Part 2 - The Chest

Even I didn't fully understand my decision to head west. Perhaps my choice was influenced most by the enticing thought of warm weather, the allure of a new beginning, or was nothing more than a stray whim from the restless cacophony of thoughts that filled my increasingly troubled mind. But as the splendor of the Rocky Mountains crowded my windshield, I knew I’d made the right choice. I knew that Mr. O’Brian was the right man to give the chest to.

I looked over to the passenger seat, eyeing the silver barrel of the weapon I’d used to dispatch Rory only days earlier. The gun seemed cold and mechanical, almost perverse against the calming backdrop of the mountains. What caught my eye most, however, was the absence of another item, a far more important item. The chest.

I quickly stopped the car in front of a small diner, red dust gathering behind my stationary wheels. The chest had probably fallen behind the seats into the trunk, and it would only take a few moments for me to secure it and continue on my flight away from Rory's rapidly decomposing remains. Wasting no time, I holstered the gun in the front of my pants and popped the trunk, watching the light from the setting sun permeate the tiny, dark space.

Before I had time to survey the enclosure for the small, ornate box in question, a rubbery hand plunged from the blackness and wrapped itself around my unsuspecting neck. As my windpipes struggled to complete my interrupted breath, my eyes poured into the trunk and I was able to catch a glimpse of my assailant. He was muscular, and long strands of thick, curly, blonde hair covered the shoulders of his black wetsuit. An immense pair of round, opaque goggles covered the greater part of his face. I could only guess the look of the malicious expression that likely lay beneath them.

I pulled the gun from my pants, pointing the loaded barrel right into the center of his absurdly goggled face. His rubber hands immediately retreated.

“Out of the trunk,” I said, noticing that he was wearing flippers and had my chest sitting close to an oxygen tank. Where was he headed with its contents?

He complied quickly, his hands in the air despite my lack of a request for it. I motioned toward the diner.

“We’re going to go in there, and have a bite to eat,” I said, regaining composure. I had found myself in a nearly identical situation a few years back, and knew that if I didn’t get information now, I probably never would.

The walk into the diner was slow and laborious, as the muscular stranger was apparently unused to moving in the burdensome flippers. As I did my best to conceal the weapon, an enthusiastic waitress greeted us at our booth.

“What can I get for you today?” she enquired.

I looked at her coldly, already exhausted with the circumstances.

“Can you get me my life back?” I asked her, my unblinking eyes locking with hers.

She seemed confused, and began to point out that no such thing existed on the diner’s menu, but a simple request for three eggs, scrambled, sent her back to the kitchen.

“So,” I said, pointing the gun at my new friend. “Let’s talk.”