Sand Castles & Seashores

The rain seemed to match my mood, and the chill from the howling wind that snuck through the door of the coffee shop suddenly found me. Not that I was brooding, but there was an eventuality to everything in my world, a magnetism for cold and wet elements. Hard as I tried, vacationing in Hawaii, sunbathing on the beach, and even this stupid hand warmer I kept in my pocket as a token of this world, reminded me that I didn’t fit in. Truth be told, it wasn’t until I swam in the ocean waters, or stood in the cold rain that I felt myself, that I felt nothing at all. The conflict within was resolved.

It seemed kind of silly for me just sitting here of all places, trying to hide from the rain. I don’t even drink coffee. I was drawn to the coffee smell. With one hand, I held the hand warmer deep in my pocket. It was nice and warm. With the other hand, I examined the name of my next target.

‘Randall Murphy,’ I thought to myself, but careful to not say it out loud. He was hiding out somewhere in this neighborhood. The small town of Kents, Kansas, was not the last known location of Randall Murphy. I have been on his trail since his last sighting in Houston, Texas. There, he just took off and drove until his stolen vehicle gave out on him here. Other than by a small picture attached to an email, I hadn’t exactly seen him for myself, but I knew his essence, the flavor of his being. It’s as if every cell in his body shouted, ‘here’, when I called out for it.

I looked forward to meeting him in person, not that I needed a formal introduction. I just wanted to make a point of being polite when I apprehended them. ‘My name is Rose. I’m the tracker who will be bringing you in.’ I knew full well that my name was Madison, but I liked playing out the scenario in my head. Usually they don’t reciprocate. They just take off and run. They run and run and run. Me, I let out a sigh and then take off after them. Again.

My name was actually Madison. My job was to find dangerous people and turn them into the government agencies that have enlisted the aid of people like me, people who were good at finding others and capturing them in. It seemed simple enough; take the bad guys off the streets, which ever most wanted list they belonged to, and then get paid. Do something with myself. I wondered if my parents would have ever given me this lecture.

“You’ve got to do something with your life!” Dad might have said. Dads were typically more preoccupied with the productivity of an adolescent than moms from what I’ve observed.

“How about I become a tracker? See the world, capture bad guys, pick out some cool aliases?” teenage me would then say.

I laughed at the thought, because my parents were never there to give me that talk, or any other critical adolescent growing up lecture. I had been on my own for as long as I could remember, well up until about ten years ago. That’s a story for another time, because now, I had to go. Break’s over. Getting up, I fastened my black trench coat securely, and brushed my hair behind my ears. I was ready.

I crumpled the piece of paper and trashed it. Never be caught with evidence was the first rule. Don’t advertise yourself to the world, it’s a sure fire way of getting yourself killed faster.

Just before I got to the door, my heart fluttered, my hands went ice cold, my face red hot, and I froze. In came a man, not much older looking than me, maybe 27-30 with hazel eyes and a crooked smile as he passed me at the door. My heart then stopped, and my eyes followed him. For a moment, it was as if we moved in slow motion. His smoldering eyes never left mine, even when he slicked his bangs from off his face, then simultaneously, we both turned away.

In that brief moment, those few seconds, I imagined myself crushed to him in a permanent embrace. And in that vision, he held me while the wind was against my back, and he protected me with his strong arms wrapped behind my back. How strange, I’d never felt like this before, let alone noticed men in general. It was as if a shift in gravity occurred, and all the stars and moon shined for him. “Focus, Maddy, focus. You are here for a reason. It doesn’t matter, you don’t plan to be in Kansas long anyways,” I told myself.

Upon my exit, I let the cold rain have me before I headed down the dark, poorly lit street to where I was pulled. While walking, I looked back on my life and realized there were a lot of holes to my story, but there was never a boyfriend. It’s said when you hit puberty, you became attracted to the opposite sex, but that was not the case for me. This was the first, and according to my driver’s license that said I was twenty-five, I was long overdue. He was medium height, muscular with broad shoulders, stunning hazel eyes and wavy black hair. He had fetching good looks that would make him stand out in a crowd. I knew I could obsess over this for a while, and so forced myself to focus. The rain helped. It cleared my thoughts when I looked up to the night sky, letting the cold, fat drops wash away my thoughts as it rolled down my face and off my chin.

“Randall Murphy,” I muttered quietly to myself. Despite the drone of the rain drops, I heard him. I started walking, focused on the name, and it drew me down the empty street to a bar a couple of blocks away. I pushed in the swinging brown door and every eye in the room found me. I knew I was a sight, dripping wet from the rain. Most people had the good sense to carry an umbrella in such weather. Looking around, they didn’t seem too welcoming of strangers. That’s fine with me, I didn’t plan to stay for long.

I could ask the bartender if he knew a Randall, but if he pointed, that would only bring unwanted attention from the onlookers. Instead, I decided to glance around and read their body language. Most of them didn’t acknowledge me after the initial dirty look at my entrance. Some were too inebriated to see past the bottle in front of them. There was a lone figure, however, in the darkest corner of the bar whose body language suggested that he did not want any visitors. He turned right away after seeing me. His back hunched forward into a defensive pose, and both hands were on his beer bottle as if to strangle it. I sat down across from him and noted his leer below his dark bushy brows. His tattered blue jean coat unzipped revealed a clean white buttoned shirt beneath.

“Seat’s taken,” he muttered.

“Not likely,” I responded.

“Tracker or assassin?” he replied, looking directly up at me. I detected a faint but audible gulp. Randall’s brown eyes narrowed, studying me. I could tell that he was calculating something in his head. His odds of escaping were not good, especially after having sold a list of secret agents from what I was told. He was fortunate I found him first.

“Does it matter?” I teased dryly keeping up the façade.

He wasn’t panicking, or overly nervous, but remained in control. What was his game? Was he expecting me? He shot a condescending glare, making me question myself for a second.

“Tracker,” I said.