Della in the shadows

They were after her. They had been for a while. She wasn’t crazy, just one of the few left, suspicious of everyone. Getting caught meant getting dragged to some dank basement. Drugged, a fat needle plunging into her arm. After its sting, they would turn her out, know her every move, her every thought, control her. And that frightened the hell out of her.

The buzzing when she picked up the phone. The strange cars parked outside. Reflections of men in store windows. Men in long coats with hats pulled low. In the mirrors of parked cars, behind newspapers, on park benches. They were watching. Waiting.

She took the only seat at the diner’s counter, the truckers on either side looking harmless enough, one in denim, one in plaid, a ball cap on backwards. She ordered coffee. Behind her, a couple left a booth. An old man entered by the neon sign, a long coat, hat over gray hair. Taking the vacant seat, he buried his face in a menu. The coffee came, Della looking at the washroom sign, wondering if there was a back way out. Plaid and Denim ate soup, ate it low and loud, both busy with packets of crackers and sections of newspaper.

“Cream?” Denim offered, without raising his head.

“Pardon.” It startled her.

“Cream?” Denim turned his face, liver-spotted but kind, soup puddles at the corners of his mouth.

“For your coffee.” He smiled, jiggling the creamer with sausage fingers.

“Oh.” Della blushed, taking it. “I’m sorry, yes, thank you.”

“You foreign or something?”

“Yes, I’m sorry.” Della poured, looking at the cream swirl round her coffee.

“Not a good place for being foreign,” Denim said, shoveling soup.

“Not much of a place for coffee, either,” Plaid said from her other side.

She turned and smiled at him.

“Hard to believe anyone would do such a thing to a pot of joe,” Plaid said, “Best stick to the soup. Leek and potato’s fair. Bean medley tomorrow. That is, if it agrees with you.”

Denim threw in something about the meatloaf.

“Another time, I will,” she said, looking from one to the other. “Thank you. Coffee’s all I was after.”

“If you do come back, go by today’s special.” Denim pointed at the menu board.

She nodded and sipped. Bitter, wholly wretched. She offered Plaid a tight smile.

“Told you so.” He scratched under the ball cap.

She forced another sip, pushed the cup away, glancing out the diner’s window. The waitress swung by with her carafe offering a top-up, Della declining, catching the old man in the carafe’s reflection. Looking her way. The waitress set down her tab.

“Got a word for skewered entree?”

“Pardon?”

“Five letters,” Denim said, frowning, tapping his pencil on the crossword.

“No, ah … yes … kabob,” she said.

“Kabob, that’s foreign, right?” He wrote in the answer, slid her tab in front of him, said it was on him.

Della thanked him, excusing herself, walking to the washroom, not daring to look at the old man in the booth, didn’t see him take out his phone, punch in numbers. Plaid finished his soup, laid his coins on the counter, said something to Denim and headed out the front to a panel van. Denim folded his paper, rose, resisting a belch, hand patting his belly, winking at the waitress, calling her by name.

They caught her there. The alley out back a dead end. Denim had her by an arm, Plaid backing up the van. Nothing friendly now. Struggling to break free got her slapped. Denim’s breath reeked of garlic, yellow teeth locked. His punch sent her to her knees.

“Scream if you want some more.” He grabbed a fistful of hair, jerking her back to her feet, tugged her to the van.

She kicked at his leg, not much behind it. It got her a slap, that blood taste in her mouth. Plaid got out of the van, catching her free arm, wrapping cord around her wrists, Denim shoving a gag past her teeth. She tried to break free, panic making her strong, the nightmare coming true. Tossed like a sack into the back of the van. Plaid got in, reached a burlap sack, trying to shove it over her head. She caught sight of the old man coming. His hand fishing in a pocket. Had to be going for the needle. She fought with her feet.

“Suppose I ask you boys to set her loose?” he said.

Plaid and Denim hesitated, looked at each other, hands pinning her tight.

“Looks like one old man to me,” Denim said.

“Picked the wrong alley, grampa,” Plaid said, getting out of the back, a jack handle in his hand, slapping it into his palm. A look on his face like he was going to enjoy this.

“Didn’t think so,” the old man said, pulled a .22 from his coat like he did it everyday and shot Plaid in the chest.

The fat man two-stepped back, dropping the handle, ball cap falling to the ground. The old man shot him again, between the brows this time, stepped by Plaid tumbling against the bumper, eyes turning to marbles.

“How about you, fats?” He trained the barrel on Denim.

Denim threw his sausage fingers wide. “You want her, take her.”

He duck-walked backwards through the van, got behind the wheel.

“Got no beef with you. Just let me drive out of he–”

The old man fired, Denim’s head knocked into the steering wheel. The horn blared. Della’s eyes were wild, uncomprehending. She watched the old man go around, pulled Denim’s head off the horn, dumped him to the ground. He pocketed the pistol, crawled through the van and slipped the gag from her mouth.

Untying her hands, he said, “We need to get gone.”

Hands trembling, rubbing where the cord bit, breath coming in jags. She looked at him.

“What do you want?”

“More will come.” He tugged her forward, set her on the passenger seat.

She opened the door and stepped out.

“If I wanted to hurt you …” He let it sink in, got out his door, fished through Denim’s pockets. Getting back in, he stuck the key in the ignition, looking at her.

“We can talk later. I’m not going any–”

Her words were cut off by squealing tires, a black car blocking the alley.

She jumped in and shut the door, looking at the van blocking their escape.

“What are we going to–”

Slamming his foot down, the old man twisted in his seat, the van bucking backwards, rear doors flapping. They smashed the car broadside, slamming it against the back of the diner, the two inside thrown around. The old man threw the shift into drive, slammed his foot on the pedal, backed out of the alley. The rear doors torn off. They didn’t slow for a long while after they left town. Della looked at him, his eyes darting to the rearview.

“I know you got questions, know you’re scared, too.”

“Just tell me where you’re taking me.”

“Got a place we’ll be safe.”

She eased back, trusting his words. The trees blurred by, the sun warm on her cheek. Long time since she noticed something like that.