A surprised voice emerged from the phone. “Warren? How are you? Where are you?”
“I am in an undisclosed location with two people who would probably prefer to remain anonymous. Except for one is Luna.”
“Luna! No joke?”
“Hi, Stanley!” called Luna, as Warren pressed speaker.
“Luna! This is crazy! You know you’re all over the police scanners?”
“Oh, yeah. I guess.”
“So, are you with that guy Ned Harrelson? Is he the other person?”
“Ugh,” said Ned.
“Is that him?” asked Stanley. “Is that Ned Harrelson groaning in the background?”
“What about me?” asked Warren. “Aren’t I all over the police scanners?”
“Sort of. You must be the ‘Unidentified White Male.’ Evidently, they don’t have your name.”
“Gunderman didn’t give you up!” said Luna, slapping him on the shoulder.
“Aww,” said Warren, smiling affectionately. “That sonofabitch.”
“Stanley, where are you?” asked Luna. “Didn’t you move?”
“I did,” said Stanley. “I’m in northeast Iowa. Hang on a minute, here. You can’t be far from Trish and Angelica’s, which is Rock Ridge, so I am… 87 minutes from you.”
“They won’t be expecting us to go south!” said Luna encouragingly.
“Can you put us up in your fine hotel?” asked Warren. “Like, tonight?”
“Of course! Absolutely! Are you still in the trashed blue Ram? Indiana plates?”
Ned snorted.
“Yes!” called Luna.
“Want me to pick you up?”
“No way can we ditch the truck,” said Warren. “Trust me on this.”
“Then I’ll direct you. I’ve got scanners on five precincts, so I know where the cops are. I’ll get you around them. Good?”
“Fabulous!” said Luna.
“Let me get set up. Give me ten minutes.” He hung up, and Warren turned to Ned.
“No sweat,” he said. “Stanley’s good with legal issues.”
Ned swallowed. “What do you think they’ll charge me with?”
“Don’t know yet,” drawled Warren. “The night’s still young.”
• • •
Trish and Angelica’s driveway was jammed with vehicles. Gunderman stood in front of the house, grim-faced, as two men hoisted one of the police cruisers onto a flatbed truck. Two additional squad cars had arrived, as well as the Fish and Wildlife SUV. The ground was littered with glass and metal.
As soon as he heard the scramble and the slammed door, Gunderman knew he had made another serious mistake. He had predicted that Warren would be out of the net in two minutes; he hadn’t predicted that Harrelson would catapult a police officer down a flight of stairs, lock the door, and wreck three cruisers. He had paid no real price for losing Luna after he’d captured her at Sean Callahan’s. Obviously, this would be different.
Gunderman stood beside Sergeant Nielsen, who regretted his decision not to call for backup as much as Gunderman regretted his decision not to make Ned lead him down the basement stairs. Trish and Angelica waited nearby, wearing looks of surly contempt. A police officer approached them, unbuckling his handcuffs. “Sergeant, do you want me to…” he began.
“You must be kidding, Sammy,” snapped Angelica, and raised her hands to her hips. The cop stopped, and Trish turned a poisonous gaze on the sergeant. “We already told you, Gavin,” she said. “She’s on her way to New Mexico.”
Sergeant Neilson gave an irritated grunt and waved toward a squad car. “Take them in,” he growled. “Book them, get statements, then release them.”
The officer Ned had knocked down the stairs spoke up. “I’ll fill out a report, Sergeant,” he said. “Losing the suspect was my fault.”
“Thank you, Officer,” said Gunderman. “But I take full responsibility for the entire operation.”
“I don’t need any of this,” muttered Nielsen, as his radio crackled to life. “Yeah,” he said. “Anything?”
“Negative, Sergeant. So far, no trace of them.”
• • •
The Ram slowed to a crawl. They had driven the last mile and a half in darkness, the only light coming from the dashboard, the headlights, and a spray of stars in the sky. “Look on the left,” came Stanley’s voice. “Another ten yards. See the tree limb on the ground? Okay, edge in and drive over it. Can you see the trail?”
A neatly-dressed man of medium height stood before a cozy house surrounded by woods. He was slightly round and had a shock of white hair. “Fugitives!” he said cheerfully, and grasped Warren’s hand. “Warren,” he said warmly, and turned to the others. “Luna! Ned! Welcome! This is great. I feel like I’m on an episode of ‘America’s Most Wanted!”
After they settled Mars in the clinic, Stanley supplied them with grilled steak, potatoes, assorted vegetables, and several bottles of wine. He listened appreciatively to their travelogues and stories of mutual rehabber friends, wore a look of concern during the recounting of the raid at Trish and Angelica’s, and raised his eyebrows whenever the tension between Luna and Ned spiked.
“Ned thinks Mars is ‘a stupid bird,’” Luna explained, giving Ned a dagger look.
“People say the darnedest things after they’ve been shot at,” Ned retorted.
“Settle down, kids,” said Warren, “or no dessert.”
After dinner Stanley led them into his study, which was spacious and wood-paneled and home to a large foldout couch. Three telephones and a half dozen radios rested on an old oak table, one bookshelf was stacked with screens and transmitters, and another overflowed with manuals and textbooks. “This is how I keep track of everybody,” he explained.
Eventually Warren concluded they were set for the night, claimed the couch, and ordered Ned and Luna not do anything dumb. Stanley refused offers of help with the dishes, and directed them to supplies in the bathroom cabinet. When Luna started down the hallway toward the guest room, Ned held back. He waited until the door shut with an audible click, then he turned to Warren and Stanley.
“She’s got mental problems!” he hissed, pointing dramatically toward the hallway. “She’s a landmine! Shouldn’t she be in a place?”
One second Warren was by the couch, and the next he materialized in front of Ned and grabbed him by the shirt. “A place?” he repeated, teeth clenched. “What kind of place?”
Stanley quickly inserted himself between them. Warren retreated a few steps, rubbed the back of his neck, then returned to Ned. “Listen,” he said, smoothing Ned’s crumpled shirt. “We just need to get her to Hélène’s.”
Ned trudged toward the guest room, still rattled by the look on Warren’s face. Talk about nightmares, he thought.
The guest room was similar to the rest of the house, neat and orderly and furnished in earth tones. There was a queen-sized bed, a stained glass lamp, and vintage prints of assorted reptiles. Ned heard the sound of the shower. He closed the bedroom door and yanked one of the curtains shut. Luna emerged wearing what appeared to be one of Stanley’s button-down shirts, and grimaced when she saw him. “Stanley will have you out of here tomorrow morning,” she said frostily.
“Good!”
“And I’ll get my own stupid bird to Canada!”
“Fine! Bon voyage! As for tonight, I’ll sleep in the living room!”
He held her simmering stare as he headed for the door. Just as his hand shot past the doorknob and encircled her shoulders, she flung both her arms up and around his neck. Their kiss was long and fiery.
Suddenly Ned pulled back. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
He hesitated, torn between lust and fear. ”I’m not sure this is a good idea.”
“Why?” she asked. “Is it because you think I’m nuts?”
Ned was determined to play it cool after his encounter with Warren, but the stress of the past week got the better of him. “Yeah, I think you’re nuts!” he blurted out. “You,
and everyone you know!”
She stood straight and square and nodded, as if acknowledging the validity of his opinion. Her eyes held his. “I’m not crazy, Ned,” she said finally. “I just have a few issues.”
Ned factored this into his critical thinking, a process which took about three-fifths of a second, then he pulled her toward him and pressed his lips against hers. He stopped, removed his glasses, and tossed them onto the dresser. In one fluid movement, picked her up and carried her to the bed.
Luna rolled, straddled him, and removed Stanley’s shirt. She flung it into the air, it slid off the windowsill, and came to rest on the floor. Ned stopped, staggered by her abruptly revealed body. She pulled off his pants and seized him with a proprietary grip, and with a sharp intake of breath he sat up, flipped her beneath him, and plunged inside her.
Ned felt like a finely tuned engine. The motion was constant, fluid, and deep; the sensations overwhelming, the visuals beyond his imagination. She was everywhere, silky and slippery, wrapping him in a breathtaking swirl of erotica, his unattainable dream woman come to life.
Luna felt like a bird on the wing. She dove, spiraled, and rode the wind, anchored only by Ned’s awestruck gaze. He was everywhere, hard and demanding, gentle and tireless, taking her to greater heights; to where the sky was wide, the air was clear, and no one could find her.
Eventually they collapsed, exhausted. Ned lay on his back, breathless, Luna beside him. The blue sheets eddied around them like a late summer stream.
Ned gazed at the cream-colored ceiling, at the white molding around its periphery. He couldn’t see any of it clearly, of course, as his battered glasses were on the dresser. He wondered if there was a Richter scale of human pleasure, if titanic sex could alter one’s brain chemistry in any permanent way, and how much time they had before a squadron of law enforcement officers burst into the room and arrested them both.
Luna rolled over and rested her head on his chest. Ned was so floored by this epic act of voluntary intimacy that he couldn’t disguise his astonishment. Cautiously, he folded one arm around her. This is all I need, he thought. For the rest of my life, this is all I need.
After a minute or two, though, he found himself waiting for her to follow her monumental act with words. After that kind of afternoon, shouldn’t she want to talk about it? After that kind of sex, shouldn’t she be wide awake? He waited for the dam to burst, for a torrent of emotions, memories, comparisons, strategies, declarations, and questions to gush forth.
The room remained soundless. He glanced down, wondering if she were even conscious. Her eyes were closed. “Luna?” he said.
Luna stirred, poised at the edge of sleep, and felt Ned’s arm around her. The silence was so beautiful, so calm, so comforting. It was like dawn, she thought dreamily, fragile and perfect, when not even the birds had awakened; after she had survived the night, but not yet faced the day. She held him and kept her eyes closed, trying to preserve their rumpled blue bed and transient safe house in her mind. She would remember them, she thought, after time had passed, and things had changed, and he was gone.
“They didn’t catch us, Ned,” she said, in the husky half-whisper she used for no one but Mars.
The pang in his heart grew warm, took root, and bloomed like a wildflower. He rested his cheek against her head. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly. “They won’t catch us.”
Chapter 19
Ned awoke with the sun in his eyes. One set of curtains was closed, the other open. The bedsheets were bunched haphazardly. A pillow rested on the floor. He was alone.
Thankfully, there was a pot of hot coffee in the kitchen. He sipped his cup, unable to stop a continual loop of the previous night’s activities from playing in his head. As far as he knew, Luna had suffered no nightmares, and he was fully prepared to take the credit. He poured himself another cup and carried it out the front door.
Ned sat on the top step of the porch. From what he could see, Stanley’s compound consisted of the house, an outbuilding, and a single small flight cage. Luna appeared with a bucket, various cleaning tools, and a sheaf of crumpled fish wrapping in a clear plastic bag. “Morning,” she said, and she put it all down, climbed the stairs, and settled beside him.
Ned hesitated, unsure how to proceed. He steeled himself, touched her lightly beneath the chin, and kissed her. He waited, trying not to look apprehensive. Luna smiled and squeezed his hand. “It’s a new day, Ned,” she said. “Let’s go find Stanley.”
Ned opened the screen door to the outbuilding. “Stanley?” Luna called.
“Back here,” came his voice.
The sound of cricket song filled the air. To the right was an orderly office, to the left, a room filled with fish tanks and several tubs. In a third room stood Stanley, leaning over a steel table half-covered by a white sheet. “You two look pleased with yourselves,” he said, with an amused expression.
On the table lay a groggy turtle, the edges of her shell held together by a lightweight clamp. “Early delivery,” announced Stanley. “Luna, my dear, can I press you into service?” He nodded to a plastic bottle. “Would you take that saline, point it into this break, and squeeze a steady stream? There, that’s right. How often have I said to myself, ‘Why can’t I grow a second pair of hands?’”
He addressed Ned without taking his eyes off the turtle. “So, Ned! This is a Western Painted Box Turtle. Isn’t she gorgeous? I mean, besides the fact that she’s been used as a chew toy by a damned Bernese Mountain dog? Look at those yellows and oranges! I’m going to tilt her verrrry slightly so you can look at her plastron, that’s the underside of her shell. It’s art! It’s a Rembrandt crossed with a Rorschach test.”
“I’ve never seen one close up,” said Ned. “Can you save her?”
“Look here. If I lift this section of shell, you can see right inside her. You don’t get queasy, do you? As long as her internal organs haven’t been damaged, I can actually glue her shell back together. A little more here, please? The saline will flush any dirt or bacteria from her organs and surrounding muscle and tissue, then we can put her back together like a puzzle. You have to use this special medical glue or she’ll get an infection, and she’ll need to be on antibiotics and pain meds for a while. Turtles’ metabolisms are slow, and they take a long time to heal. But I’m pretty sure she’ll be all right. According to her abdominal rings, she’s about twelve years old. If she heals and I let her go, she could live to 55.”
Stanley straightened. He gently lifted the turtle from the table, carried her to a tank lined with paper towels, and positioned a heat lamp above it. “Thanks for your assistance,” he said, washing his hands in the sink. “Come and I’ll show you around.”
He led them into a room filled with terrariums and heat lamps. “There’s a Spiny Softshell, that one’s a Musk, there’s a Midland Painted, and over here is a Hieroglyphic River Cooter. Don’t you love that name? She’s an endangered species, and some bonehead was keeping her as a pet. Not feeding her right, of course, so she had metabolic bone disease. Not enough protein, not enough calcium. The guy had metabolic bonehead disease, which is not enough brain cells. Idiot!
“Here’s an Eastern Mud Turtle, also endangered. You take a beautiful piece of land filled with ponds and streams and turn it into another cheesy subdivision, and where do the turtles go? It’s not like they can gallop away in a thundering herd and find another home.”
They followed him into a room lined with fish tanks. Half were carpeted with dry dog food, apples, and carrots, and swarmed with small worms, crickets, or slugs. The other half were filled with water, home to smalll crustaceans and medium-sized fish. A refrigerator stood in the corner. Jars of vitamins and supplements crowded the shelves.
“This is the cafeteria,” said Stanley. “What do people think of when they picture a hungry wild turtle? Do they envision him searching everywhere for a little jar that says “Turtle Food,” filled with grubby little dried-out chunks of God knows what? Do they imagine him co
mbing the countryside for the perfect head of iceberg lettuce?” He turned to Ned. “Am I ranting?” he asked. “Tell me if I’m ranting. I probably won’t stop, but you can tell me.”
“You’re ranting,” said Luna.
Stanley sighed. “Rehabbers rant,” he said ruefully. “It’s our lot in life. Come on, you want to see my monster?”
“Your monster turtle?” said Ned. “Please. We just left the bears.”
Luna gave him an arch smile as they followed Stanley to the last room. In the corner was a concrete pool with four-foot sides, half-filled with water. Resting firmly in the center was a snapping turtle so enormous that for a moment, Ned thought it was a prop. Dark, spangle-eyed, its shell rising into three rows of dorsal spikes, it looked like a cross between a medieval weapon, a dinosaur, and a Sherman tank. Its heavy beak was short, curved, and sharp. It turned its head, and stared directly at them.
“Whoa, Stanley!” cried Luna.
I’ve been shot at, thought Ned, so I’m not about to get rattled by a freaking turtle. He addressed Stanley nonchalantly. “Can it get out?”
“So far — no,” said Stanley, and continued enthusiastically. “Aren’t snappers cool? They stick out their tongues, and fish think they’re worms, and usually that’s the fish’s last thought. You know, the earliest turtle existed about 157 million years ago. Earliest man — maybe a million and a half. Think about it! Turtles are a link with a past we had no part of. They’re like time travelers! Doesn’t that blow your mind?”
“Where’d you get him?” asked Luna.
“He came from a traveling animal show. The guy bought him when he was a hatchling, and didn’t count on him growing up to be 250 pounds. The guy’s one of those macho jerks who are too busy showing off to take decent care of their animals. Alligator Snappers, like that one, get pretty grouchy when they’re hungry. Apparently it was three days past dinner time, so the snapper helped himself to two of the guy’s fingers.”
Luna burst out laughing. Stanley joined in, both wearing aghast expressions as they each waved a hand with two fingers curled down. Ned regarded them with dismay.
Unflappable Page 21