Brigit's Flame Entry- Week 3 February
Title: Down to the Filter
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: language, character death
Word Count: 1718
Prompt: “snapshot”
A/N: Written for week #3 at Brigits_flame.
“Please? I heard you're the best.”
Beau took a drag from the last cigarette in the pack. Damnit. He had been trying to make these last. “I don't do that anymore,” he said, watching the smoke mingle with his words.
“But Greg sent me! He said you could help!” The woman started to cry. But then they all did, eventually. It was just a question of when. Fucking Greg.
Beau waved the smoke away. “Well, that isn't my problem. Take it up with Greg.” He couldn't even muster up the 'sorry' that seemed only polite. It would sound forced, anyway, so why bother?
“I'm desperate. I'll do anything.” The woman dug a frayed tissue out of her purse and blew her nose, disgusting Beau further. “Don't you care at all?”
No. Beau shrugged. “You've got it all wrong, lady. I just can't help you. That's all.”
“What is it? Money? I can pay.” The woman started talking faster. “Name the price; I'll get it for you.”
It was all so predictable. Was there a script for this sort of thing that they handed out to parents of missing children? It sure seemed like it, because it was all the same damned thing. Beau took one last regretful puff of his cigarette before he had to admit that there was nothing left of it. He stared at the dying ember, his weariness as visible to him as the line of ash crumbling at the tip. The smoke left his lungs in a sigh he couldn't hide, and he crushed the butt in the filthy ashtray he hadn't emptied in days. “You came on a lucky day, Mrs. ...”
“Newbury,” she supplied, the hope in her eyes unmistakeable.
“Whatever. Let's be clear: I need cash from you. This is a business arrangement. I'm not your friend, and I am not helping you to solve this case. I am supplying you with a one-time service, you get that? And in exchange, you are going to give me money. Agreed?” Beau hated himself for letting himself get to this place again, for being such a screw-up that he had to do this. He kept his eyes on the wood-grain pattern of his desk. He didn't want to see her eyes. He'd seen them before in every other mother that had ever sat in that chair.
“Yes, yes. Thank you so much, Mr. Burgess!” Her gratitude was sickening.
“Just Beau. Bring me one thousand, cash. And three snapshots of your choosing. Drop them in my mailbox with the first name of your relative and a return address and only that. Do you understand?” Beau ignored the tendril of tension that was twining its way around his temples. It was beginning.
“Yes, but how-”
“I'll be in touch with you. If you contact me or break this arrangement, our agreement is off. Is that understood?” Beau just wanted her gone.
“Yes. How long do you think it will take you?” Mrs. Newbury stood up.
“As long as it takes. Does it really matter, at this point?” Beau jiggled his knee. He was dying for another cigarette.
“Yes, Mr. Burgess, I believe it does. Or else I wouldn't be here,” Mrs. Newbury said. “I'll see myself out.”
*
Beau wasn't surprised to see a fat envelope in his box by the end of the week. They were all the same. She wasn't kidding when she said she was desperate. Well, he was, too. He counted the money first, then went out to buy smokes. The rest was for rent. He was behind a few months. This would at least get him some goodwill with the landlord, even if it wouldn't pay off his debt. Maybe he could find a real job in the meantime. He hadn't had much luck with steady work, but he would be damned if he was going to rely on this kind of business forever. It was just a matter of time, that was all. He just had to keep looking, and something was bound to turn up.
The rest of the contents of the envelope were a different matter entirely. There was a way he had to go about things. He didn't like it one bit, but he had been doing this for long enough now to know that he had to follow the procedure. Beau wished that he could conduct this business as if he were adding a column of numbers. Yet this was not just any task. He could not simply apply his energy and get a result. He had to wait for the right time. And in the meantime, there was a price to pay.
He read the name on the envelope. Rachel. It had been written in careful script, most likely by a woman. A mother. Beau took out the pictures and laid them in a row.
One was, predictably, a baby. Indistinguishable from any other, the baby was wrapped in a swaddling cloth and seemed only a few hours old, at most. The next was the requisite school picture that most parents selected. It showed a pretty girl with long brown hair and a red sweater. She was smiling politely in front of the universal blue background. She must have been about fifteen. The last shot was a candid photo, a group snapshot of three people together. Beau recognized Mrs. Newbury and Rachel herself, and there was another girl there who resembled Rachel enough to be her sister. They were all laughing at something off-camera. They looked happy.
Beau couldn't guess the significance of these particular photos, but he'd given up trying years ago. He simply held them. He stared at them, looking into Rachel, her eyes and her smile, the way her eyebrows quirked and the way the sunlight caught her hair. He stared at the plumpness of her baby cheeks, gazed at her little fists they clutched the edge of the blanket. He looked upon her staged junior-high portrait until no detail was unknown to him, until the red of her sweater bled into his eyeballs and her essence was burned into his brain. Rachel …
And then it began, his fever dreams of her calling to him in the night. This part could last forever, it seemed. He would wake in the pre-dawn with her name on his lips, with the sound of her voice in his ear. Beau hated what he called the in-between; the time between studying her and being able to do anything about it. The dreadful wait.
It started with a few interrupted hours of sleep, but it would continue until he was driven half-mad with visions of her. There was nothing Beau could do to rush the process; they would reveal themselves when they were ready. He would sit, every day, with pen in hand, but his paper would remain blank until the time was right. One boy drove him to distraction for weeks until he revealed himself. Beau always swore it was the last time he would do it, but there was always some poor schmuck who needed “closure”, some piteous family who couldn't - wouldn't - leave until they'd found the truth. But Beau knew they didn't want the truth. He'd seen it, and it wasn't ever what they came for.
Beau's hand trembled as he tried to light the cigarette. He'd been seeing flashes of her for days, so it shouldn't be long now. He drew the smoke into his lungs, and exhaled, enjoying the
trees
Beau blinked. The first breakthrough. It was time. He set down his cigarette and concentrated.
trees
evergreens
forest
she was hanging, from an evergreen.
It was time to sketch. Beau picked up his pencil, the pencil that had been waiting for days, and he drew. He had lost of sense of time, but he knew he was done with a sense of finality that accompanied these moments. He set down the pencil and looked at his work.
Beau wasn't often surprised, but he was sure he'd glimpsed Rachel, hanged. His sketch showed a grove of pines, the ground thick with fallen needles. The only sign that anything might be out of place was a slight disruption near the base of one tree. Beau narrowed his gaze. It looked like the tip of a bone, maybe a femur. He shrugged. It wasn't up to him to guess what had happened. He had been paid to provide the whereabouts of the loved one in question, dead or alive. This was Rachel's final resting place, of that he could be certain. The fact that it was indistinguishable from any other grove of trees and that it opened up as many questions as it answered was not his problem. He had performed his part in this exchange.
As Beau packed up the three photos and the sketch to return to Mrs. Newbury, he knew that she would be unsatisfied with his service. They all were. They all seemed to think that he owed them the civic duty of leading them to a body if was wasn't going to provide them with their live child. Beau licked the envelope and dropped it in the mailbox. He only wished he was so easily rid of Rachel's ghost. She would fade out in time - they all did, eventually - but they seemed to leave a little bit of themselves behind. He was sick of doing this.
Beau was going to look for a new job, starting tomorrow. To hell with these ghosts and their parents. Their sorrow stained his soul even after they had departed, and he was tired of it. Beau lit another cigarette and smoked it down to the filter. That was the last one, he promised himself. The rest he would save. He'd make them last this time.
The knock on his door startled him. “Mr. Burgess? Greg sent me. I heard you're the best. Please let me in.”
His eyes strayed to the half-empty pack. What could one more hurt? He'd savor this one and get a job tomorrow. He ignored the flash of long hair that still haunted his vision and got up to answer the door.
Author: Keppiehed
Rating: R
Warnings: language, character death
Word Count: 1718
Prompt: “snapshot”
A/N: Written for week #3 at Brigits_flame.
“Please? I heard you're the best.”
Beau took a drag from the last cigarette in the pack. Damnit. He had been trying to make these last. “I don't do that anymore,” he said, watching the smoke mingle with his words.
“But Greg sent me! He said you could help!” The woman started to cry. But then they all did, eventually. It was just a question of when. Fucking Greg.
Beau waved the smoke away. “Well, that isn't my problem. Take it up with Greg.” He couldn't even muster up the 'sorry' that seemed only polite. It would sound forced, anyway, so why bother?
“I'm desperate. I'll do anything.” The woman dug a frayed tissue out of her purse and blew her nose, disgusting Beau further. “Don't you care at all?”
No. Beau shrugged. “You've got it all wrong, lady. I just can't help you. That's all.”
“What is it? Money? I can pay.” The woman started talking faster. “Name the price; I'll get it for you.”
It was all so predictable. Was there a script for this sort of thing that they handed out to parents of missing children? It sure seemed like it, because it was all the same damned thing. Beau took one last regretful puff of his cigarette before he had to admit that there was nothing left of it. He stared at the dying ember, his weariness as visible to him as the line of ash crumbling at the tip. The smoke left his lungs in a sigh he couldn't hide, and he crushed the butt in the filthy ashtray he hadn't emptied in days. “You came on a lucky day, Mrs. ...”
“Newbury,” she supplied, the hope in her eyes unmistakeable.
“Whatever. Let's be clear: I need cash from you. This is a business arrangement. I'm not your friend, and I am not helping you to solve this case. I am supplying you with a one-time service, you get that? And in exchange, you are going to give me money. Agreed?” Beau hated himself for letting himself get to this place again, for being such a screw-up that he had to do this. He kept his eyes on the wood-grain pattern of his desk. He didn't want to see her eyes. He'd seen them before in every other mother that had ever sat in that chair.
“Yes, yes. Thank you so much, Mr. Burgess!” Her gratitude was sickening.
“Just Beau. Bring me one thousand, cash. And three snapshots of your choosing. Drop them in my mailbox with the first name of your relative and a return address and only that. Do you understand?” Beau ignored the tendril of tension that was twining its way around his temples. It was beginning.
“Yes, but how-”
“I'll be in touch with you. If you contact me or break this arrangement, our agreement is off. Is that understood?” Beau just wanted her gone.
“Yes. How long do you think it will take you?” Mrs. Newbury stood up.
“As long as it takes. Does it really matter, at this point?” Beau jiggled his knee. He was dying for another cigarette.
“Yes, Mr. Burgess, I believe it does. Or else I wouldn't be here,” Mrs. Newbury said. “I'll see myself out.”
*
Beau wasn't surprised to see a fat envelope in his box by the end of the week. They were all the same. She wasn't kidding when she said she was desperate. Well, he was, too. He counted the money first, then went out to buy smokes. The rest was for rent. He was behind a few months. This would at least get him some goodwill with the landlord, even if it wouldn't pay off his debt. Maybe he could find a real job in the meantime. He hadn't had much luck with steady work, but he would be damned if he was going to rely on this kind of business forever. It was just a matter of time, that was all. He just had to keep looking, and something was bound to turn up.
The rest of the contents of the envelope were a different matter entirely. There was a way he had to go about things. He didn't like it one bit, but he had been doing this for long enough now to know that he had to follow the procedure. Beau wished that he could conduct this business as if he were adding a column of numbers. Yet this was not just any task. He could not simply apply his energy and get a result. He had to wait for the right time. And in the meantime, there was a price to pay.
He read the name on the envelope. Rachel. It had been written in careful script, most likely by a woman. A mother. Beau took out the pictures and laid them in a row.
One was, predictably, a baby. Indistinguishable from any other, the baby was wrapped in a swaddling cloth and seemed only a few hours old, at most. The next was the requisite school picture that most parents selected. It showed a pretty girl with long brown hair and a red sweater. She was smiling politely in front of the universal blue background. She must have been about fifteen. The last shot was a candid photo, a group snapshot of three people together. Beau recognized Mrs. Newbury and Rachel herself, and there was another girl there who resembled Rachel enough to be her sister. They were all laughing at something off-camera. They looked happy.
Beau couldn't guess the significance of these particular photos, but he'd given up trying years ago. He simply held them. He stared at them, looking into Rachel, her eyes and her smile, the way her eyebrows quirked and the way the sunlight caught her hair. He stared at the plumpness of her baby cheeks, gazed at her little fists they clutched the edge of the blanket. He looked upon her staged junior-high portrait until no detail was unknown to him, until the red of her sweater bled into his eyeballs and her essence was burned into his brain. Rachel …
And then it began, his fever dreams of her calling to him in the night. This part could last forever, it seemed. He would wake in the pre-dawn with her name on his lips, with the sound of her voice in his ear. Beau hated what he called the in-between; the time between studying her and being able to do anything about it. The dreadful wait.
It started with a few interrupted hours of sleep, but it would continue until he was driven half-mad with visions of her. There was nothing Beau could do to rush the process; they would reveal themselves when they were ready. He would sit, every day, with pen in hand, but his paper would remain blank until the time was right. One boy drove him to distraction for weeks until he revealed himself. Beau always swore it was the last time he would do it, but there was always some poor schmuck who needed “closure”, some piteous family who couldn't - wouldn't - leave until they'd found the truth. But Beau knew they didn't want the truth. He'd seen it, and it wasn't ever what they came for.
Beau's hand trembled as he tried to light the cigarette. He'd been seeing flashes of her for days, so it shouldn't be long now. He drew the smoke into his lungs, and exhaled, enjoying the
trees
Beau blinked. The first breakthrough. It was time. He set down his cigarette and concentrated.
trees
evergreens
forest
she was hanging, from an evergreen.
It was time to sketch. Beau picked up his pencil, the pencil that had been waiting for days, and he drew. He had lost of sense of time, but he knew he was done with a sense of finality that accompanied these moments. He set down the pencil and looked at his work.
Beau wasn't often surprised, but he was sure he'd glimpsed Rachel, hanged. His sketch showed a grove of pines, the ground thick with fallen needles. The only sign that anything might be out of place was a slight disruption near the base of one tree. Beau narrowed his gaze. It looked like the tip of a bone, maybe a femur. He shrugged. It wasn't up to him to guess what had happened. He had been paid to provide the whereabouts of the loved one in question, dead or alive. This was Rachel's final resting place, of that he could be certain. The fact that it was indistinguishable from any other grove of trees and that it opened up as many questions as it answered was not his problem. He had performed his part in this exchange.
As Beau packed up the three photos and the sketch to return to Mrs. Newbury, he knew that she would be unsatisfied with his service. They all were. They all seemed to think that he owed them the civic duty of leading them to a body if was wasn't going to provide them with their live child. Beau licked the envelope and dropped it in the mailbox. He only wished he was so easily rid of Rachel's ghost. She would fade out in time - they all did, eventually - but they seemed to leave a little bit of themselves behind. He was sick of doing this.
Beau was going to look for a new job, starting tomorrow. To hell with these ghosts and their parents. Their sorrow stained his soul even after they had departed, and he was tired of it. Beau lit another cigarette and smoked it down to the filter. That was the last one, he promised himself. The rest he would save. He'd make them last this time.
The knock on his door startled him. “Mr. Burgess? Greg sent me. I heard you're the best. Please let me in.”
His eyes strayed to the half-empty pack. What could one more hurt? He'd savor this one and get a job tomorrow. He ignored the flash of long hair that still haunted his vision and got up to answer the door.