly, but the tears kept coming.
"God, Frederic, he made me do it," I said between sniffles.
"Who made you do what?" Frederic asked.
"Roland made me kill Marcus!" I realized I probably shouldn't be admitting this to anyone—but that thought unfortunately came after I had already done it. He had struck oil, and now I was exploding like a geyser.
"Oh my god," Frederic said, his head sinking toward the floor. The car started to drift. "Marcus is dead?" He said it directly to the floor of the car.
"Frederic!" I screamed, grabbing the wheel and pulling the car back toward our side of the road and narrowly avoiding a collision with a semi. "You're going to get us killed!"
"Christ, Marisa," he said, his face overwhelmed by something. Was it sadness? Regret? "I just can't believe that."
"It was the restaurant downtown," I said. "The Provence. Roland made me take him a briefcase with a bomb in it."
"Goddamnit!" he shouted. "I heard about that and I knew there was something really wrong about it. They didn't release the names of the victims yet." He slammed his hands against the wheel, rage flowing through him like a drug. "He wasn't supposed to—"
"Frederic, please!" I begged. "We need to go hide somewhere." I quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to call Ramón any time soon, not with Frederic around. For some odd reason, I felt safe in his hands. I guess I was just really vulnerable.
"We're getting out of the city. Hold on." His face quickly glanced left and right, checking his mirrors with total precision.
He swerved across two lanes of traffic and onto the ramp for the expressway. I desperately clung to my seat. "We've got to have a plan," he kept saying to himself. I stayed glued to the seat while he took us further and further away from the city.
We drove in silence, and I only thought about one thing the whole time—could I tell him about Ramón? I kept considering it, going back and forth, the pendulum swinging in my head. Just wait, a voice in my head said to me. My lips stayed firmly shut as the scenery flew by.
"I know a place," he said suddenly.
"You do?"
"It will be safe, I promise."
We drove a good distance out of town in what seemed to be the opposite direction from where Roland had taken me the other day. I kept checking my cell phone compulsively, worried that my signal was going to vanish. It remained, however.
After passing through a small downtown area, we arrived at a hotel, the Paradise Inn. The sign was covered in a juxtaposition of palm trees and distorted beach imagery, even though nothing of the sort was nearby. "This is one of my old favorites," he said. "I know the owner. He'll take cash and won't put us on the books."
His words felt comforting, but still I didn't know what we were even doing here. I had asked him to get me out of the city, my pleas fueled by adrenaline and fear. Now here we were in the middle of nowhere—and I had no plan at all.
Frederic parked near the office and told me to wait in the car while he went inside. Perfect, I thought. He stepped out and as soon as he could no longer see me, I lifted my phone, fumbling with the buttons as I tried to bring Ramón's number back up. The call went through, the rings taking an eternity.
"Hello?"
"Ramón!" I shouted.
"Is that you Marisa?"
"Yes," I cried. I felt so much joy and relief at the fact that maybe I'd stand a chance now. "Why did you make me do it?" The tears were beginning again.
"Shit, that was you, wasn't it?" I heard him grumbling in the background, obviously a bit shocked at the news. "Damnit!"
"You told me I should do it! I killed those people! I carried in that briefcase."
"Jesus, calm down, Marisa. You're not to blame. You got used by those assholes."
"Duh!" I said. "You expect me to just live with that? I want to get the hell out of this. I don't want to be involved anymore."
There was a long pause that might not have actually been that long since time was just generally crawling. "Fine, fine," he said with desperation in his voice. "Where are you?"
"I'm at some motel with Frederic. I ran away from Roland's office. He hasn't tried to contact me."
"Okay, well stay there for a little longer. I need to figure some things out. Are you alone?" It sounded like he was shifting around papers on a desk.
"I'm with Frederic."
"Don't say anything to him. I mean it. And shut off your phone, unless you want Roland figuring out where you are."
"I think the big deal is happening really soon," I said, almost as an afterthought. "He mentioned that it could go through now that Marcus was gone."
"Sweet Jesus," he remarked. "Can you—"
Frederic re-emerged from the office and was briskly moving toward the car. "I've gotta go!" I hung up and threw the phone into my lap, hoping he didn't see it up against my ear. I pressed my thumb against the power button and held it until the phone started to turn off.
He opened his door and climbed back inside. "All right, we've got a room. I'm going to park the car in the back so it's not so obvious." Had he seen me on the phone?
The engine roared to life again and then we headed on the very brief journey to the back of the building. Apparently, he hadn't seen my phone call—or at least was choosing not to mention it. He parked the car tight to the building, so close that it was going to be difficult for me to escape
from the car. "I'm still not sure what we're doing yet," he said pathetically.
"We'll figure something out."
I somehow managed to squeeze out of my door and then headed to the room with him, holding his arm as we walked. It was standard hotel fare—a small desk with a very stiff-looking recliner next to a king-size bed and a dresser that a coffee maker sat on top of. The TV was old, but functional. Frederic turned it on, possibly just as a way to distract us from the silence.
"Tell me what happened," he said suddenly.
"What?" I asked, startled by his intensity. Was he asking about the phone call?
"About the bombing. About...Marcus," he said, his voice trailing off to nothing.
I felt that there was another layer to all of this, like Frederic was unpacking something. It was nothing but a hunch, however. "Oh," I said. "It was bad. Like really bad."
"I can't believe he didn't tell me about this," Frederic said to himself. It was obvious to me that he worried that his relationship with Roland was deteriorating, that this was just another nail in the coffin.
I spilled my guts about what had happened with Roland, how he had said he didn't trust me at all at the beginning and wanted to move forward. Mentioning the loyalty test seemed to rub Frederic the wrong way. Was it jealousy I was witnessing? Had he fallen out of favor with Roland?
I went on to tell about Marcus and how he had been so rotten to me—and how I hoped that someone would give him what he deserved. It made me sick the more I thought about it. Frederic seemed to carefully consider my words, digesting them one at a time rather than as sentences. "There was supposedly ten million in that briefcase," I said.
"God, only Roland," he said, a hint of humor in his voice.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"That money was burned up. Dissolved. Disintegrated. Only Roland would use real money when blowing up a competitor."
A weird observation. I hadn't even thought about that.
I told him about how Roland had taken me into the woods, to hide me from the burdens of society—and the crime I had committed. "He was a perfect gentleman the whole time," I said, the tears starting to flow again. "I just can't believe that I was having a romantic getaway while they were pulling bodies out of the burning rubble of the building."
