D.W.D.
by Blackwood
entreamis@yahoo.com

RATING: R
CATEGORY: Vignette, Angst, Minor Character Death, Post-ep for "Amor Fati."
ARCHIVE: With intact header and a note to me.
SUMMARY: A call is placed in the middle of the night.
DISCLAIMER: CC owns it all, except for the piece owned by DD, who gets
some but not enough (according to his attorneys).  I get nothing, but I
don't care.  Nuf said.

~*~*~*~

They get the call during the latter half of their shift, somewhere near
Dupont Circle.  The radio sputters over the pounding rhythm of The
Doors' "Touch Me".  Sideman reaches out to lower the volume on the
radio as they listen to the husky contralto of their dispatcher
intone "package for pick-up, Watergate Complex, Apartment 16-11,
D.W.D."  The radio goes silent and they turn left at the light, heading
across town.

"She's got a helluva voice" Sideman remarks to Driver.

"Yeah, but she's got better tits", Driver replies, his eyes never
leaving the road.

"How would you know?"

"Been there.  Done that."

"Bullshit.  You wouldn't know what to do with a good pair of tits if
you had a handbook."

"You're the one who needs the handbook, dickweed."

"Fuck you."

"Not in your dreams".

The limits of their conversational expertise reached, they fall into
silence.  Sometimes they were given instructions to deliver to a local
hospital, sometimes to a morgue.  This morning, however, they were told
their work was strictly D.W.D.--Dispose with Discretion.

In the pink and indigo hour before dawn, their unmarked vehicle pulls
into the parking garage beneath the swank apartment complex without a
sound.  Driver and Sideman are mute as they alight from the cab and
move to the back of the van.  There is no need for talk and even less
need for haste.  It's just another package.

Driver ponders the possibilities of what is waiting for them as he and
his equally nondescript partner rise to the 16th floor in a steel
service elevator, the stretcher empty between them.  What waited for
them in Apartment 16-11 he had no way of knowing, or just how
unrecognizable the package would be.  He'd seen just about everything;
things that would make even the most hardened veteran in the Unit puke
green.  Not him.  It was a personal point of pride.

He'd seen plenty in Nam, been in D'nang during the Tet offensive.  He'd
watched his buddies die and then watched their replacements die, too.
Somehow, he survived.  He never did understand why he got to live
through two tours of duty while others met their Maker within days of
arrival.  His Captain had applauded his grit and savvy.  He'd been
given orders and followed them through with precision.  Twenty-six
successful missions.  Honors and ribbons were his reward.  He was a
hero to the military.

He was a laughingstock when he got home.

Well, things had changed since the 70's, hadn't they?  The Nam vets had
their memorial.  The nurses, too.  They were politely honored on
Veteran's Day, though most of the guys he knew ignored the flag-waving,
failing to see any glory in what they'd done.  It had simply been a job.

Years of psych and medical issues, a failed marriage and no employable
skills despite two years at a community college, had soured him long
ago.  When the Unit sought him out, he was almost at rock bottom.  They
offered him a job and "a chance to serve his country again", or so they
said.  It didn't matter.  He had nowhere to go and nothing to do.  He
accepted their terms and had worked ever since.

Now, wheeling the stretcher down the elegant hallway, he allows his
mind to wander.  He'd heard of guys who'd been able to leave the jungle
behind to make a new life for themselves in Paradise, otherwise known
as the U.S. of A.  He actually knew one guy who lived in this complex,
a congressman or something.  Probably some rich guy's kid, he thought
to himself. And even if he wasn't, he didn't care much--not about
anything most folks would consider important.

The entry to the apartment is already open and a Terminator wannabe
stands at the door in a gray trenchcoat.  Spooks.  Everywhere you
turned, there they were.  He'd never seen it fail, especially on a
D.W.D.  The man notices Sideman and him coming, moving his hand to rest
on the barrel of his sidearm.  "Yeah right," Driver thinks", flex your
big dick at me, asshole."  Instead, he says nothing as the man steps
into the room to allow the stretcher through the doorway.

Inside, another spook points to the bedroom.  Hmmm.  Could be
interesting.  Driver has to admit he's intrigued.  The package,
apparently, lived well.  He wonders who pays the bills.  Whoever lived
here made a nice salary or knew someone who did.  When he enters the
bedroom, he has his answer.

She is lying on the floor, face up, her brunette hair splayed around
her head, her dark eyes open.  There is no blood.  An angry, red gash
circles her neck, clusters of livid bruises dappling the pale skin like
so many amulets on a perverse chain.  Her red satin nightgown is
gathered around her waist, revealing her sex to him.  He notes that her
pubic hair has traces of grey in it.  No matter.  She's still a looker,
with long legs and a pretty good body for an older woman.

"You gonna stare all day?"  Sideman quips with sarcasm.

Driver casts him a pointed look.  "I'm just admiring a beautiful
woman.  You mind?"

"Yeah, I mind.  This is a D.W.D. and I'd like to see Rita before she
leaves for work.  Unlike you, I have a life."

Driver grunts and shakes his head.  They pick up the limp form and lay
it on the stretcher.  Driver reaches out and arranges the dark tresses
around the woman's face.  He pulls the lids of her eyes closed with the
thumb and pinkie of one hand.  Sideman looks at him, a combination of
curiosity and disdain on his face.  Driver stands looking at the woman
for a moment, then begins to arrange the gown over her legs before
buckling the straps over the body.  As they leave the room, he can
already see the cleaners at work.  There would be no admittable
evidence for the PD or the Fibbies once they were finished.

They wheel the stretcher back to the service elevator and hoist it into
the back of the van.  Slamming the doors closed, they take their
respective places in the cab.

"Maryland or New Jersey?" Sideman asks.

Driver thinks about it.  "New Jersey," he finally says.  "I want to see
a Giants game at The Meadowlands."

"You got tickets?"  Sideman sounds excited.

"Maybe.  You gotta check in with Rita?"

Sideman considers his choices and replies, "I can screw Rita tomorrow.
The Giants I gotta see today."

"Good choice.  The game starts at 2.  We dispose of the package and
then we go, right?"

"Sounds like a plan."  They look at each other and laugh, the edge of
meanness dulled by the promise of commercial brutality and beer.

Driver turns the key and the engine kicks over with a dull roar.
Sideman turns up the volume on The Doors. The honky-tonk strains
of "Don't You Love Her Madly?" sound mute through bulletproof glass as
they pull out of the garage.

Deep in the shadows, a slim figure watches the van retreat.  He tugs the
collar of his leather jacket around his face and blows breath onto
frozen fingers.  Reaching into his pocket for a cell phone, Alex Krycek
dials an automatic number and waits.  "It's done," he murmurs into the unit, 
then terminates the call.  

END
December 1999