Marcus Vane

I do not open the door. It doesn’t seem like the right choice. No. I dare not. Or should I?

I can’t seem to think straight. Everything is happening all at once.

I’m now standing in the middle of my apartment with my phone against my ear and it would seem that my decision-making skills are currently on leave.

I try to think. I’m not stupid so I know that strange men calling me from blocked numbers, telling me to open the door right after  I have witnessed a murder, like that is not the kind of true crime story that ends with my photo on the news, and to make matters worse, he knows my name?

It is in that instant I realize I have questions. Questions that he has to answer.

I say, with all the confidence I can muster in that moment. “Tell me your name. Your full name.”

He pauses, like he is deciding how much to tell me.

“Marcus Vane.”

My head tumbles inside. I know that name. Everyone here in Chicago knows that name. It’s Marcus Vane from Vane Legal Group. The  prestigious and powerful law firm that takes on cases other firms will not touch and wins. The man whose face is popular on newspaper pages, described with words like ruthless and relentless. The big shot lawyer that politicians and people in power who have their hands dirty,  call.

My brain spins. More questions.

"Why," I say slowly, "would Marcus Vane be standing outside my apartment at midnight?"

He replies straight, no hesitation or fluff.

"Because you were in that alley." His voice does not change. It sounds flat and precise, no emotion or feeling, like he is reading from a document. "And because Raymond Holt, the man you saw killed tonight, had your mother's home address written on a piece of paper in his coat pocket."

The floor moves underneath me. I feel like it is about to open and swallow me up. But it does not.

Not literally. But that is what it feels like.

I remember my mother had talked about that feeling before. The dread hits me when I think of my mother in her fragile state.

"My mother …"

"Is not in immediate danger. Right now." He pauses to let those two words land.

I am relieved immediately, intentionally choosing to ignore the last two words.

He continues. "But the organization that ordered Raymond’s killing tonight has already gained access to your police report. Your name and address was pulled after the murder in the alley within twenty minutes of your call. These people who want you have reach and would stop at nothing to get their hands on you.”

I realized more that I really may have to go with him.  

"You have about fifteen minutes," he says.

I close my eyes. Open them.

I go to the door and open it.

* * *

He is taller in person.

I notice that first.  And I promise, it’s not my fault. The man is practically a giant compared to me. But granted, it still feels like a ridiculous thing to notice when you are standing at the door of your apartment at midnight because someone was murdered three hours ago. It is true though.

Under the suit is a dark shirt, with no tie and the collar open at the throat. I also notice his  face; sharp with angles and contours. Straight nose, not pointed in a way that was unattractive but just right, his mouth looks like he hardly smiles, his eyes are very dark and they are giving me the most pointed look I have received in a very long time. He looks at me  first, and then his eyes move over me quickly, like he was deciding if I was worth all of this effort.  Then back to meeting my eyes.

Not unkind. But not warm either.

He looks at me like I am a variable in an equation he has already mostly solved.

"Pack a bag," he says. "Ten minutes. Documents, medication, anything you cannot replace. Leave everything else."

I feel insulted.

"Hello to you too."

Something shifts in his expression, so small I almost miss it. It is not quite a smile. It is more like a very brief acknowledgment that I am a person and not just a problem. "Hello, Miss Brooks. You have nine minutes and fifty seconds."

With that amount of time, my brain springs into action, and maybe you could say it is in panic mode. I start to pack. I want to argue, I have so many questions but clearly do not have the mental space to argue about it right now. My hands move on their own, pulling things from drawers; my passport, my mother's insurance card, the small envelope of emergency cash I keep taped to the back of the nightstand because I learned a long time ago that emergencies do not wait for payday.

He stays in the doorway the entire time. Not inside. Just watching.  I glance at him from the corner of my eye as I pack, in case of any funny business. But there’s no need. He does not look around with curiosity. Not a single look at the photographs or the bills on the counter. He already knows what he needs to know about me. That much is clear. I decide to start asking questions regardless.

"How did you find me in they alley?" I pull on my second boot without sitting down.

"Heard it from monitoring a police scanner."

"That sounds suspicious.”

"I was looking for Raymond Holt. When the call came in, I started looking for the witness."

"Why were you looking for him?"

"Because he had information I needed."

"And now he's dead."

"Yes."

"So now I'm …" I stop. I pick up my bag. "The next best thing."

He does not answer that. Which is its own kind of answer. And my stomach squeezes.

"Let's go," he says.

* * *

The SUV is classy obviously. Smells like leather and something clean I do not immediately recognize. In the driver’s seat, there is a second man who pays me no attention as if looking back at me to say hello or even acknowledge me was a cardinal sin. I sit very carefully, looking at him intently. He does not look like a regular driver. Instead, he looks like someone who does some other dangerous things I refuse to think about, and occasionally drives.

Marcus gets in beside me in the back and sits with appropriate distance. Physically. But somehow it feels like the space is just not enough. I feel kinda weird, so I start asking questions.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"My building."

"And for how long will I be there?"

"As long as it takes for you to be safe. Then you leave.”

"And when will that be?"

He looks out the window. "When I say so."

I turn to look at him directly. He is not looking at me. Instead he is watching the city outside as it moves past into our rear view and just sits still. I can see some tension in his jaw, the way it is set now that was not there before at my door. He is completely quiet now, his hands gently resting in his lap. But that jaw tension builds as he keeps clenching and unclenching it, and I could see it pretty clearly.

I try to remember the events that are now starting to feel more like a movie than something that I actually lived. Something was not adding up.  I try to piece it together  and as I stare out into the dark, replaying the whole scenario. And from nowhere, it hits me.

"You knew him," I say. "Raymond Holt. Not just of him. Actually knew him."

He answered immediately. "That's not exactly relevant right now."

"Yes it is. To me. That man is dead and I watched it happen. You show up shortly after and I’m just supposed to pick up and go wherever you tell me without understanding why or how any of this is connected to you?"

He turns then. Looks at me fully. His  eyes are unsettling; dark and very direct, and I can feel their weight on me. Like he actually sees me, the real me, not the easily digestible version of me that I have curated for people so I do not offend every single person that I meet, but the raw, real me. And boy, it is not comfortable.

Finally he says “You’re perceptive.” And looks away. I refuse to back down.

“I asked you a question.”

He smiles, or maybe smirks. His lips tilt up ever so slightly at the right side.

"I know." Our eyes meet and hold for a moment longer and then he looks back out the window. "Get some rest, Miss Brooks. There'll be time for questions."

"That's not an actual answer." I reply, feeling dismissed.

"No," he says. "It isn't." Actually dismissing me.

I face forward, deciding that I have had a long day today and should give it a rest.

To occupy my time, I look out the window again.  The version of the city I know is fading as we move, smaller buildings and stores giving way to taller structures of glass and steel, with lots and lots of light. We are clearly headed somewhere that is outside of my tax bracket. Somewhere that costs more in a month than my total salary for a  year.

As we travel in silence, I think again of the expensive man in the alley. The way he begged and how it did not matter. The coldness that spread through my body when the shot rang out. The police officer who I was sure pitied me for a reason I didn’t quite know. The way “above our level” sounded and what they could possibly mean exactly, as it is dawning on me more and more that there must be higher levels I can never access based on my life so far.

I have spent my whole life at the bottom of things. Bottom of the income bracket. Bottom of the waiting list at the county hospital. Bottom of the pile when it comes to who gets called back, who gets the benefit of the doubt, who gets sixty dollars extended on a prescription when the insurance card throws an error.

This man I am riding with right now, Marcus Vane, lives at the top. That much is obvious. I am certain he has never run out of food before. Or been sick and not get attended to at the hospital because he defaulted on his insurance. The suit, the SUV, the building we are heading toward screams of riches and firm control. The way he talks, like the fate of the words have already been decided before they leave his mouth. Like the outcome of things has already been arranged. That is how sure of himself he seems.

I wonder which side of things he is actually on.

I wonder if there is even a difference, at that level.

I want to call my mother. I feel a need to call her so badly. To check on her. To be sure she’s still alive.

I don’t bring it up for a short while longer. In that time, all I can think of are worst case scenarios. I finally break so I let it out.

"My mother…," I say, my voice comes out with a soft sob. "I need to know she’s fine and tell her I'm fine too."

"No. Not tonight."

"She worries. If she can't reach me by morning …” I have to insist.

"I'll arrange a secure line tomorrow." He says it without looking at me. "Your phone is not safe and any call from it tonight can be traced back to wherever we are. I won't allow that."

That last statement. I will not allow that. Like it is his decision. Like my mother and my phone and my ability to make a call are things that I have to run by him as if I belong to him now because I got into his car. So annoying. I set him straight.

"You don't tell me if I can or cannot make phone calls," I say sharply.

I expect him to be short with me in his response, but I don’t hear him say anything at first, so I really have no idea if he heard me and was thinking of an answer, or if he totally ignored me.

Very softly, he says "You're right. I don't. But this is me asking you to wait until morning because it is the safest thing for both of you. I am not trying to control you."

I do not respond. Not because there are no words but because I was not expecting that response. I look out the window, breathe slowly and I do not say any of the other things I am thinking.

The car stops.

We are at a building made almost entirely of black glass. A really tall building climbing straight up into the dark until the top of it disappears. There is no sign on the front. No name, no number. Just a door and two men standing on either side of it who are clearly not doormen.

"Welcome," Marcus Vane says, and he opens his door and steps out and does not look back.

I sit still in the seat and I think about my small apartment. How it was not a lot but it was still mine. The home cooked meals I had prepped that were not exactly the healthiest but made the fridge look full and gave our stomachs something to hold on to. My mother's photo on the fridge and the way the flickering neon sign outside the diner that I closed up every night.

I think about the fact that less than twenty-four hours ago, my biggest problem was sixty dollars and a prescription, and now I was living in fear for my life and on the run, right into the home of one of the most controversial names in Chicago, Marcus Vane. If this was even his home.

I think about how quickly my life has changed directions. One shortcut. One alley. A witness to something that might haunt me forever because I was at the wrong place at the wrong time.

The driver is still sitting in the front seat. Still not looking at me. I wonder what the deal with that is.

I can see through the glass doors that Marcus is speaking to one of the men positioned at the entrance. He does not even look back to ask if I am coming. That is how sure he is of the fact that I am coming.

I cannot tell you how much that level of certainty irritated me more than anything else tonight.

Not because he is right. But I won’t admit anything else.

Then I pick up my bag.

And I follow him inside.