THE ISOLATIONIST

Chapter 1: The Briefcase

Blood. Everywhere. I held my hands in front of my face. Stained. Dripping with violence, a gun in one of them. The outline shimmered in the low light. Room came into focus slowly, like a hazy fog dispersing. The room swung sideways, and I fought the urge to fall with it and vomit on myself. Wooden floorboards creaked under my weight. It’s hot and stuffy and I can’t escape the smell of death that is consuming my airways. Gun slipped out of my hands and hit the floor hard.

Picture sharpened, edges defined. Small space. Claustrophobic. A window, too dark and grimy to be of any use. A chair, wooden, old, simple. On it was a body. Trench coat, suit. Looked important, but now he was dead. Arms hung by his side. His face was in permanent shock. Probably had something to do with the gaping hole in his forehead, a thin trail of blood working its way down between his eyes. He was bald, a thick scar ran down the side of his face.

I reached into his jacket and pulled out a thin wallet. Opened it. Federal Agent credentials stared back at me with the name Drew de White. I looked at the identification, then back to the body. The face matched. Dropped the wallet on the ground and inched backwards. Stopped when I kicked something. Looked down at the limp hand between my shoes. Turned.

A body lay on the ground. He didn’t seem to have fared as well as his counterpart. He wore a dark coat and under that, what used to be a white shirt. Now the entire garment was a wet, red mess and shredded in several places. Throat carved open; face caked in blood. Next to him, a leather wallet lay sprawled near his hand. I picked it up. Observed the badge and read out the three letters screaming at me: D.E.A. Under the agency identifier was his name: Walter Reed.

I looked around at the carnage, knowing it had happened again, just not knowing how. It was the same old story. One minute doing something entirely innocent. The next I wake in a deranged scene with bodies and blood and god knows what else. What made it worse was that they were both law enforcement, begging the questions: Did they lure me here? Or did I lure them? But then I stopped. Where was the knife?

I backed into the middle of the room while patting down my pockets. I was wearing jeans, hoodie and a leather jacket. None of it looked familiar, but that came with the territory. Besides my wallet, phone and keys, all the pockets came up empty. And I couldn’t tell whether that was a good thing or a bad thing.

In the middle of the room was a table. Well, actually, a packing crate turned on its side to resemble a table. Makeshift. Guess it did the job, because on top of it were two briefcases, lids closed, facing their respective owners. Ex-owners. I guess I owned them now, and the contents within.

I turn one to face me and opened it. Bags of white powder packed in tight. I guess it’s cocaine, given my knowledge of watching those crime shows on television. I opened the other one. Neatly stacked piles of bound notes: tens, twenties and fifties.

To my left, an open wooden door beyond that, I caught sight of a porcelain bowl. I picked up the first briefcase and carried it in, tipping the powder packages into the toilet. I hit the flusher without thinking. Nothing seemed to move. In fact, water filled to the lip of the bowl, seeping out from under the seat, like a tree bleeding sap. I considered opening the bags and emptying the contents directly, but toilet water infected them and I couldn’t bring myself to touch them.

I retrieved the gun and pointed it at the mound. Fired a round into the plastic. A puff of white dust erupted in front of my face like a volcano, followed by a piece of the bowl breaking off. Water escaped onto the floor, pooling around my feet, and I cursed myself repeatedly until I felt better about the situation. I fired two more times. Stood there and looked at the wreckage of torn bags, wet drugs and a broken toilet, and wish I had thought my actions through a little longer rather than acting on impulse. I decided the best course of action was to leave before the gunshots roused the local authorities. That last thing I needed was for the police to tangle me into a murder investigation, or a drugs investigation, or any connection to any policing organization whatsoever. And what made everything worse was the fact the bodies belonged to law enforcement.

I threw the gun into the second case, locked it, and scooped it up. Running for the only other door in the shack, I shouldered into it and burst out into the cold night air. My breath became visible as I skidded to a halt on the slick, water-pocketed concrete ground. Saltwater and fish smells enveloped me. To my left, moored commercial fishing vessels bounced on the steady ripple of water and nestled into their dock bumpers. On my right, a ridiculously large warehouse where most of the ocean fragrance was emanating from.

I circumnavigated the building, trying to find my way out. I felt like I was forgetting something, but every time I reached for it, it would disappear into the recesses of my mind. Whatever the thought was, it was playing hard to get. I had come to terms with things like that.

I eventually found myself on a street walking toward lights, stealing myself away from the massacre I appeared to have caused. I didn’t know where I was or how I got there, who the dead guys were, or why I hiked it with a briefcase full of cash.

Suddenly, flashing lights behind me, tires splashing through puddles, a rumbling engine. My heart raced. A million excuses went through my mind. The cops would ask what I was doing walking around there at night and notice the blood on my hands and clothes. They would want to inspect the briefcase I clutched to my chest, ask me where I got it or where I was taking it. Eventually, they would find out about the dead guys and tie me to that scene. I couldn’t think of any plausible meaning for any of it. The more my heart rate rocketed, the banging in my chest intensified, the more blackness grew in the sides of my vision. Oh god, not again, not now.

Then the car came into a view. A yellow box, the window down.

“Hey Mac, where are you going?” the driver yelled at me.

Ignored him, kept marching. Tried to get my breathing under control.

“Hey, you wanted me to wait for you!”

I stopped. So did the taxi.

“What?” I asked. I turned to him. He had the looks of an old movie star who fell from grace hard. Slicked back gray hair, a gold chain around his neck that could have been worth five bucks in any pawn shop.

“You told me to wait for you, gave me a hundred just to make sure, said there was another one coming. Then you shot out across the street in front of me. Didn’t even glance in my direction. Now, you want this ride or not?”

I climbed in the back.

“Drive,” I instructed him.

“Where to?”

“I’ll figure it out, just away from here.”

He shrugged, turned up the radio. “You’re the boss.”

We drove for a bit. The buildings got bigger, brighter. Pockets of people became streams of humans, flowing through every available crevice. It looked like they were crawling over each other, like ants on their way to a picnic. Then the big structures became few. Less dense. Fewer lights. Fewer people. The concrete forest thinning out. The way I liked it.

I didn’t like people. Always thought there were far more stupid people on this planet than smart ones. Yet the dumb ones were living the highlife with CEO pay packets, while the smart ones floundered in the middle-lower. I didn’t need people. I was just fine on my own.

“Hey,” I called from the back seat. “How much would it cost to forget all about me?”

“Well, that depends. What did you do?”

I looked down at my hands. Opened the case. Inspected the gun. “I’m not sure,” I said.

“Well, now, let me see,” the driver pondered.

I took a stack of bills and tossed it in the front seat. The driver did a double-take, almost hit the curb, then a parked car, then a transient crossing the street.

“I trust that will do the trick.”

Bright lights. A beacon on the sea of nothingness. An all-night diner.

“Here,” I yelled. It was close to my place.

The driver pulled to the curb.

“And I can keep all of this?” he said without looking at me.

“It’s all yours. But you don’t know me.”

He looked down at the radio and shrugged. “Best you get the fuck out of my cab, then.”

I jumped out, briefcase clutched to my chest, slammed the door and didn’t look back. Heard the rumble of the engine glide off into the distance.