Luna hung up, a fiery ember in the pit of her stomach. Her expression darkened. She spun toward the clinic and nearly banged into Ned, who took a quick step backward.
“I need a big car!” she snapped.
“I, uh…I have a big car,” he stammered.
• • •
At midnight Ned eased to a stop by the southeast entrance of Cielo Azul. He had no idea why he had agreed to meet this crazy animal person outside the compound of Florida’s wealthiest financier, any more than he knew why he had agreed to volunteer at a home for wounded iguanas, or wherever he’d spent his whole stupid afternoon.
“Neddy, honey,” his mother had said during her last visit. “I don’t want to keep sounding like a broken record, but you’re twenty-six. You need to get out more.”
Maybe after he told her about this little foray, she’d leave him alone.
He rested his arm on his car’s open window. Beyond the property’s eight-foot wall, the roofline of a huge Spanish-style villa seemed to ripple in the moonlight. Adam Matheson was in his mid-fifties, charismatic, wildly successful, and, so it was said, very much a dick. Ned puzzled over the connection between the famous financier and the smelly young woman who had ranted for twenty minutes about plastic six-pack holders and their effect on marine life.
“Ned! Ned!”
Luna and a second woman struggled toward him, each carrying a duffel bag and one end of an enormous covered box. As they placed the box on the ground, Luna regarded Ned’s car with astonishment.
The classic old Cadillac convertible was impossibly long, sleek, and low. The forward-canted, stacked dual headlights made it look like it was in motion, even though it was parked. It rested by the curb like an elegantly grounded battleship, its dark blue paint pristine, its shining hubcaps encircled by spotless whitewalls, its massive front grille buffed to a high sheen.
“Wow!” she whispered. “What year?”
“1968 de Ville,” Ned whispered back, relieved to see she’d changed her clothes. “472 cubic inch V-8 Turbo Hydra-Matic, 4-barrel carburetor with a ….”
“Would you two shut up about the fucking car?” hissed the other woman. “I’ve got exactly four minutes before all hell breaks loose! This is not going to fit through the door, can you put the top down?”
“But what’s in there?”
The two women exchanged looks. “Top down,” growled the woman. She was very tall and solid and wore a ferocious expression, so he opened the locks, flipped the switch, and the roof folded neatly into place. The women lifted the box onto the back seat, then tossed the two duffel bags onto the floor.
“Thank you, Harper,” whispered Luna, giving the woman a tight hug. “I love you. I owe you.”
“Damn straight you owe me,” replied Harper, kissed her on the cheek, and returned to the compound. Luna slid onto the front seat beside Ned.
“Hit it,” she ordered.
“Wait a minute,” he said, frowning. “Did you just steal something? Because I know who lives in there — it’s Adam Matheson, and he’s a major big shot, so if…”
“Will you go?” she snapped. “And no sharp turns.”
Ned crossed his arms, steeled himself, and gazed into her blazing blue eyes. “No. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s in that box.”
The sound of an alarm pierced the night. Luna flinched, then seized his arm in an iron grip. Oh God, thought Ned. She’s going to eat me.
Instead she loosened her grip, clasped her hands in prayer, and lowered her voice until it was ragged and husky. “Please, Ned — it’s a living being in need of help! Please! I’m begging you!”
A police siren wailed. From within the crate came the sound of a heavy thud. Ned winced, and stepped on the gas.
• • •
The covered box sat innocently in a corner of Ned’s living room.
He had continued to circle Key West long after it became clear that Luna had no plan. Silently he rehearsed questions, then rejected them as potential sources of conflict. I used to work for Adam Matheson, okay? she had finally blurted. And what’s in that box does not belong to him.
He stood in his apartment a few feet from the box, daring himself to walk over and lift the cover. He watched Luna slide the plastic-wrapped contents of a duffel bag into the refrigerator, envisioning health inspectors arriving in the morning and wrapping the entire appliance with biohazard tape.
“This is nice!” she said, standing in the doorway and surveying the minimalist two-bedroom. “How long have you lived here?”
“What’s in the box?” he replied. “And what did you just put in my refrigerator?”
“Can I use your bathroom?” she asked.
Ned watched the door close. Cursing his inability to bend women to his will, he went into his bedroom. When he returned, Luna looked up from the couch and smiled. He held up a freshly printed photograph of her in a silver evening gown and a million dollars’ worth of emeralds, hand in hand with a handsome, tuxedoed man. Her smile disappeared.
“Bet you didn’t get that job on Craigslist,” he said.
Luna sighed. “It’s not like I lied to you,” she said. “I did work for him. And then I…you know. Married him.”
Ned grimaced. “How old is that guy?”
“Listen,” she said haltingly. “I can’t…it’s just that…”
She stopped, and a flush rose to her cheeks. Ned watched silently, unsure if she was about to burst into tears or demolish his apartment. She crossed the room, unzipped one of the duffel bags, and pulled on an elbow-length leather glove. “You’ll understand when you see him,” she said, as she knelt in front of the box and reached inside. “Don’t worry, he’s really gentle.”
Ned’s blood turned cold. Gracefully she rose, her glove gripped by the bear claw-sized talons of an enormous Bald Eagle. The bird spread its dark wings, turned its snowy head, and raked him with malevolent yellow eyes. The room spun, and Ned dropped to the floor.
When he regained consciousness, his head was cradled by a pillow and there was a glass of water by his side. He sat up and gazed at the slight, curly-haired woman wearing cargo pants and a t-shirt, a silver bead on a leather cord hanging from her neck. As she rested her cheek against the razor-sharp beak of a bird the size of a St. Bernard, her husky half-whisper sent a pang through his heart. “It’s okay,” she told the eagle. “It’ll be all right.”
Delicately she stroked the massive creature’s chest feathers. “Ned,” she said. “I need to take him to a safe place. Can you get us out of here?”
Holy shit, he thought. I’m heading for a road trip with Adam Matheson’s wife and her stolen pterodactyl.
Chapter 2
Adam dove into the turquoise depths of his Olympic-sized swimming pool. For the briefest of seconds he was still, then he exploded into motion.
For a full 50 meters he swam with mechanical precision, every toned muscle, every measured breath propelling him forward until his fingers reached the far end of the pool. He stood, breathing hard, then turned and rested his arms on the cool surface of the tiles he commissioned and had flown in from Mykonos.
Stars shone in the night sky. His house gave off a warm glow. Once again he heard a crash, splintering wood, and a hailstorm of glass, all lodged in his head like an unwanted song.
Jay’s party was six nights ago, though it felt like six years. You can have it annulled, she said. He had watched her through his office window as she paced back and forth across the sun room. The phone call shouldn’t have lasted that long; had the deal not been so complex, none of this would have happened.
He remembered it as a fever dream. The wave of glass rose, crested, and fell, and Luna emerged with her diaphanous gown swirling around her like sea foam. Her steady stride quickened until it matched the shrieks of the burglar alarm. As she passed the office, she met his eyes.
Roland appeared by his side, and saw her expression of incredulous fury. What the fuck, he rumbled, as she disappeared beneath the s
tucco archway. From the driveway came the sound of her car purring to life and skidding away.
It had taken every ounce of Adam’s self-control not to sprint after her, to keep the staggered expression from his face. Call Enrico, he said to Roland.
Enrico had followed the tracking device beneath her front bumper to a palm tree-lined community of small, brightly painted houses. Eventually he pulled over, parked, raised his phone, and snapped a series of photos: a lavender house with a front porch, a mailbox with “1725” in large black type, an old grey Subaru parked outside the garage. Squeezed beside the Subaru was a bright red quarter-million dollar Tesla Roadster, three awestruck teenagers peering into its windows.
Enrico texted the photos, followed by some basic information: Kelly McPhee. 1725 Hobart Avenue. Age 37. Single. Director of Starfish Key Wildlife Center, Key West. Ten minutes later, he sent a video.
Adam ran a hand through his wet hair. Another lap, he commanded himself.
Instead he walked up the pool stairs, dried his hands on a towel, and reached for the cell phone resting on a table. Three taps, and the video appeared.
Luna stood on the porch of the lavender house. The teenagers looked up from the car. When she raised her hand, they waved in return. She walked past them and stood at the curb, barefoot, wearing track shorts and a faded T-shirt. She spotted and marched toward the camera, and the picture tilted.
“Enrico,” came her voice.
“Hello, Mrs. Mathe…”
“Give me the phone!”
Once again the picture tilted. Adam sank slowly onto a pool chair, eyes fastened to the screen. Luna’s face appeared. “Adam?” she said, managing to look rattled and defiant at the same time. “I’m staying with Kelly for a week. If you don’t give me some space, I swear to God I’ll disappear. And this time, it’ll be for good.”
The picture tilted, a street light appeared, and Luna walked back into the house. The video ended, and Adam placed the phone back on the table and stared into the pool. I don’t make mistakes, he told himself again, but locking that door was a big one.
He thought back to the following morning, after she parked the Tesla in the garage and she and Kelly drove away in Kelly’s car. Enrico had installed a tiny wireless camera in a bougainvillea across the street, and the image of the lavender house appeared on one of the monitors in the surveillance room of Cielo Azul. The same image appeared on Adam’s phone and computer, and he received an alert whenever the motion sensors picked up activity. One of Enrico’s colleagues, driving a battered Hyundai, kept an eye on Starfish Key. She’s doing yoga in the Seychelles, Adam told those who asked.
She had emailed him from the wildlife center, requesting a small list of supplies: her phone, some toiletries, shorts, pants, a few t-shirts, sneakers, and her silver necklace. He had them delivered, along with a beautiful vase of flowers. No note. No more mistakes, he thought. Each night he watched the two women sit on the porch, their feet on the railing, drinking beer from bottles.
A week, she said, and he tried. He made it to six days, then he dispatched the Gulfstream to Pennsylvania. All he wanted to do was prove to her that he knew her better than anyone; that while other men might show their regret with jewelry or cars or houses, he alone knew the way to her heart was through the bird whose small downy feather she kept inside a silver bead on a leather cord. He would present the bird to her. She would understand.
And if she didn’t understand, well, then, he’d have the bird.
But she had understood. It worked. She agreed to come home. He had been so triumphant he’d told Enrico we’re done, shut it down. Wait a day, then retrieve the equipment.
When the alarm went off two hours ago he was in his office, clearing his schedule so he could welcome her home properly. Enrico rebooted the camera and the lavender house appeared on Adam’s computer screen, the garage door open, the Tesla gone. Later they found it parked at a public beach half a mile away.
Adam rose, jaw clenched, and stood at the edge the pool. He launched himself forward, thinking, the eagle. The fucking eagle.
• • •
Roland Edwards was not happy.
It was 1:00 in the morning and the Monroe County police were still asking the same questions. Harper Napinski sat in her office chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, regarding the officer with the death’s-head stare of a linebacker. She was built like a linebacker, too, which had earned Roland’s grudging respect, as did the way she could sling a Burmese python over her shoulder and lug it to wherever she needed it to go.
“And why was the back door unlocked, again?” asked Officer Peters.
“I told you why it was unlocked ten minutes ago,” replied Harper, “just like I told you why it was unlocked ten minutes before that. I came in late to give one of the gibbons some meds, and it didn’t occur to me that there might be an eaglenapper in the neighborhood.” She narrowed her eyes at the cops. “I’m beginning to think you don’t believe what I’m telling you.”
“No no,” said Officer Peters quickly. “This is standard procedure. Just one more time? The camera was off because …?”
“Because when I came in it was flickering, and I turned it off thinking it would reboot. Once again: I work with animals, not electronic equipment. I turned the camera off, I checked around, I turned the camera back on, and I texted Gus, who works with the electronic equipment. I didn’t see the need to hurry, because I knew Carlos was somewhere nearby.”
Carlos, the night guard, rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “I was checking the tennis courts,” he sighed. “It was not me who took the eagle.”
“Gentlemen,” said Harper, rising and holding out her formidable arms. “Would you like to frisk me to see if I am concealing an eagle on my person? If not, I have to be back here by seven, so I’m ready to call it a night.”
This is bullshit, thought Roland.
He left the room and stepped back into the night. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and walked toward the pool. In the distance, he could hear the sound of thrashing water.
Harper’s flat, virulent gaze had triggered a blaze of images and a series of audio flashbacks: the whir of automatic cameras, the roar of a stadium gone wild, the crunch of a career-ending tackle, and the voice of a man he’d seen on the cover of Time magazine.
His cell phone had rung when he was still on crutches. I’ve followed you since you were a freshman at Ohio State, Adam Matheson said. I’m really sorry about that tackle. I’m making a lot of money, and they say I need to hire more security. Would you consider working for me?
Fuck you, Roland had snapped, and hung up.
Eleven months later it was clear no miracle would return him to the field. Two hours after his final orthopedist appointment he’d been sitting on a park bench in Chicago, staring bitterly at Lake Michigan and swigging a pint of Jack Daniels, when his phone rang.
I was wondering if you might reconsider, said Adam Matheson.
There had been money, gadgets, custom-made suits, and private jets; training in weapons, boxing, martial arts, and evasive driving; and late nights on the road drinking high-priced Scotch with a man who became more famous by the year, but never lost his teenaged-boy fascination with his football hero. This is my friend Roland Edwards, he said to captains of industry and owners of teams. Roland Edwards! they beamed, and shook his hand.
Come on, baby, said Lyllis, as she curled against him. It’s not your dream. But it’s a damned sight better than most folks get.
I know, he replied. But whenever he heard a sportscaster’s voice, his hand slid toward his left knee and his latent rage returned. It flared during the playoffs, or when he spotted another gridiron biography. Eventually he developed a sense of gratitude, but its focus did not please Lyllis: he was grateful there were so many people in the world who hated Adam Matheson.
There were stockholders blindsided by hostile takeovers, insurance policyholders left dangling when the company move
d out of state, homeowners whose wells were contaminated by the new factory. The list went on and Adam, a fixture on the social circuit and usually pleased to see his picture in the media, was not difficult to track. Roland’s earliest encounter was with three men who were waiting in the dark outside a restaurant in New York City.
Adam had bought the manufacturing plant where they worked, fired everyone, and was in the process of selling off the pieces. The men, in their 30s and burly, were slightly inebriated and intent on confronting Adam with his crimes. Roland had seen his boss defuse far more volatile situations; he wouldn’t have been surprised had Adam invited them into the restaurant and bought them six or eight rounds of the best Scotch in the house. Instead, Adam taunted them until one threw the first punch.
How did that make you feel? he asked, sitting next to Roland in the back of the limousine, after Roland beat all three men so viciously that the ambulances called ahead to check the hospitals’ blood supply.
Roland held an ice bag to his split lip and blackened eye, fully expecting to be fired. It made me feel damned fine, he answered belligerently.
Good, said Adam.
Fourteen years later Roland stood next to Adam Matheson’s pool. He watched as his boss climbed the stairs, water streaming from his taut body.
“Cops are leaving,” said Roland. They’ll be in touch.”
“Anything?”
“No.”
Over six feet himself, Adam had to tilt his head back to meet Roland’s eyes. Roland noted the jut to Adam’s chin, the rigid set to his fingers even as he gestured downward with a calming motion.
“All I want to do is talk to her,” he said. “So find her.”
“Got it,” said Roland.
• • •
Squinting in the morning light, Ned let himself into his building and entered his apartment. He found the giant box empty and the guest room door slightly ajar. Cautiously peering through the gap, he saw the enormous eagle standing on a giant perch.
“I thought while you were getting used to each other it would be better to have a door in between you,” said Luna, emerging and closing it behind her. Although he had no intention of getting used to a predator he knew could take him down without ruffling a feather, Ned found himself nodding in agreement. “I put a plastic tablecloth on the floor,” she added, “so you won’t have to worry about your rug.”
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