Read Online Don't Kill The Messenger by Joel Pierson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joel Pierson
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this?”
“Well, I have to give some detail to each person who gets a message, but you know more about it than anyone else.”
“Does that make me your best friend?” she asks cheekily.
“When you grabbed the steering wheel, did you keep me from plowing into oncoming traffic and killing us both?”
“Well … yeah, I guess so.”
“Then that makes you my best friend,” I answer.
The hours of the afternoon speed by with the traffic on Interstate 75, as we make our way north from Florida into Georgia. After three uneventful hours with Rebecca behind the wheel, I feel well enough to resume the driving, so I thank her for the reprieve and take my traditional spot.
We make excellent time, though it is at the cost of anything remotely resembling sightseeing. Several times, Rebecca sees roadside signs advertising Florida’s fun-filled attractions, and the look on her face must be a perfect replica of ones she displayed as a child on a family car trip, when Mom and Dad wouldn’t stop at Circus World or Cedar Point.
Mom and Dad. Not a subject I’m likely to bring up in any hurry, since the mere mention of the pair yields instant introversion from my traveling companion. I don’t want to think the worst, but years of being me make me wonder if there are skeletons in the closet, mental demons that drove Persephone Traeger as far from her identity and her home as possible.
She rouses me from my thoughts. “Do you have a nickname?”
“A nickname?” I repeat.
“Yeah. I mean Tristan is kind of a mouthful.”
“This coming from Persephone?” I snicker.
“Which is why I went by Rebecca,” she reminds me. “But I’m asking about you at the moment. So … nickname?”
I think back on a life known more for solitude than socializing. “No, not really.”
“Not even a shorter version of your name? Tris, or maybe Stan?”
“Do I look like a Stan?”
“No, not really. You look like Tristan. It’s such an unusual name.”
“It’s Celtic,” I explain. “One of the knights of the Round Table. Tragic hero and all that.”
She smiles. “That fits you. Knight errant, rescuing the damsel in distress.”
“That would be you, I’m assuming?”
“Naturally. So then your parents were big literature buffs, and you were named after this noble and tragic figure?”
“Oh, I wish. The real story is even more tragic. Back in those days, there was a brand of Irish whiskey called Tristan O’Mara. Mom was a big fan. And that’s where my name comes from. Opinions are divided on whether her love of the beverage continued into her pregnancy, but let’s just say it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Shit,” she replies in an apologetic tone.
“So, whatever you may feel about your parents, I’m guessing it’s a safe bet you weren’t named after booze.”
“You should meet my brothers,” she answers. “Muscatel and Thunderbird.”
“You are such a little liar,” I tell her, hiding my amusement.
“Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”
I have to laugh at that one. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
We’re both silent for several seconds before she decides to ask me, “Are we going to be safe? What you told me about this assignment … it sounds dangerous. Will we be all right?”
“There won’t be a we. I want you to drop me off and be far away from there. This could go very wrong, and if it does, I don’t want you anywhere near it.”
“I can’t just leave you there by yourself …”
“You forget: Before today, I did every one of these by myself.”
“Yeah, but you told me you’ve never done one quite like this.”
She argues well, I’ll give her that.
“Rebecca … it’s very thoughtful of you to want to help me. Maybe even noble, I’m not sure. But the very real truth is, what I’m doing tonight is extremely dangerous, and I could never live with myself if anything happened to you.”
“I can take care of myself, Tristan. I’ve been doing it for years.”
I think
“Well, I have to give some detail to each person who gets a message, but you know more about it than anyone else.”
“Does that make me your best friend?” she asks cheekily.
“When you grabbed the steering wheel, did you keep me from plowing into oncoming traffic and killing us both?”
“Well … yeah, I guess so.”
“Then that makes you my best friend,” I answer.
The hours of the afternoon speed by with the traffic on Interstate 75, as we make our way north from Florida into Georgia. After three uneventful hours with Rebecca behind the wheel, I feel well enough to resume the driving, so I thank her for the reprieve and take my traditional spot.
We make excellent time, though it is at the cost of anything remotely resembling sightseeing. Several times, Rebecca sees roadside signs advertising Florida’s fun-filled attractions, and the look on her face must be a perfect replica of ones she displayed as a child on a family car trip, when Mom and Dad wouldn’t stop at Circus World or Cedar Point.
Mom and Dad. Not a subject I’m likely to bring up in any hurry, since the mere mention of the pair yields instant introversion from my traveling companion. I don’t want to think the worst, but years of being me make me wonder if there are skeletons in the closet, mental demons that drove Persephone Traeger as far from her identity and her home as possible.
She rouses me from my thoughts. “Do you have a nickname?”
“A nickname?” I repeat.
“Yeah. I mean Tristan is kind of a mouthful.”
“This coming from Persephone?” I snicker.
“Which is why I went by Rebecca,” she reminds me. “But I’m asking about you at the moment. So … nickname?”
I think back on a life known more for solitude than socializing. “No, not really.”
“Not even a shorter version of your name? Tris, or maybe Stan?”
“Do I look like a Stan?”
“No, not really. You look like Tristan. It’s such an unusual name.”
“It’s Celtic,” I explain. “One of the knights of the Round Table. Tragic hero and all that.”
She smiles. “That fits you. Knight errant, rescuing the damsel in distress.”
“That would be you, I’m assuming?”
“Naturally. So then your parents were big literature buffs, and you were named after this noble and tragic figure?”
“Oh, I wish. The real story is even more tragic. Back in those days, there was a brand of Irish whiskey called Tristan O’Mara. Mom was a big fan. And that’s where my name comes from. Opinions are divided on whether her love of the beverage continued into her pregnancy, but let’s just say it wouldn’t surprise me.”
“Shit,” she replies in an apologetic tone.
“So, whatever you may feel about your parents, I’m guessing it’s a safe bet you weren’t named after booze.”
“You should meet my brothers,” she answers. “Muscatel and Thunderbird.”
“You are such a little liar,” I tell her, hiding my amusement.
“Is that any way to talk to your best friend?”
I have to laugh at that one. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”
We’re both silent for several seconds before she decides to ask me, “Are we going to be safe? What you told me about this assignment … it sounds dangerous. Will we be all right?”
“There won’t be a we. I want you to drop me off and be far away from there. This could go very wrong, and if it does, I don’t want you anywhere near it.”
“I can’t just leave you there by yourself …”
“You forget: Before today, I did every one of these by myself.”
“Yeah, but you told me you’ve never done one quite like this.”
She argues well, I’ll give her that.
“Rebecca … it’s very thoughtful of you to want to help me. Maybe even noble, I’m not sure. But the very real truth is, what I’m doing tonight is extremely dangerous, and I could never live with myself if anything happened to you.”
“I can take care of myself, Tristan. I’ve been doing it for years.”
I think
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