Meeting with the Trimbles

She tapped the cigarette on her finger, depositing ash onto the snow-covered cemetery grounds. It had been a long time since she last smoked, but she often resorted to it in times of stress and old habits died hard. She looked at her watch. They were late.

The headstone in front of her was worn from years of inclement weather. It marked the grave of an Arthur Trimble. Next to the late Mr. Trimble was the grave of Lucy Trimble on one side and Timothy Trimble on the other. The dates of death were identical for all three.

How sad, thought Sarah. She wondered how they died. Probably an accident of some sort. A car crash maybe.

She brushed snow off the headstone of the son, Timothy. Sounds of movement, although quiet, were picked up by her trained ear.

"You're late," she said without turning around.

"You know how traffic can be."

She turned around to see an impish man in a drab down jacket and baseball cap. Warning alarms went off in her head.

"Who are you? I deal with Harry only."

"You deal with me now. Harry's indisposed."

"I don't deal with strangers. Contact me when Harry's not indisposed," she said and walked away.

She would've continued to walk away, committed to leaving this unforeseen scenario, but she heard the sound of a round being chambered.

"That wouldn't be smart. Harry won't be available. Permanently indisposed if you like," the man said with his gun pointed at her. "Now if you'd like to end up like your buddy Harry, keep on walking. Be my guest."

Sarah remained with her back facing him. She laughed. "What did Harry tell you? You have no idea who I am, do you?"

The man was not impressed with her laughing, the mocking tone. "The fuck do I care? You give me the information, the CD, whatever it is, and I give you money. That's how it works. Actually, you're pissing me off now, so how about we forget about the money? You can leave with your life. How's that? Hey! Turn around when I'm talking to you!"

This would be the last thing he ever said because Sarah obliged him and turn around, sending a knife flying toward him with a flick of the wrist, sticking him in the neck. He struggled briefly, wobbled, then fell to the ground. A trickle of blood streamed from the wound and marred the pristine white surface of the Trimble family plot.