Means of Justice
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It's a funny thing. One minute you're letting yourself out, the next you're watching someone sleep. I promise, that’s not as perverted as it sounds when I say it like that.
Ryne stood in his lawyer’s apartment, directly beside her bed. Imogen lay under a thick blanket, sleeping soundly, her hair still straight and perfect even as she slept. Ryne huffed a small laugh. He held a gun in one hand and knelt over her. He patted her head and waited till her eyes opened.
Then he whispered, "Boo."
She gave a loud yelp, eye widening in fear, she sat up quickly and pulled the blanket around her, reaching for the light. "Who's there?"
Ryne chuckled. "Hm. Which line should I use?" He sauntered on. "Your worst nightmare? You'll never guess? Does it matter?" He moved closer. "Surprise!”
Imogen snapped on the lamp, gasping, "Get out of my house!"
"Told you a door wouldn't keep me out," Ryne sat on the edge of her bed, hand fastening on her arm.
She tried to wrench away and reach for her cell phone on the nightstand, "Get out!"
“I wouldn't do that." He set his gun down on the side table and reached in his pocket. "Do you like magic tricks?" He pulled out a handkerchief.
"What are you doing?" she demanded. "I'll call the police."
"Girls like sweet things, don't they?" He pressed the cloth over her nose and mouth. "Chloroform, Miss Murphy. Don't worry, it'll just put you down for a little nap."
"Stop! No!" she hit him and struggled, tried to get away from the cloth.
Ryne pressed the cloth tighter over her face until she went limp. "Sorry, babe."
The house went silent again as she fell into a drug induced sleep. Ryne sighed and slid his arms under her. Her carried her back through the house and to the front door. He went down the stairs, carrying her to his car. He shifted her weight to unlock and open the door of the backseat. He laid her down and covered her with a dark blanket, making sure she could still breathe. He patted her cheek. Horace meowed from the floor as he shut the door and went around to the driver's seat.
Ryne started the car and backed up into the night. There weren't many people out at this hour. That was a good thing for him. He drove through the city, passed the newer housing to the old apartment buildings on the west side of town.
Once there, he left the car a ways away and picked her up. Horace hopped out and trotted after him. Imogen was still asleep as he carried her towards the old building. He took her inside and up several steps of stairs. The place was abandoned except the flat on the second floor that he occupied when needed. Ryne opened the door and Horace trotted in. Ryne carried the woman inside and set her on the couch. Horace jumped up on the arm of the sofa and stared down at her, swishing his tail.
"Keep an eye on her, boy." He scratched the cat's ear
Sometime later, a soft moan came from the living room, then rustling as she began to wake. Ryne, hands stuffed in his pockets, stood across the room from the couch. Imogen sat up on the couch, hand to her head as she looked around. Her eyes locked on him and she froze.
"Sleep well?" Ryne asked.
"Where are we?" she snapped.
"Home sweet home, right, Horace?"
"What are you doing, Jefferson?"
"Teaching you what the justice system failed to.'
She curled her hands into fists around the blanket, "What do you mean by that?"
Ryne came and sat on the low coffee table so he was at her level. "Justice has no single definition."
"What is your definition?" she gave him a cold look.
"What brings a greater good."
"The greater good is putting criminals like yourself behind bars," she spat.
"It takes one to know one, Miss Murphy. You think I go out and use a gun on good people?"
"Who are you to decide who's good and who's bad?"
"I don't."
"Then who does, in your opinion?"
"The people."
"What people?" she frowned.
"The people you claim to serve and represent," he leaned forward.
"Those people are not the law."
"The law is to represent the people. It is also created by the people. Therefore, the law us the people."
"Inadvertently. That doesn't mean you can go around killing whomever you please."
"I don't, Miss Murphy."
"That's not what the evidence says."
"Evidence can lie. You have to get both sides."
"I asked for your side. You have no proof."
"Wrong." He stood.
Imogen crossed her arms and scooted away from him, "What's your plan?"
"Come with me," he reached for her hand. "I want to show you something."
Horace thumped his tail. She jerked her hand away from him and stood on her own. Ryne turned and led her toward a back bedroom. He flicked on a light. The walls were covered with diagrams, maps, and people's pictures. Imogen stood in the doorway, looking around.
"Come in. Look around," Ryne offered.
"No thank you," she snapped, glued to the door frame.
He pointed to a picture almost directly in front of her and said, "Mitchell Chaff. Banker. He's been forging checks and sending money to incorporations that are all traceable to his name for the past three years, ending in the foreclosure of thirty-two homes, bankruptcy of sixteen, and twelve homeless families. Four single mothers lost their children."
Imogen didn't blink, she gave him a blank, uncaring look.
He pointed to another picture of a red-headed female, "Anna Davis. Serial killer. Killed twelve people and changed her identity. You know her as clergy-woman, Kayla Wright." He went down the wall, naming each of his past victims and their crimes.
Imogen’s jaw slacked a little and she took a step into the room, "What?"
"These, Miss Murphy, are the people you are trying to protect from me. Now how lawful is that?"
"The laws are black and white, whether or not we agree with them, Jefferson."
"Yes," he said, shaking his head. "Yet even in the carrying out of laws, laws are broken."
"The representatives of the law do their best to keep killers off the street."
“No. Those representatives are the ones who put killers like me on the streets.” Ryne opened his jacket and pulled apart the lining. It gave a sickening rip as he pulled out a small fold-over cover. He opened it to reveal a licensing badge. "I'm with the CIA, Miss Murphy. It's my job to ensure the security of the American citizens." He paused, pursing his lips. "Plus or minus a few here and there."
She put her hands on her hips, "The CIA doesn't believe in mercy killings. Or kidnapping."
"Those weren't mercy killings, Miss Murphy. They were necessary eliminations. Kidnapping...let’s say I'm liberal in my beliefs. As I said, I just want to teach you."
"Everything you do has to be monitored by your supervisor. You're breaking a rule or two somewhere."
"But you're my guest, Miss Murphy." He winked wolfishly.
"Hostage," she corrected. "I'm your hostage."
"Come now," he came behind her. "Admit it. You're growing fond of me."
She jerked away from him, "You're holding me against my will. I'm not fond I'm upset."
Ryne changed the subject, "See the picture over there?" He pointed to the far corner of a man with dark hair and green eyes, wearing a pressed suit.. She looked but didn't respond. "His name is Christopher Burdick. He's a company owner for quite a few local law offices. Prestigious lawyer and liar."
She frowned and looked at Ryne.
Ryne looked at her, tucking the badge back in his coat lining. "He's next."
"That's my boss!"
"So it is. Would you like to hear his," Ryne cleared his throat and walked out of the room. "Outstanding record?"
"No. I want to go home."
"You will."
Ryne picked Horace up off the couch. The cat purred.
Imogen looked at him, "Is my name not on your list of victims?"
"No."
"I'm surprised," she huffed and wrapped her arms around herself.
"Come now, Miss Murphy. Have some faith in the law." He scratched his cat under the chin and it rubbed its tail against his neck. "You do work with them after all."
She ignored the comment, "Then what do you want with me?"
"I told you. I want you to see the truth. I want you to know what justice is for all of its faces."
"Great. I've seen," she nodded at the pictures on the walls of the room. "Now I'm going home." She turned around and started for the door of the apartment.
"No, Miss Murphy," he set the cat on the couch and moved in front of her. "You're going to see it with your own eyes. You're going to experience what it's like to walk the line of justice."
"Meaning?" her brown eyes were hard.
"You get to come with us and see how the world handles justice."
Imogen curled her fingers into fists, "People will be looking for me when I don't show up for work tomorrow."
"You're on a paid two week vacation going hiking in the Chilean mountains."
Her mouth fell open then she snapped it closed, "What have you done?"
"Made complete arrangements for you to safely accompany myself and my partner into the jaws of death," he smiled. "Sounds fun, doesn't it?"
"It sounds idiotic," she crossed her arms over her chest again, "And I suppose I'm supposed to enter the jaws of death in my nightgown?"
"I told you," he rolled his eyes. "I've made complete arrangements. Now, please, have a seat. Or steal something out of the fridge. Just don't murder my cat and we'll get along wonderfully."
She glared at the cat and sat, "I swear if I make it out of here alive you're going to rot in jail."
"So you're not going to kill me?"' he looked amused. "They'll base it circumstantially and I'll walk free again. You know how it works, Miss Murphy."
"I'm a lawyer, not a cop," she snapped. "I give people what they deserve without getting my hands dirty."
"You're obviously wonderful at it. But you can't do that justly without seeing both sides."
She didn't say anything, she just kept her arms crossed and her gaze on him. Ryne stayed where he was, staring back at her until a knock came on the door.
"It's open!" he called. A dark skinned man in neat clothes and a clean cut face opened the door to the apartment. "Morning, Falor. Beautiful day isn't it?"
The man looked at him, nodded, and then threw down a bag on the couch. It was one of Imogen's bags.
"How did you--?" she shook her head, "I probably don't want to know."
"I told you, Miss Murphy," Ryne replied. "There's no door that will keep us out."
Falor grinned at Ryne, "That's right."
Imogen ground her teeth. Ryne gestured to the bag.
"Clothes, purse, wallet, passport, license, your favorite book. Oh, and that disgusting coffee flavoring you like so much. What was it again?" He made a face.
"French vanilla," she glared from him to the bag.
"French, Italian, Chilean, who gives a damn?" he waved a hand dismissively. She snorted. "Did I miss anything important?" Ryne felt a bit snobbish at her demeanor.
"Just your sanity," she glared at him.
“Ah. Sanity.” he smiled grimly. “Another relative term."
"I think it's safe to say it doesn't include murder in most people's book."
Ryne looked at his partner and asked,"Are all lawyers this dense?"
Falor shrugged, "Not to my knowledge."
"Geez. I always get stuck with the stubborn ones."
“I'm CIA, Miss Murphy,” Ryne told her, growing serious. “Not a magician. These things take time."
"How much time? My violets are going to die if I don't water them."
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to sacrifice your violets for the greater good," he said quietly.
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