He had a name.
His mother had called him Jonathon Christopher when he came into her world, lo those 27 years ago.
As he lay there on the floor of his girlfriend Lana’s kitchen, the name mattered not.
The sheer hatred in the demeanor of the man who had just killed him had thrown a blanket over what was left of his world.
He vaguely recalled preparing dinner when the silent intruder came up from behind, took the very knife that he was using to slice tomatoes from his right hand and brought it to force under his neck.
“Where is she?”
Even as Jonathon’s life left him, he could remember hearing the fury in the unseen attacker’s voice. His muted question “Who?” was not what the killer wanted to hear... or perhaps he, the killer, just didn’t care for any answer at all.
“Oh Lana... I wish I...”
Then it was just Nathaniel standing over the corpse of a man who’s only fault, was being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He tossed the knife in the sink and set out to find the whereabouts of the person who kindled his rage.
Red and Lana embraced quickly.
It was the embrace of siblings who had been separated for too long.
She stepped back to appraise her brother, and felt her head shaking slightly in disapproval. “Whatever have you done with yourself, Red?” All she needed was the audible “Tsk, tsk” and she could have been her mother. “There was a time when you took your appearance a bit more serious.”
He clutched at his chest in mock heart attack fashion and fell back against the wall. “Ouch. After all we’ve been through Lana, I can’t imagine you driving a stake through my heart like that.” He straightened up and glanced down at his nondescript blue jeans and t-shirt. “And what’s wrong with the way I dress?”
“Let’s get ourselves a coffee and I’ll explain,” she said as she took the tall truck driver by the arm and led him toward the door to the inner workings of the hospital. “Just page me when you’re done here, Charlie” she called back to the man on the hi-lo. He gave her the ‘thumbs up’ then returned his attention to the crate with the “PG III” Hazmat decal on it.
The shippers manifest cited two dozen skids of identical size and weight. Each one was methodically situated in the trailer with 2x4s and nails to keep the shipment from shifting as the truck wound its way over the rough sections of highway.
There was of course, no notations of what was in the crates. That was for the laboratory personnel to know and the lackeys on the hi-lo’s to only guess at.
He chuckled at how the picture of the skull and crossbones on the Hazmat sticker attached to each crate, gave the shipment a Pirate feel, but he knew well enough that the contents didn’t have a sense of humor, and resigned himself to handle the load with extra care.
It was a long 45 minutes of on-and-off the lift truck, removing the pieces of wood blocking in the load and then moving each crate to the far side of the small warehouse, to be counted by Lana when she got the call that he was done.
He looked at his watch; another 15 minutes and it would be lunch time. He would call Lana then. She didn’t need to know that he’d be spending the last quarter-hour online, checking odds on tonight’s race card. Hell, she’d probably thank him for the extended visit with that fella... her brother, wasn’t he? Right. Whatever.
Somewhere in the fog of justifying his selfish impulses, he missed the whispered sound of the door opening on the dock wall, beside the trailer he had just unloaded.
He also missed the sound of the second bullet exploding from the chamber of the intruder’s revolver, since the round itself removed the auditory receptors from the base of his brain, as well as most everything else back there. He did in fact hear the first shot though, and might have turned to face his killer, but the force of the bullet tearing it’s way through the soft flesh under his left armpit spun him in entirely the wrong direction.
For the second time this day, Nathaniel looked down at a lifeless body of his own doing. This time it was the dock worker; and he cursed himself for his poor aim. He had merely wanted to “wing” him. This medical center was a sprawling facility and Lana might be anywhere; this fellow would most likely have had some information as to where she could be found.
Involuntarily he shrugged his shoulders at his mistake and dragged the body behind one of the newly unloaded crates. There will be a directory somewhere that he could look up Lana’s name; most likely in the Shipper/Receiver’s office. Right now thought, if he wanted to stay hidden, he’d need to find a mop.
Had the contents of one of the as yet uncounted crates been under pressure, he might have heard the hissing noise of escaping air as he cleaned up his mess; had it also not been a colorless, odorless gas, there might have been a warning. Of course, with no expertise in Poison gas containment or handling, it was a moot point.
Nathaniel kicked the mop bucket over the open grate of the floor drain, sprayed the area free of the red liquid, then centered his attention on the desk in the corner office.
It was time to cut to the chase.
Lana.
