The Lighthouse

A visit to the local lighthouse turns deadly

I pulled into the gravel parking lot of the Pensacola Lighthouse. There was no problem finding a parking space here. I've never seen more than a dozen cars, and today I had plenty of room to maneuver around the shiny black BMW, and the blue Chevy Aveo.

This lighthouse rarely received visitors. For one, as far as lighthouses go, this wasn't the best one I'd ever seen. Plus you had to come on to the military Naval Air Station past guarded gates to get here. The sentries never turned tourists away, but the gate with guards scared a lot of people off.

I liked to come here after work because the lighthouse was adjacent to the beach giving me easy access and no crowds to fight. Not that those crowds had been a huge problem this summer after, the petroleum company, BP, unleashed their tidal wave of oil on the Gulf Shores.

I hadn't been inside the lighthouse yet, so far I'd never even seen it open to the public. Today, thought, I was surprised to note the door propped open. Finally. Cool. I was kind of a nerd about museums and the like so I was excited to get my first glimpse inside a Pensacola landmark.

I headed in expecting a ranger or some little old volunteer to welcome with a warm smile, but the little foyer was empty. I noticed a sign-in table for guests by the door with a little Plexiglas stand holding tri-folded guides to the lighthouse. My geek-dar fully engaged now, I meandered over to the table to grab one. Lying beside the guides I saw a plain manila folder with the BP logo on the front. This wasn't unusual. BP had been spreading info-grams around the community following the spill, so I thought I'd find beach advisories or financial assistance applications for those whose businesses were heading into ruin.

Curious, I opened it up and discovered I was right about the financial part, but it wasn't an application. It was a stack of bank statements. It was weird though, not like the bank statements I was used to seeing, especially the inconceivable amounts and crazy foreign bank names. I just shrugged and set it aside. BP officials had flooded the area this summer. It was probably just left here when a VIP was given a tour of the local pride and joy.

Shrugging it off, I debated giving myself a personal tour when I heard voices coming from above.

A man with a strong British accent said, "how long have you been doing this, Bob? Since the spill?"

I headed to the spiral staircase in the middle of foyer to announce my presence, but paused when a deep southern accent replied, "Why do you even care? It's not like it came out of your personnel account!"

"No," the owner of the British accent replied, "but I'm responsible for seeing that it get to where it's supposed to go! Not fluff up your "Reelect Mayor Bob Brown" fund! Plus my job is on the line here!"

Bob's voice lowered so I moved closer to hear him coldly say, "Michael, you're just an accountant, a little peon in the great money shuffle. I'm warning you right now to let this go. You're heading back to London next week. Wash your hands of this and walk away."

"No Bob", Michael answered back. "I won't be part of this. I'm taking the bank statements to my boss tomorrow so we can straighten this out before it gets any worse."

I took a step back as bells and whistles starting ring in my brain, but quickly shook it off though. I mean really, stuff like this only happens in the movies and paperback novels. This is Pensacola for crying out loud!

Then I heard Bob say from above, "I can't let you do that Michael."

Then, Michael's roar, "Have you lost you mind Bob, put the gun do..."

BAM!

I jerked and went hot and cold at this same time, every muscle froze in place. This can't be happening, this can't be happening, I chanted. Go. Run. Get out. I unglued my feet from the floor and with a shaky start ran for the exit. As I passed the little table, the green and yellow BP logo caught my eye and I slowed. Some sense of justice for the peon Michael rose up through the bile and terror.

I grabbed the folder, but in my haste, I knocked the Plexiglas stand to floor. To me it sounded as loud as the gunshot I just heard.

I glanced to the top of the spiral staircase just in time to see Mayor Bob, face burning with rage, come tearing down the stairs, gun still in hand, and his eyes locked on me.

Go. Run. Get out. I fled out the door to the parking lot, frantically digging for my keys. Oh God. My keys. There not there. What now? Think. Think. I changed course, and headed toward the beach instead. There was a wooden bridge over the dunes. I can hide under that.

A shot rang out behind me, but since there was no sting of pain, I didn't slow down.

Running at full force, I hit planks of the bridge and bolted over, but I'd barley reached the middle when another shot rang out.

This time there was pain, a lot of pain, in the middle of my back and chest. Caught off guard, I stumbled and fell off the bridge into the dunes below. Struggling to my hands and knees I saw the folder stuck in the brown oil tinged sand. The BP logo peaking out streaked with blood. I struggled to take in a breath as yet another shot boomed directly behind me, and collapsing again, my world went gray, and then, total darkness.

Tina B

Word Count: 974
Prompt: Write a story or poem about a person stumbling onto a file implicating a government official in illegal activities.

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