Unflappable

by Suzie Gilbert

  Gunderman pulled out his laptop and typed flights Pittsburgh to International Falls. He would rest up this evening and fly to Minnesota in the morning. He would be there when they arrived. If he was right it would save his job in the Loxahatchee, where he lived in a world of absolutes. Not like Celia, who lived in a world of exceptions.

  Thunderclouds, slashing rain. A woman with outstretched wings chained to a wooden cross, the wind whipping ropes of drenched hair across her high cheekbones, her feral eyes, and her expression of wild fury. As she struggled to burst from her chains, a perfect bolt of lightning bisected the roiling sky.

  He forced the image away. Do your job, he told himself. Just do your damned job, then you can go home.

  • • •

  The woods were fairly sparse. By day they wouldn’t have offered much of a screen, but by night they provided a protective cloak. Luna moved silently in her running shoes, her pain and lightheadedness receding as she angled away from the highway and toward a soft glow in the distance. Eventually she emerged onto a small county road.

  A car approached, and she stuck out her thumb. It stopped beside her, and the passenger window eased down. “Where you going, little lady?” asked the man. He was middle-aged and sharp-featured, his hair slicked back.

  “Thanks anyway,” said Luna, retreating a step. “I changed my mind.”

  “Come on,” he said, reaching toward her and opening the passenger door. “I’m a real nice guy.”

  Luna’s hand slid down the side of her cargo pants to the deep pocket along her thigh, to the straight-edged knife she took from Lyllis’s friend’s kitchen drawer. She had wrapped the blade in a small towel, then encased it in layers of packing tape she found on a shelf. “I said, ‘thanks anyway,’” she said, slipping it from its makeshift case and holding it up.

  The man pulled the door shut. “Bitch!” he snapped, and drove away.

  A few minutes later Luna stuck out her thumb again, and a pickup truck coasted to a stop. She looked in the window and found a sandy-haired young man. “Hey!” he said, giving her a wide smile. “Need a ride?”

  She climbed in and closed the door. “Where you going?” he asked, pulling back onto the road. “Because I’m…”

  He paused, his face clouding. “Your head is bleeding,” he said. He drove slowly, taking in her heavily bandaged arm, her torn pant leg, the dirt still clinging to her shirt. “Here,” he said, reaching for his phone. “Let me find the nearest hospital, and I’ll drive you.”

  “Thank you,” said Luna. “But I have to get to Minnesota. If you don’t mind, I’ll just ride with you as far as you’re going.”

  “Are you sure?” he asked doubtfully. “There’s a first aid kit in the glove box. My name’s Jesse, by the way.”

  “I’m L…Lisa. And thank you.”

  Jesse drove into the night. When he found Luna reticent, he chatted about his family’s farm, his community college courses, and his unrequited love for his biology lab partner. Luna tried to listen, her mind straying to Lyllis and Michael, her eyes searching for black SUVs. There were no other cars on the dark county road, until she saw a pair of headlights a mile or so behind them.

  “Then what did she say?” asked Luna, trying to sound casual. When she glanced back, the headlights were closer. They gleamed, then a curve hid them from view. “Could you drive faster?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Jesse agreeably, and the speedometer rose a notch.

  The lights appeared again. “I mean,” she said urgently, “can you drive a lot faster?”

  He saw her look of alarm. “What’s wrong?” he asked, and glanced at the rearview mirror. “Is someone after you?”

  The road curved again. When it straightened, a red traffic light appeared and Jesse took his foot off the accelerator. Beyond the light, three cars sped by on a well-lit road. Behind the cars was a huge semi, the sound of its engine growing louder as it approached. Luna turned around and was blinded by headlights.

  “Run it!” she screamed.

  Jesse gave her a panicked glance as the semi’s horn let out a deafening blast. He jammed his foot on the brake, and the pickup screeched to a halt beneath the stoplight. The semi blazed by, pelting them with gravel. The car behind them stopped, and the door opened.

  Luna fumbled with the button of her cargo pants, and seized the handle of her knife. Jesse gasped as a gun was shoved against his head. Luna lunged past him, thrust the knife through his window, and slashed at a grey-haired man with a flat, malevolent gaze. The man leaped backward, fast as a dancer.

  “What the fuck, Luna!” he bellowed.

  She froze as his features swam into focus. “Warren!” she cried, and dropped the knife.

  Warren slid the Glock’s safety on as Jesse raised a trembling hand to his mouth. “I think I’m going to be sick,” he whispered, and Warren opened the door and stepped aside.

  Chapter 24

  The two men sat on folding chairs beside a campfire, drinking beer as the crickets sang. They were in their late 60s, fit, and tattooed. They wore t-shirts, cotton camo pants, and heavy pistols in their shoulder holsters. Six semi-automatic rifles leaned against a nearby Jeep.

  Beck was bald and wore a gold hoop in one ear. Flagler wore a bandana around his thick grey curls. Their conversation was interrupted by a three-toned ring, and Flagler pulled a phone out of his pocket. “You here?” He pocketed the phone. “He said ‘don’t shoot.’”

  “We’ll see,” said Beck.

  A silver Mercedes coupe pulled up on the dirt path beside them, and the driver side window slid down. “Good evening, gentlemen,” said Warren.

  “Nice ride,” said Flagler.

  “I don’t know why people leave their valuable possessions unattended,” said Warren. “That can be a mistake.”

  “Good thing they do, ‘cause nobody’s loaning you their car anymore,” called Beck. “We know what you did to Glenn’s Ram.”

  “That was a mistake,” said Warren.

  “How is she?” asked Flagler.

  “Sleeping,” said Warren, glancing at Luna. “But she appreciates your hospitality.”

  “Maybe we’ll come up later,” said Beck, and turned back to the fire.

  • • •

  Adam lay in his hospital bed, staring out the window into the darkness. The previous night the doctors had run a battery of tests. He agreed to stay an additional night so they could run more tests and the Chicago police could search for the two men who had assaulted and robbed him. He hadn’t admitted to the groin injury, and his balls still ached. There were seven staples in his head.

  Lyllis’s apartment had been empty, Roland said, so he had gone to her garage and to her friends’ places. Nothing. Roland had been edgy and short-tempered, and for the first time in fourteen years Adam hadn’t trusted him to get the job done. He called one of his tech guys and told him to hack Lyllis’s phone. She had turned it off, but not before she texted someone to meet her at a rental car company.

  Adam shifted his gaze to the black screen of the television. His thoughts slid to a party in Miami a month ago, Luna walking beside him in a shimmering column of silver. She had nearly refused to go, only capitulating at the last minute. And naturally, inevitably, they passed a semicircle of guests clustered around a stout man and his overly made-up wife.

  … best game ranch in Texas! boomed the man. Have you ever heard of Greater Kudu? Magnificent animals, and both of us bagged one! $35,000 each! Any of you know what it’s like to bring one of those things down?

  Adam remembered the silence that fell just before Luna spoke. I do, she said. It’s like shooting a cow in a field. That’s why they call them game ranches.

  The woman let out a high-pitched laugh. Oh, you! The zookeeper! You must be one of those animal rights nuts!

  And you, said Luna. The desperado. Once you’ve failed at being a woman, you might as well try being one of the boys.

  The woman’s jaw dropped. I don’t think much of your new wife, Adam
, snapped the man, and you can forget about that deal!

  Adam followed Luna to the outdoor bar, where the night was warm and the harbor lights glowed. Away from the crowd, she turned toward him.

  Looks like I wrecked your deal, she said, not appearing even slightly apologetic. Instead she looked at him with hard appraisal, as if she were sizing up a potential adversary and concluding she could take him. Her expression flooded him with a combination of apprehension, exhilaration, and nearly unbearable desire. I don’t care if you wrecked my deal, he said, and for a moment they faced each other like gladiators, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  His phone rang. “Yeah,” he said deliberately, waiting to hear his security man say they had followed Lyllis’s car out of Chicago, discreetly pulled it over, and were on their way back with Luna. Instead he listened, then flushed scarlet. “What have you done?” he shouted. “What do you mean, she wasn’t in the ambulance? You find her, and if you’ve hurt her I’m going to kill all of you myself!”

  He threw the phone across the room, ripped out his IV, and swung out of bed.

  • • •

  Ned and Stanley watched the silver coupe pull up to the cabin, both wearing looks of relief. Warren opened the passenger side door and Luna emerged, a cotton jacket draped around her shoulders. Luna returned Ned’s embrace, then winced and shrank back. When Ned spotted the dark patch on her sleeve, he grasped the front of the jacket and pulled it aside.

  “Goddammit, Luna!” said Warren, scowling at Luna’s bloodsoaked bandage. “Why didn’t you tell me it was bleeding again?”

  “It’s fine,” she said. “Really, I’m fine. Are you two all right? Is Mars okay?”

  “He’s…” Stanley began, as Luna turned pale and swayed. “Let’s get her inside,” said Ned, supporting her.

  The cabin was old and rustic. Luna and Stanley sat beneath a hanging lamp in the kitchen. Stanley unwrapped her bandage as Ned and Warren leaned against the peeling Formica counter, arms crossed and faces set.

  “What about the head?” asked Stanley, peering at the gauze and adhesive. “Do you have a concussion?”

  “No,” said Luna.

  “Don’t believe anything she tells you,” said Warren.

  “Can you call the hospital again?” she asked.

  “You talked to Lyllis two hours ago. They’re both asleep.”

  Stanley removed the bandage from Luna’s bicep. He peeled away the soaked butterfly strips, stared at the jagged gash, and let out a soft sigh.

  “Christ,” breathed Ned.

  “Get up,” Warren ordered. “I’m taking you to a doctor.”

  “No, you’re not,” said Luna. “Don’t be absurd.”

  “It needs to be stitched,” said Stanley.

  “You can do it, can’t you?” she asked. “You have a kit, right?”

  “Only the one that stays in the car. I have suture material, but I don’t have any lidocaine.”

  Luna gave Stanley a small, rueful smile. “Okay, then,” she said. “We’ll do without.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Ned. “You mean the stuff that numbs it?”

  “Stop it!” said Warren tightly, pushing himself away from the counter. “I’ll go to a hospital and get you some.”

  “And what will you say?” asked Luna. “‘Excuse me, but can I have some lidocaine? Because my friend needs stitches, but she’s a wanted felon so she can’t come here herself?’”

  “How many times did I ask you if you were bleeding?” Warren demanded. “I even woke you up once, and you…”

  “Why don’t you go to the hospital and help yourself? Then you can get arrested for stealing a bottle of lidocaine as well as for Grand Theft Auto and Attempted…”

  “I don’t know even know why I…”

  “Can we dial this back?” Ned asked loudly. He straightened his duct-taped glasses, and regarded Luna. “It’s up to you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She turned to Stanley. “Can you get your kit?”

  Stanley rose. Luna regarded Warren, with his clenched hands and distressed expression, and gave him a look of such tenderness that Ned blinked. I didn’t know she could look that way at a human, he thought.

  “You really piss me off sometimes,” said Warren. “I’m going to get you some alcohol,” he added, and followed Stanley out of the room.

  Ned sat on the chair beside her. He glanced at her bloody wound, then quickly looked away. For just a moment, she looked small and frail. “Would you…” she began, hopefully, then her impassive expression slid into place.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Do you want me to stay with you when Stanley stitches you up?”

  “No. I know you don’t like this kind of stuff. You don’t have to.”

  “I know I don’t have to,” he said, and reached for her hand.

  • • •

  Warren, Beck, and Flagler leaned against the Formica counter, watching Stanley clean Luna’s wound with gauze. The contents of a medical emergency kit were arranged neatly on the table. Ned poured shots from a bottle of Jack Daniels into two waiting glasses, then he and Luna tapped them together and threw them back.

  “Give her some more,” ordered Warren. “Don’t give any to Stanley.”

  Stanley rolled his eyes, and pulled apart the plastic sleeve containing the sterilized needle and thread. Ned poured another round.

  “You ready?” asked Stanley.

  “Yup,” said Luna, after downing her shot. “I’m good.”

  The color drained from Warren’s face. Luna fastened her eyes on an ancient coffeepot. When the needle pierced her skin, she gasped and clenched her jaw.

  “You okay?” asked Ned.

  “Fine,” she managed. A second later, she flinched and gasped again.

  “Done,” said Stanley, after he’d tied the knot and snipped the thread. “That’s one.”

  “How many you think she’ll need?” asked Ned.

  “Maybe fifteen,” said Stanley.

  Luna regarded the three men standing by the counter. Beck rubbed his bald head, Flagler pulled at his grey curls, and Warren wore a look of utter torment. “Come on, guys, man up,” she said. “If I can take it, so can you.”

  Ned rose from his chair. “Why don’t you all wait outside?” he said.

  “Don’t forget your arsenal,” said Stanley.

  They shouldered their rifles and filed out. “I wish we had a TV,” mused Stanley. “Just for distraction.”

  “Hey,” said Ned to Luna. “Remember when we were heading for Trish and Angelica’s, and you told me the story of Hélène and the premier? Why don’t you tell me another one?” He poured more whiskey. “But drink this first.”

  “Tell him about Hélène and Chem-Dust!” said Stanley.

  “Okay,” she said, when the shot was gone. “So: Canada in the early- to mid-1980s. The environmental movement had taken hold, but the system was still rigged. There were some environmental laws on the books, but enforcement was a joke. Like …ah!”

  “Okay?”

  “Yeah. As in America, more Canadians were jailed for trying to protect the environment than for damaging it. And…oh!…pesticides were a huge battleground. Terrible toxicity levels, and almost no regulation. Ontario banned 2,4,5-T in 1980, but there were dozens just as toxic still on the market.”

  Stanley snipped the thread. “That’s two,” she said with relief. “So, do you know why 2,4,5-T was famous?”

  “Why?” asked Ned

  “If you combine it with 2,4-D, you get Agent Orange. So. Hélène had been running her sanctuary and fighting…ah…fighting environmental battles for years when she found out Chem-Dust was moving into Canada. It was an American company that sprayed pesticides on farms. The…uh!…the chemicals were legal, but they killed wildlife, destroyed native plants, and caused birth defects. The company used chemicals like chlorpyrifos and diazinon, which are organophosphates. Do you know why organophosphates are famous?�
��

  Ned shook his head.

  “They used them in gas chambers,” she said, and braced herself for Stanley’s needle. “Hélène and her activists fought Chem-Dust from the beginning. Legal protests did almost nothing. Ow! Can I have some more?”

  “Absolutely,” said Ned. “I’ll join you.”

  “Leave some for me,” said Stanley.

  “The owner just paid people off until he got the green light,” said Luna. “Then he decided to show everyone just how hard he was trying to appease the environmentalists, so he invited Hélène to a public forum. A town hall-type meeting. But as you know…mm… meeting Hélène in public is never a good idea.

  “There was a huge — ah — crowd, with police and press. There were two podiums. The owner said the aim of his company was to provide food for people, and that since the poisons he used were legal, they were all perfectly safe. Hélène leaned into her microphone, and spoke one word. Ouch!”

  She frowned. “Stanley, you’re wrecking my story! Now, where was I? She said…” Luna dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper. “‘Bullshit!’”

  “Here comes another one,” said Stanley.

  “Aye! And then she pulled a rotten egg out of her pocket, and she nailed him! Right under the chin!”

  “No joke!” said Ned. “She egged him?”

  “Totally!” she exclaimed, and pointed to her glass. “Bartender!”

  Ned poured.“They arrested her immediately, which was her goal all along. The district judge was notorious. If he couldn’t find a way to let major polluters off completely, he’d fine them a dollar. He and Hélène…ah!…were bitter enemies.

  “The judge ordered an open court, because he wanted everyone to witness him being lenient with an environmentalist. The court was packed. He told Hélène if she paid a fine, did community service, and apologized, he wouldn’t…yowch!…send her to jail. She wouldn’t go to jail for assault with a deadly egg!”

  She snorted contemptuously. “The owner was standing across the courtroom. She said to him, ‘In order for me to apologize …. don’t I have to be sorry?’”

  “Hold still!” ordered Stanley.