Shedding Sadness

By Brandon Spacey

Richie Rainwater is tasked with giving clients new identities through the Witness Security Act. But when a mysterious woman comes waltzing into his office one morning, he finds himself running to try to protect her - and himself. And through the brief but tenacious relationship he forms with her, Richie finds he may too be in need of a new identity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brandon Spacey
• Release date: Oct 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301592500

Brandon Spacey

Brandon was born and raised in suburban Dallas. He spent four years serving in the Air Force, and after an honorable discharge, began a career in Internet Systems. He now works from home and spends a lot of time with his wife and children. His hobbies include playing and writing music, reading and writing. You can check out his website at spacebrew.com.

Book preview

Shedding Sadness

by brandon spacey

Shedding Sadness

by brandon spacey

Copyright © 2013 by brandon spacey 

and SpaceBrew Publishing.

All Rights Reserved.

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publishing.spacebrew.com

Cover art by brandon spacey.

Smashwords Edition

Shedding Sadness is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. 

Also by brandon spacey:

Midnight's Park

Resurrecting Mars

Visit brandon on the web at:

brandonspacey.com

For Kimbre, who never lost her fire.

CHAPTER 1

Jane Doe

Here they come – the Western Wagons!

Oh here they come, in rain or shine…

Open the gates for the Western Wagons!

They've returned from peril on the border line.

Gather the steeds, it's a hard day's riding!

Round up the kids, the sun's arise!

Load up your pride on the Western Wagons!

Another day of chasing paradise!

Into the fray, with the Western Wagons!

Never a fear from those who ride…

Oh come what may for the Western Wagons!

It's a lion's den within the cowboy pride.

Richie Rainwater lay prone on the couch, eyes puffy and half-open as the theme song ran again on his gigantic television.  He had been watching the Western Wagons marathon for the last several hours, catching nearly half of the second season in one session.  He had called out sick this morning, feeling run down from a late night of poker the night before.  The Thursday-night games did not usually run so late, but last night no one was getting any cards.

His phone rang, making him jump. He cursed and rolled his wrist to look at his watch. It was almost nine o'clock. He picked up the phone and lazily slung it to his ear, banging himself in the head. Hello?  Richie muted the television.  In the new quiet he could hear his friend Derek snoring on the other couch.

Sergeant Rainwater, you have a client coming in this morning. You need to come in. It was Louise, his secretary.

Didn't you get my message? I called out at six this morning, he said, rubbing his eyes.

Yes, I got your message, but you need to come in to take care of this one. No one else is available, she said, almost condescendingly. Louise was in her early fifties, easily twenty-plus years Richie's elder, and did not take too fondly to his ascendancy over her.

Richie sighed and licked his teeth, then replied. All right.  I'll be there in a little bit. He dropped the phone back into its cradle and stretched, then rolled off the couch.

As the water warmed for his shave, he leaned on the counter, staring at himself in the mirror.  Richie rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then saw movement peripherally, in the doorway.  Derek was standing there leaning against the jamb, waiting to get in.  You leave me some hot water? Derek said.

Get your own hot water, bitch.

Derek stood looking at Richie.  Eye-to-eye, they were about the same height, right at six feet.  That was where any physical similarities ended though.  Richie was tan, being exposed every day to the unhindered Nevada sun.  The sun also lightened his hair from brown to a dirty blond.  He was thick, but not defined, though he looked as though he worked out regularly.  Derek was clean-shaven on his face and head, and his flawless black skin stood a stark contrast to Richie's.  Derek was very meticulous about his appearance, spending ample time grooming in the mirror every morning – where Richie would sometimes forgo shaving entirely in an effort to look more rugged. 

Derek pushed past him into the bathroom and lifted the toilet seat as Richie readied his razor to shave off the weekend.

I gotta go to work, dude, Richie said.

Derek looked over at him with red eyes.  I thought you called out.

I did.  I've got a new witness coming in this morning, Richie said.  He did not typically talk about his work with most people.  Derek was the exception, as they had known each other since grade school.  Derek had his own key to Richie's place.

Great.  I was hoping we would get a head start on a long weekend, Derek said.

Yeah me too.  Richie yawned.  Derek flushed and looked in the mirror.

Well shit.  So I guess we ain't going to Flagstaff this afternoon then.

Richie shrugged.  You know it's probably best anyway, he said, drawing the razor down his cheek.

Why is that? said Derek.

There's gotta be a guitar show coming to Vegas soon.

What the hell is wrong with the one in Flagstaff?

Amber's working for Gibson now, Richie said.  You know what? he added, leaning against the counter, razor still in his hand.  I just thought of something.  She still has my laptop.

Derek looked at him in the mirror and returned to the doorway.  She's prolly found all your porn by now then.

Richie met his eyes in the mirror and began shaving his chin.  That's all right.  She's in most of it.

You need to share that shit, nigga, said Derek.

Uh huh.  I'll get right on that.  Richie washed his razor, then splashed water on his face.  He wiped his face on the towel then turned off the light.  They walked into the living room and Richie swiped his keys off the speaker.

So AK works for Gibson? Derek said.  AK was short for Amber Kathryn.  Being born on April seventh completed the nickname Derek had given her.  He had dropped the 47 bit though, because it only ever got him strange looks.

Yup.  She'll be there.

Now how the hell you know that? Derek said.

I just know.  She'll be there.

Nigga, you whipped.

Don't start that shit.  I'm done with her.  I just don't need any extra exposure to her and her witty little quips about our past.  About how I was such a fuckup.

So what the hell is she doing at Gibson? Derek said.

Public relations, said Richie.

Yeah, she'll be there, Derek agreed.

All right sucka.  I'm outta here, Richie said.  Lock up if you leave.

You got it.  They knocked fists together and Richie headed out the front door.

As Richie settled in behind his desk, he sipped on a scalding cup of coffee and rubbed the final remnants of sleep from his eyes. He leaned back in his leather chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin. A thin manila folder sat on his desk, the contents of which he had not yet perused.  He knew what it was. Just not who.  He took a deep breath and smiled as he reached for the packet. Richie was officially short. Six more weeks of this pencil pushing and he would finally be a free man.  His discharge date had loomed like the water's surface to a diver detached from his apparatus – just the other side of attainable. It was as if it would never get here. But now it at least seemed believable.  His terminal leave would begin and he could begin looking for work as a civilian.

He was not the most experienced officer in the OEO, and was only basically on loan to the department anyway, as the permanent party to the position was at home on maternity leave.  

Most of the officers in the OEO were, in fact, actually officers, too – not enlisted men. Richie had made staff sergeant after his second test for it, and had then begun his descent to stagnation within the rank.  He knew he would discharge before he met high year of tenure for the four stripes.  It was not worth the extra hundred bucks a paycheck to study his ass off for technical sergeant.  He would be getting out in six weeks looking for something in the IT industry anyway.  He was therefore the only enlistee working the desk in the OEO, excepted because he was only filling in.

Richie's previous assignment had been to a top-secret project.  They had summoned him from a position in aircraft maintenance and put him right on it, only nine months after his joining the service.  Before he knew it, he was knee-deep in Operation Libra.  This project was constructed to account for some missing information.  Initially it had been called 'dark matter'.  Someone had stolen proprietary data that could endanger the security of the nation.  In his military infancy, Richie had naively thought they were looking for a disk, or a file. That was so far removed from the truth that he had not caught on until his debriefing seven years later. A few sideways words spoken with sideways smirks from the tactless commander betrayed a few subtle details Richie might not have otherwise caught.  So after the seven-year assignment, Richie came to work a favor for the OEO commander, who had taken a liking to him.

The packet on his desk represented the last person he would ever have to create a new identity for.  He would be meeting the individual in an hour or so, and so had very little time to get acquainted with the details of the case.  Pulling the cover open on the folder, the sight of a woman in the gray-scale photograph jumped out at him. It clung to the documents with a thick paperclip.  Richie sat back and moved the clip to the side to get a better look at the picture.

I'll be damned, he said with a smirk. This is how I'm supposed to end my career?

His phone beeped. Yes, he said, pushing the speaker button.

Sergeant Rainwater, your witness is here waiting, his secretary's voice squawked through the phone speaker.

He frowned at his watch.  Already?  She's early.

Louise did not sigh, but the effect was the same.  Should I send her in?

Richie sighed instead.  Yeah.  Go ahead.  Son of a bitch!  He stood as his door clicked open, and Louise backed up against it. Shortly, a tall slender woman crept through the open door looking a little timid, if not suspicious.

Sergeant Rainwater, Jane Doe, Louise said. She smiled at Richie over the tops of her glasses and gently closed the door.

Richie moved forward and shook the woman's hand, immediately noticing its frigid disposition.  He almost flinched, and met her eyes.  Good morning, ma'am.  You can call me Richie.  What would you like me to call you?

The woman looked up and clinched her purse tightly to her chest.  Well, my name is…

Richie held up a hand to stop her.  Now hang on, he said.  You don't have to tell me your real name.  Go ahead and have a seat.  They both took their seats, and Richie put his elbows on the desk.  One of the first steps in all this is that you're going to have to get used to not using your old name.

The woman nodded.  Well I don't really want to go by Jane, either.

Richie shrugged.  I don't blame you.  So what would you like me to call you?

You can call me Sadie, she said, looking a little unsure.

Very well.  Do you know why you're here, Sadie?

Well, I know the purpose, but I'm not sure why… she said in a thick Irish accent – almost indecipherable to Richie's pure American English ears. He had grown up in Nevada - a plain, barren state short of its only two well-known cities - and like most Americans, had never been properly exposed to other dialects of the world. He had heard them on television, but that was about it.

You say you know the purpose, but not why? he said, frowning at her. She nodded quietly, and he said, I haven't had time to read over your file, so I'm not sure why you're here either – if that's what you mean.  

She nodded again.

Are you okay?  Can I get you anything?  You look cold.

A cup of coffee would be nice.

Absolutely.  Louise?  Richie said, charging the intercom.  Can you bring Ms. Doe some coffee please?

Okay, so what do you know about why you might be here?  Richie said.

I witnessed an assassination, she said.  Again, the timidity of her movements and eyes got Richie's attention.  His assessment was that she had been terrified by the event.  The gray-scale photograph of her had been very attractive, but in life, he saw a scared and exhausted woman.  She was pretty, but frail.  Thin, but not gaunt.  Her cheeks looked thin, and she seemed to be wearing a hole in her lip with her teeth.  Her thick red hair fell sloppily about her shoulders, and looked oily and dirty.  He could smell the cold wind on her, and perhaps a few nights of torturous insomnia.  She wore an orange- and white-striped scarf around her neck, but the white looked more like the white of a wet newspaper.

That must have been difficult for you, he said, after a delicate pause.  Louise knocked and entered, a large mug of steam in her hand, and set it before Jane.  She dropped several creams and sugars on the desk next to the mug, then left the room.

This is probably the worst cup of coffee you'll ever drink.  Just thought I should warn you.

Sadie looked up at him sharply, then smiled.  Any coffee is good coffee right now, sir.

So do you plan to testify, or… he flipped the manila folder open again, immediately seeing the stark contrast between the woman in the photo and the woman in his office. He turned a few pages, but realized quickly it was futile. He sighed, shutting the folder. I'm sorry, I just… I'm going to need time to review your case.

That's all right. I don't know if there will be a trial. The marshals picked me up and said they were going to apply for a protection order on me.

Do you know what that means? Richie said.

No. Not really.

Well let me start from the top. Since I don't know anything about your case yet, this might benefit us both, he said. He leaned forward in his chair and folded his hands on his desk, trying not to look intimidating or officious.

I work for the Office of Enforcement Operations. We work with the Federal Marshals, who will be providing your protection. Typically crim- …people in need of our service have decided to testify against those with whom they were involved.

Involved? she interrupted.

He nodded, closing his eyes. He did not want to assume she was a criminal, but eighty percent of those he helped were. Criminals who decided to turncoat against their complicit pals made most of the lot. Here he was treading water, not knowing a thing about her history, or why she was in his office.

Were you arraigned or indicted for a crime? he asked, trying to stifle his inner instinct to group her with the criminals.

No, she said, shaking her head. An Iranian arms dealer was assassinated when he got into a car last week in Peru.

Richie shook his head, but tried not to look surprised. Okay, go on, he said slowly.

It was only minutes afterwards that I was seized and thrown in a van 'for my protection' and driven somewhere in the dark. She paused and breathed in, shuddering as the memories touched her vision. I didn't know where I was. I still don't know where I am. She looked around the office as if a map with the words you are here would appear on the wall.

Well, you're safe. You're at Nellis Air Force Base. After a moment, he said, So what were you doing in Peru?

Well I can't really talk about it. I was on a classified operation.

Understood. I'm just trying to figure out why you're here, if this is an international affair.

International? said Sadie.

Peru? said Richie.

Peru, Indiana. I'm sorry, I should have been more specific, she said.

That makes a little more sense. Okay, so you said a man was assassinated in his car… So where were you in relation to the assassination?

I was in the back seat.

Richie had not led a sheltered life.  He had learned about death and demise as a child on his own. No one had ever had to explain to him the ramifications of someone passing away. He had shot birds in the alleys with his pellet gun, then spent hours regretting and crying over it later. He had a passion for living things, and a learned respect for their survival that not many could attribute to firsthand experience. In his time in the service, he had arranged for the departure of his share of men as well. So he knew how she must feel, having seen something she should not have - that no one should ever have had to see.

Richie blinked with the realization of the weight of this woman's predicament.  She had been only a few feet away from the man she had seen assassinated.  He did not want to pry for details, but imagined she had taken a blood shower. After a brief pause, he changed the subject.

Okay, then. Let's start with what we do here at the OEO.

Okay, she said, clearly ready to move on as well.

You've surely heard of the Witness Security Act, or the Witness Protection Program, yes?

Yes, I gather that's why I'm here.  I just don't know why I need to be protected, she said.

Well nor do I, until I browse your file.  Again, I'm sorry for not being prepared.  I was only just handed your folder before you were shown in.  I usually get a couple of days to look it over.  Anyway, we'll proceed.  He stood up and walked around to the end of the desk, where he sat and faced her.

I asked you what you'd like to be called earlier, because that's what you're going to have to start going by. My job is to help you construct a plausible history and walk you through the process of attaining a new identity, Richie said.  Having sat on the edge of his desk put him in closer proximity to her, and thus her unpleasant aroma.  He guessed it was the filthy coat she wore, ragged and spotted with patches of mud.  Or maybe blood.  He stood again, and tried to nonchalantly make his way back to his leather throne, away from the unpleasant stench to which she seemed entirely oblivious.

So I get to choose my own name? Jane said.  She looked a little unsure.

Richie nodded.  We'll usually recommend that you choose something using your current initials, or the same first name.  It may be a little easier to get used to a new last name, as if you were recently married, than a full new name.

She sat staring at him for a long while.  Her eyes were deep brown and almost never ending, full of mystery and wisdom. But also a sadness.  Richie wondered what she was mulling over.  He had been in the service of the Air Force for almost eight years, but had only recently slid into this position on his way out. His security clearance had put him on a stateside mission of top-secret classification, and – rather than declassifying him and sending him to do menial paperwork – they had sent him here.  She was his third witness.  He still had not learned how to separate the human side of the job from the business.  He felt like being assigned a witness meant protecting her, rather than just doing the paperwork and sending her on her way.  And being his first female witness put him in a weird position.  Any woman who paid Richie any attention was bound to get attention in return.  He hated that sensitive side of himself, that found something beautiful in every woman he met, and worried that the fractured sense of attraction he had for Sadie Doe would turn into an emotional roller coaster.  She was plain, but somewhat attractive.  He just hoped the plainness would keep him on track.

Well I don't have to choose a name right now, do I? she said, breaking into his thoughts.

No.  Beginning Monday, I'll be in touch with the marshals, and this will all start making sense.  We'll work on a timeline, and things will start falling into some semblance of order.  But you might think about it over the weekend.

Okay.  I will.

So is there anything you need?  I'll take you to base billeting, so you can get setup there and get comfortable.  I'll show you around base a little bit.  Mess hall, theater, things like that.

She nodded slowly.  Okay.  Well I can't think of anything I need.

Okay, well like I said, I'll be able to give you a little more structure next week, after I've talked to the marshals.  For now, let's just get you a place to stay for the weekend.

She nodded again.  What all has to be done next week then?

Richie held his hand up above the desk.  Well, we'll be relocating you, and handing you all new identification documents. And depending on the depth of your involvement and your risk assessment given to us by the marshals, it may be necessary to physically inter your current identity.

What does that mean? she said, a hard squint set in her eyes.

Richie looked at her levelly. It means we bury an empty casket with your name on the headstone.

Oh my God, does that really happen?

He nodded. In some extreme cases, yes.  If those you're in danger of think you're no longer a threat to their cause, it's less likely they'll pursue you.  And sometimes that's the most realistic option for safety – rather than your just disappearing suddenly, where they know you're still alive.

Sadie nodded her head, covering her mouth. Yes, perhaps we should do that.

Well that's not really for me to decide. The marshals will assess your risk, and should that be necessary, it will all be transparent to you.  It happens behind the scenes.

I'm sorry, I don't follow, she said.

Richie leaned back and adjusted his trousers. It's not something you'll be a part of. You can understand the risk of attending your own funeral. Or visiting your own grave, for that matter.  Once your new identity has been established, you're never again to revisit your old one.  This means severing all ties to unprotected acquaintances, family, friends, associates…

Yes, I understand, sergeant, she said. She was biting her lip again. She sighed and looked away, then met his gaze again.

Okay. Well over the next six months or so, depending on if you have to testify or anything, you'll have access to counseling, career placement assistance, subsistence allowance, and several other things.  To help you get back on your feet during the reintegration process, he said, waving his hand again.

Richie looked at her, trying not to betray his thoughts. He was tired, and ready for her to leave his office. The putrid smell of her dirty coat was turning his stomach, and – despite what she might or might not have been through – he was associating the odor with her personally.

He stood up and stretched a little, but tried not to breathe too heavily. For now, you'll be put up in a safe place, guarded at all times by the Marshals. You can go there now, make yourself at home and get comfortable. Get a good night's sleep, a shower, a warm meal.

She looked up at him. She stared for a long time without saying anything. Had he embarrassed her?  Shamed her?  He looked at the papers on his desk to avoid her gaze.

Thank you, Sergeant. When do I come back?

The marshals will let you know. You just concentrate on clearing your mind, trying to relax, and rest up. We'll take care of it from here.  We'll keep you apprised of everything as we move along. He was still standing, but tried not to stand anywhere within the offensive radius of her scent. Then she stood and stepped away from the chair, and bent to pick up her dirty scarf. He caught a glimpse of her bare back and the top of her panties as her coat and pants separated. He swallowed hard as he realized her underwear looked as filthy as her coat and hair. A twinge of pity attacked him, and he wondered if this state was in her nature. Simultaneously, his mind wandered with the thought of the pale skin on her back, and the rigid vertebrate he had clearly made out. He wondered if her entire skeletal structure was that visible.

Richie quickly attributed her hygiene issues again to her unpleasant situation and hoped his future meetings with her would be of a cleaner sort, or at least briefer.

As she turned around to face him again, she might have caught the look of disappointment still attached to his face. He seemed to be having trouble masking his emotions in her presence. She smiled politely though and thanked him again, then shook his hand. This time he noticed the dirt under her fingernails, and as her touch lingered, he met her gaze. She had caught him looking, and had no doubt seen his unfavorable reaction. He was zero for nine with her and beginning to feel slightly embarrassed, if not foolish.

Richie slung on his jacket and grabbed his keys from the desk, then led Sadie out of the office and to his car.  As he drove her to the billeting building, he pointed out the cafeteria, the commissary and the base exchange.  He had signed out a petty account card from the office, and handed it to her now.  He explained to her that anything she needed, from clothing to food, could be purchased with the card anywhere on base.

When they arrived at billeting, he checked her into a suite, so she would have access to a kitchenette and a sitting room.  There was no telling how long she would be there, it could possibly be many months, so they wanted her to feel somewhat at home.  When he walked her to her door and let her in, she looked suddenly overwhelmed, as if it were the King's Suite on the top floor of the Marriot.  After saying goodbye, Richie went to let himself out.  Sadie stopped him by the door, taking him by the arm.  He turned to face her, and she moved in, embracing him in a tight hug.  After a moment, he finally reached up and put his hand on her back.

Thank you, sergeant Rainwater, she said over his shoulder.

You're welcome, Sadie.  Enjoy your weekend.

As he walked back to his car he shook his head.  Richie hoped he would not have to hug Sadie every time they saw each other.  He pulled the door open and dropped into the seat.  This was going to make for an interesting series of interactions.

Later that night, Richie sat with his back against a wall of pillows, reading Sadie's case file. It was half-past midnight now, and in scanning ahead a few pages, he saw no good stopping point anywhere in his near future. There was a lot more to this woman than he had initially been led to believe. However, there was nothing about her current assignment, or what happened in Peru. Richie had not recalled hearing anything on the news about the assassination of an Iranian man, here or anywhere.  But why would there not be something in her file about it?

An hour before, he had pulled his laptop onto his lap from the spot it had sat warming the bed, and he had tried to find anything he could about the assassination. There was nothing.  This led him to believe that perhaps the government had been involved. And Sadie, being a civilian under the employ of said government…  Well the pattern connected easily in his mind. Perhaps she had been the assassin herself, and maybe someone had seen it happen. Maybe she was not at all the timid, nervous looking woman he had seen in his office.  Up until now, he had considered himself a pretty good judge of character, even based on brief introductions into people's lives.  He could tell after a handshake whether a man was business-worthy.  Sadie was either playing a part really well, or he would have to reassess his ability to read people.

It did not seem likely she would be entering witness protection after assassinating a political figure or otherwise. Protection was typically reserved for criminals and near-criminals who happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time.  He leaned his head back, revisiting his memory of their brief conversation. She seemed too paranoid and afraid to be an agent. She seemed too unsure to be in any kind of position of power. Richie simply did not have the rank to check up on her.  His clearance was pretty high, but not without limits.  Information like that was attainable on a need-to-know basis.  Could he be cleared for it because he needed to know?  It was shaky.  He would have to learn more about her before he determined whether or not he would need to access classified records on her.  She might not even have any records. 

If she were an agent, her job might be in jeopardy now anyway.  But saving that it was not, his superiors – the ones actually re-identifying her – would take care of all that. He would never know about it.  His only job was to counsel her where appropriate, guide her through the process and familiarize her with the rules and code of conduct for new witnesses.

He wondered why he had taken such a strong interest in her.  Then he reckoned secretly that it might just be her elusive gaze.  Her misplaced impoverished appearance.  Her shaky, unsure method of speech. Those very things that seemed to disgust him on the surface somehow found foothold in attraction somewhere deep within him.  He was perhaps attracted to her – despite her stench – because she seemed so clean on the inside.  Her jittery fearful answers exhibited weakness or fear.  Maybe subconsciously he wanted to protect her.  Maybe he wanted to save her.  Or maybe he just wanted to fuck her because she sounded like she had just stepped off an Irish ferry.

No matter his curiousness in her, his professional interests in her were not being satisfied by the thick documents resting in his lap.  He would learn just enough about her to shoo her away when it was time to hand her off.  But he could not intelligibly construct a new history for her without having some idea of what she would be likely able to pull off.  And there was a certain amount of autonomy necessary in new witnesses that she did not seem to possess.  Not singularly.  And according to the documentation on her, Sadie Doe had no next of kin.

She was very close to Richie's age.  He had just turned thirty-one a few months before, and she would be thirty-one next May, six months from now.  He wondered how easily she would blend in here in America, being a redheaded woman with an accent so strong it damn near took a translator to speak for her.  And she was tall.  He had forgotten that.  His first sight of her placed her at close to six feet, maybe five-eleven or five-ten.  She was not average.  She would be hard to hide.  But if she were to remain in the states, he would have to find a way to do it.  With only six weeks left before his discharge, he felt a little put upon to be taking such an obviously difficult case.  

Richie rubbed his eyes with the balls of his hands, sighed, and threw the manila folder to the cool side of the bed.  The side that mocked him sure as he lay here, telling him he was