Unflappable

by Suzie Gilbert

  Her phone pinged.

  PRIVATE CALLER How’s my girl? How’s the birdie?

  777-222-3800 Are you okay? Are you crazy?

  PRIVATE CALLER Excuse me, but I consider myself the only sane person in this whole operation. Do you need anything?

  777-222-3800 I need you to be safe!

  PRIVATE CALLER As I will be. And the same for you. Keep me posted and give Sean my best regards. That’s all for now.

  777-222-3800 Don’t go! Are you still there?

  Her phone remained silent, as she knew it would. Warren already knew where she was headed, which also didn’t surprise her.

  Luna climbed to her feet. She needed to grab her duffel bag, then get Mars into his crate. She headed across the parking area just as a battered grey minivan pulled in.

  “Morning,” said Luna, as Ned climbed out of the driver seat.

  “Morning,” he responded, without warmth.

  She squinted at the van. “Did you rent that under your own name?”

  “What do you take me for? It belongs to Iris’s brother. He said you can drive it to your next stop, then he’ll pick it up next week.”

  “Okay. Sorry. Thank you. Listen…how are you going to get home?”

  “That’s my problem, isn’t it? Come on. I’ll help you load up and see you off, then I’m out of here.”

  He waited while she loaded Mars into his crate, then helped her carry the crate into the van. Silently they walked into Paul and Anna Lee’s house. “Anna Lee?” called Luna. “I’m leaving! Paul?”

  There was no reply. The hallway was empty, as was the kitchen. But standing In the living room and looking out the bay window was an extremely tall, powerfully built man in a perfect suit. They slid to a stop.

  Roland turned. He took off his sunglasses, folded them, and tucked them into his pocket. Unhurriedly he lifted his eyes to Luna’s. “You’re not being very cooperative,” he said.

  Luna scowled as her fright turned to anger. “What do you want, Roland?” she demanded. “How did you find me?”

  “Jesus Christ!” whispered Ned. “Roland Edwards!”

  Roland looked Ned over, then turned back to Luna. “Adam wants to talk to you.”

  “Too bad! No deal!”

  “Ah, shit, Luna, just talk to him! Why are you making this so hard?”

  “I’m not the one making it hard! Tell him to leave me alone!”

  “Come on,” he snapped. “Let’s go.”

  “‘Let’s go?’” Luna repeated. “Are you kidding?”

  “You heard her,” said Ned. “Leave her alone!”

  Roland shifted his aggravated stare to Ned. “What happened to the hair?” he asked.

  “Same thing that happened to the shoulder pads,” Ned retorted.

  Luna looked at Ned in disbelief.

  Roland stepped toward him with slow, fluid grace, as if he were reaching toward a partner in an underwater ballet. Ned heard a heavy thump, saw a flash of orange, and felt himself sail backward. As the floor slammed against him he heard Luna shout, “Goddammit, Roland!” and Roland rumble, “Hell, I barely touched him.”

  Ned sat up, blades of pain shooting through his head, his glasses swinging haphazardly. As the room swam into focus, he saw Roland take Luna’s arm in a rough grasp. Inconceivably, instead of trying to pull away, she clenched her other hand into a fist. She swung her whole body behind it, and her roundhouse punch landed with a thump just beneath the huge man’s collarbone.

  “Sonofabitch!” he muttered, pinning both her arms and propelling her forward as if she weighed no more than a hand towel. Ned was halfway to his feet when he heard the unmistakable sound of a ratchet. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room was Anna Lee, wearing a formidable scowl, and Paul, pointing a shotgun at Roland’s face.

  “Let her go,” ordered Anna Lee, her voice low and menacing. “Go on! Don’t make my husband splatter your brains all over this nice clean living room.”

  Roland paused, his eyes on Anna Lee.

  “Don’t you screw with me, mister!” she snapped.

  Roland released Luna. He let out an irritated sigh, then in a single movement dropped to a crouch, launched himself forward, and caught Paul at the waist. Paul flew backward, and the shotgun ripped a hole through the wall. Anna Lee dove for the gun but Roland rolled to his feet, grabbed it, clamped an arm around Luna, and dragged her from the room. They burst through the front screen door onto the porch, and stopped dead.

  Standing in a half circle were nine volunteers, each pointing some kind of firearm at him. “Good thing you’re so much bigger’n her,” drawled a young man holding a rifle. “‘Cause that means I got a clear shot of your head.”

  “Holy Moses!” said another. “That’s Roland Edwards!”

  Luna yanked herself away as Anna Lee and Paul appeared in the doorway, each supporting one of Ned’s arms as he swayed between them.

  “Fuck you, Roland!” she shouted furiously. “You want a message for Adam? Tell him ‘Fuck you, too!’”

  “Get in the van!” Paul ordered, as he pulled the shotgun away from Roland and limped down the stairs.

  “You’d best stay where y’are,” a middle-aged woman called to Roland, holding her pistol with both hands. “‘Cause besides the guns, we all got shovels.”

  “Luna,” said Roland. “You just made me mad.”

  “Come on!” cried Anna Lee.

  The van was parked nearby, the engine running. The sliding door was open, revealing Mars’s covered crate and Luna’s duffel bag.

  “Thank you!” said Luna, as they helped Ned into the passenger seat and closed both doors. She slid into the driver seat, and shifted into gear.

  Luna stopped the van at the end of the driveway. She looked at the broken glasses resting on Ned’s lap, at his rapidly swelling jaw, at the shades of violet already blooming beneath one half-closed eye.

  “Didn’t I tell you I didn’t need any more of your goddamned help?” she cried. “Didn’t I tell you …”

  Ned slid his hand behind her head, pulled her toward him, and gave her a long, deep kiss. “Oh my God!” he said, and sagged against the headrest. “Ouch.”

  “Did I hurt you?” she gasped.

  “Just drive,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  • • •

  The heat rose in waves from the sidewalks of Charleston, South Carolina. People moved slowly, hurrying only to cross from the sunny to the shady side of the street. On the outskirts of the city, the grand old Southern architecture metamorphosed into bland modernity. Warren stood on a warehouse roof, snapping a cartridge into his rifle and contemplating the soullessness of modern life.

  He had parked a mile away, then jogged to the warehouse. Streams of Five Alarm Chili-fueled sweat ran beneath his filthy shirt and grimy pants. His sneakers, old and rotting veterans of Big Turkey Swamp, bore fresh evidence of the local dog population. His face and hands were blackened, his hair and beard flecked with bits of debris. He lowered his head and inhaled deeply, searching for a trace of Harper; and there she was, rising like an olfactory genie, sinuously winding through sweat and swamp.

  He checked his watch. He had accessed the building’s stairwell through an unlocked door just off the south corner. The owners didn’t seem particularly concerned with daytime security, probably because heavy metal tubing wasn’t easily pocketed. He drained the contents of his water bottle, and dropped the empty container into a large black garbage bag. Beside the bag lay an oversized rucksack, as well as his rifle’s empty foam traveling frames.

  He rested the barrel on the metal rail encircling the roof and focused on the entrance to the office building across the street. Eight minutes later, the door opened and two suited men emerged. They carefully scanned the area, then Adam Matheson appeared.

  One of the men opened the door of the waiting limousine. Ignoring him, Adam gazed into the sky’s hot glare and pulled out a pair of dark glasses. Warren waited until they were firmly in place, th
en sited their bridge in his crosshairs.

  Smiling, Adam rolled his shoulders in what Warren interpreted as a triumphant stretch. Another 500 acres of prime wildlife habitat covered in cement, thought Warren. He squinted, slid the rifle a hair’s breadth to the left, and pulled the trigger.

  The door to the office building shattered and crashed, and one of the men knocked Adam to the sidewalk. As the clang of an alarm filled the air, both men dragged Adam into the limo. With a scream of tires, the car raced away.

  “Yo!” said Warren. “That had to hurt!”

  With fluid precision he disassembled his rifle and eased it into the oversized rucksack. From a side pocket he pulled out a roll of duct tape and a pint of cheap brandy. He ripped off a length of tape, placed the roll and the rucksack into the garbage bag, and taped the edges closed. He opened the brandy and held it aloft.

  “Here’s to staying positive and testing negative,” he said, and took a long swig. “Ugh!” he grimaced, and poured half of it down his shirt. “What I won’t do for the cause,” he mused, capping and sliding the bottle into his back pocket.

  Police sirens wailed. Warren sighed, his eyes half-lidded, and an expanding stain appeared on the front of his pants. Finally he scratched his beard, hoisted the garbage bag over his shoulder, and headed for the stairwell.

  The street was ablaze with police cars. Warren exited the stairwell and was ambling along a block away when another cruiser screeched to a halt beside him. Two uniformed officers jumped out and drew their pistols.

  “Stop right there!” shouted one, then recoiled.

  “Officers!” grunted Warren, raising a hand in greeting. “Can I offer you some assistance?”

  “Did you see anyone come out of any of these buildings?”

  “Yeah,” said Warren, and gestured vaguely down the street. “Down there.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Like Frank Zappa!” replied Warren.

  “Come on,” said the other officer, turning away. “There’s nothing here.”

  The police car moved off, and Warren continued down the street.

  Chapter 11

  FORT WAYNE 68 MILES, read the sign.

  “Take exit 21 toward Three Pines Lake, then stay left,” ordered Ned’s cell phone. Luna eased the van down the exit ramp, and left the highway.

  Ned lay asleep on the passenger seat, a wilted ice pack on the floor by his feet. Luna had taken a back road away from Blue Moon, passed through several small towns, and eventually stopped in the back of a Walgreens. After donning her sunglasses and one of Iris’s wide brimmed hats, she’d swept through the store and grabbed an ice pack, a pillow, a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol, and several containers of bottled water.

  Luna drove through the rolling farmlands of northern Indiana, keeping a careful eye on her speedometer. She passed fields filled with corn, wheat, and soybeans, and felt a chill every time she saw a police car. Eventually she spotted a solitary green mailbox. The dirt driveway continued for a hundred yards, then curved around a soft swell of land. Luna rounded the curve, made sure the van was hidden from the road, and gently slowed to a stop.

  She lifted the crate’s cover, and Mars regarded her sleepily. She had silenced her phone during the trip, and now there were a line of texts.

  greenplanet@outlook.com Can’t believe the sonsabitches have a warrant out. Careful, doll!

  meadowlark@outlook.com You have enough fish?

  carnivorous@gmail.com You need Valium?

  chiroptera@gmail.com Watch out people, there’s a nosy Fish & Wildlife guy on the trail.

  bluestreak@juno.com You said it! Tried to grill me last night BUT WE ALL KNOW SHE’S HEADING FOR NEW MEXICO.

  689-333-2150 Newsflash: second attempt on the life of the dearly beloved.

  Luna inhaled quickly. Beside her Ned stirred, opened his eyes, and winced.

  elias@wpwc.org RED ALERT We think Matheson’s goon took Celia’s phone. DO NOT EXCHANGE ANY FURTHER INFO!

  “What is it?” asked Ned.

  “Elias thinks Roland took Celia’s phone. That must be how he found us.” She swallowed. “I guess this means I’m cut off.”

  “No, you’re not. I can fix it. I mean, if I don’t have brain damage.”

  “I’m sorry.” She paused. “Warren took another shot at Adam.”

  Ned groaned, and covered his eyes with one hand.

  The house was an old restored Dutch Colonial, carefully painted in slate blue-grey, protectively surrounded by old tulip poplars. Luna parked behind it.

  Their knock was answered by a teenaged girl. Half her hair was white and closely cropped, the other black and braided into shoulder length cornrows. Her ears and nose were pierced. She wore dark Egyptian eyeliner, Capri pants, and a tattered shirt reading “Eye Dare U.” She looked them over, then scrutinized Ned’s face.

  “Did you do that to him?” she asked Luna.

  “No!”

  “You’d be surprised. Anyway, you can come in.”

  The house had rough exposed beams and old pine floors. A large stone fireplace dominated the living room. The girl led them into the kitchen, past the butcher block island and an old stove from which enticing smells emerged. Dried bunches of herbs, some dotted with delicate flowers, hung upside down from the ceiling, and the wide windowsill was lined with tiny plants. The girl gestured to a pillow-covered window seat. Beyond it was a small greenhouse, its open door the entrance to a jungle kingdom.

  “Lie down here,” she said to Ned, pulling a set of old lace curtains closed and arranging the pillows. “Luna and I’ll get her eagle settled, then I’ll fix you up. My dad’s busy, but he said you’d be coming.”

  Ned lay down on the window seat, which was redolent of lavender and bathed in a soft light. He lay his throbbing head against a pillow, and instantly fell asleep. Sometime later he heard voices, and crawled painfully back into consciousness.

  “Are they saying first Ned stole Mars and then kidnapped you, or are they saying first you stole Mars and then Ned kidnapped the both of you?”

  “Honestly, I don’t have a clue what they’re saying.”

  Ned sat up, blinking. His broken glasses rested on the counter next to the window seat.

  “This is Bailey,” said Luna.

  “Hey,” said Bailey, and picked up the glasses. “Lucky it only cracked the frame.” She handed them to Luna, and pointed to a drawer. “There’s tape in there.”

  A kettle and a double boiler rested on the stove. Bailey lit the pilot lights, then entered the greenhouse. She pinched off a handful of leaves and flowers, returned to the kitchen, and set the small pile on the counter.

  The kettle whistled, and she poured the boiling water into a mug and added curls of fresh ginger. After choosing two small eyedropper bottles from a crowded shelf, she squeezed several drops into the mug. She placed the herbs in a small ceramic bowl, then crushed them with a pestle.

  “Here,” she said to Ned, handing him the steaming mug. “It’ll help your headache.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “Ginger, St. John’s wort, and skullcap.”

  Ned looked at her suspiciously. “Skullcap?”

  “My dad used to look at me exactly the way you’re looking at me now. Not anymore. See that greenhouse? He built it for me. From scratch.”

  Ned sipped his tea. Bailey plucked a square bottle of oil from two dozen lining a shelf, then combined the oil and herbs into a paste. She placed the bowl into the double boiler, and pulled a white cloth from a Tupperware container.

  Luna held up Ned’s glasses, the broken side piece held firmly to the frame with narrow strips of duct tape. “It’ll do for now,” she said, and handed them to him.

  Bailey reached into the double boiler with an oven mitt, and pulled out the warm ceramic bowl. “Lie back down and close your eyes,” she ordered, and with a tiny rubber spatula she smoothed the paste onto Ned’s face, carefully avoiding his eyes. She covered it with the white cloth, then over it
she stretched a small sheet of plastic wrap.

  “It’s a poultice,” she said. “Arnica, aloe vera, turmeric, and oat straw. A little chamomile. The plastic wrap is to keep in the heat. If you needed antibiotics I’d give them to you, but you don’t.”

  Ned sank gratefully into a warm haze. “Bailey?” he heard Luna say. “We left Paul and Anna Lee’s in kind of a hurry…”

  “I know,” said Bailey.

  “Anna Lee said you wouldn’t get in trouble if we stayed here. But what about Fish and Wildlife? What about local conservation? What if they show up?”

  “Closest Fish and Wildlife office is almost a hundred miles away. Our local conservation officers are Department of Natural Resources, they’re the ones who are looking for you. My dad has a friend who works for them.”

  “You mean the friend won’t report us?”

  “Not if Dad doesn’t tell him you’re here.”

  A screen door slammed and a freckled boy entered the kitchen. “You must be Cole,” said Luna. “I’m Luna, and this is Ned.”

  “Your eagle took a bath,” said Cole. “He flew around. Now he’s eating.”

  “Good,” said Luna, with relief. “Thank you.”

  An hour later the four of them sat around the kitchen table, sharing salad and a casserole. “I can’t get over how the swelling’s gone down,” said Luna. “Though you’re still pretty colorful.”

  “Black and blue I can handle,” said Ned, wearing his battered glasses. “But the swelling and the headache — you’re a magician. Where did you learn it?”

  “From my mom’s best friend,” said Bailey. “Mom died when Cole was three and I was six. So her best friend Vera moved in until Dad learned how to be a single dad. Then she went home, but she still comes over a lot. They’re just friends, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

  Silence fell. “Paul told me you’re a falconer,” said Luna.

  Cole shook his head. “Not really,” he said.

  “Yeah, he is,” said Bailey. “Not on purpose. People bring their birds to him if they can’t control them. He’s a bird whisperer.”