Unflappable

by Suzie Gilbert

  “If we have a police escort,” said Ned, “then Luna doesn’t need those two little items!”

  “What two little items?” asked Wizzie.

  Warren turned around and looked at Ned. “Yes…she…does,” he replied. “Where’s the paperwork?”

  “Here,” said Elias, patting a manila envelope in the door’s side pocket.

  “All right, you good people,” said Warren, raising his hand. “It’s been real.” He grabbed a backpack from the floor, jumped out, patted the hearse on the hood, and climbed into the waiting pickup.

  “I just love that Panther Man,” sighed Wizzie.

  • • •

  Warren lay in the darkness beneath the cover of the pickup, listening to Chuck speak to the border guard in fluent French. Chuck was short, animated, and more than happy to trade goods and services. No problem, he had said when Warren called. I cross that bridge all the time. Besides, I think the guy on duty will be Lévesque, and he owes me money.

  After Warren climbed into the truck they averaged about eighty, then stopped before International Falls so Warren could climb into the back. They crossed over the bridge, then stopped at the Fort Frances Border Station on the Canadian side of the Rainy River. Warren heard the conversation cease, and felt the pickup roll forward. A minute later it slowed and stopped again. Chuck dropped the tailgate, and Warren slid out. “I didn’t know you spoke French,” he said.

  “Of course I speak French,” said Chuck. “I moved here in ’64 — you think I don’t pay attention?”

  Chuck’s phone was ringing when they climbed back into the pickup. “Yup,” he said, and listened to the chattering voice as Warren opened his backpack, loaded his Glock, and double checked the Beretta strapped to his calf.

  “Thanks! Appreciate it!” Chuck said, and disconnected. “So, the jet landed a couple hours ago. Falcon 2000X, right? White with blue pinstripes?”

  “That’s the one. How many?”

  “Three passengers. Rented a car and left the airport. Sounds like Matheson and two security. Both white guys. No Roland Edwards.”

  “No shit!”

  “Yeah, no shit, because Roland Edwards came in on a commercial flight this afternoon, and right now he’s sitting in an SUV on 532 behind the billboard for Swiss Chalet.”

  “Chuck!” grinned Warren, slapping him on the back. “I owe you big time! Do me a favor and take me to 532 behind the billboard for Swiss Chalet.”

  “You got it. So, what’s with Edwards?”

  “He’s had a few personal disruptions lately. He’s either going to be my best friend or my worst enemy, I can’t tell which. I’m also undecided as to how to go about extracting this information, given my time frame.”

  Chuck rubbed his jaw. “Maybe you could ask him nicely,” he suggested.

  • • •

  Roland Edwards was sitting in the driver seat of his rented Ford Expedition when almost simultaneously he heard the back door open, saw a flash of motion, and felt a pain so excruciating it seemed survival was unlikely, if not impossible. He clawed at his throat but the rope had sunk into his skin, hard and unforgiving as iron. Thrashing his fists he tried to turn in his seat, but the rope held him fast against the head rest. As his heart pounded, desperate for oxygen, his trachea compressed and his vision began to swim. He raised his furious eyes to the rearview mirror, determined not to die by the hand of Ortega or Paszkiewicz; but instead, illuminated by the light of the dashboard, was a bearded man he’d never seen before. His eyes widened, and instantly the pressure let up enough for him to take a precious gulp of air.

  “Talk,” said the man.

  Roland gasped, coughed, and tried to pull the rope away, but it held him like a vise. He took another breath, and the man tightened the rope. “All right!” Roland managed, his voice raw. “I quit him!”

  “Convince me.”

  “My family was…in the car with Luna!”

  “Who’s with him?”

  Roland coughed, and the rope loosened again. “Two security.”

  “He trying to grab her again?”

  “Yeah. This time she won’t get away.”

  The bearded man’s voice hardened. “Why are you here?”

  Roland grimaced and held his gaze. “Payback.”

  The rope vanished, and the man stood beside him. “Go around,” he ordered. “I’ll drive.”

  Roland staggered out of the car, weak and light-headed. “Wait a minute,” he said, squinting at Warren as he slid into the passenger seat. “You the shooter?”

  “Game on,” said Warren.

  “Shit!” rasped Roland disgustedly, and rubbed his throat.

  • • •

  Just before the exit for International Falls, Beck and Flagler flashed their lights. Elias took the ramp as the Jeep continued down the highway, raised fists protruding from both windows.

  “Aren’t they coming?” asked Wizzie.

  “No,” said Elias.

  “Why not?”

  “They can’t go into Canada.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What did Warren say?”

  “He said, ‘They can’t go into Canada.’”

  He drove through International Falls, over the Rainy River, and stopped at the Fort Frances Border Station. Ahead of them a uniformed officer stood beside a single car, inspecting the driver’s identification papers. The officer eyed the hearse.

  “I hate to drop you and run,” said Elias, “but I’m going to follow directions. Don’t forget, we’ll be at the Silver Lake Motel until tomorrow morning.”

  “Good luck, you guys!” whispered Wizzie. “Call us!”

  The Border Services officer waved the car through. “Good evening,” he said, as the hearse stopped beside him. “Identification, please.”

  “Evening,” replied Elias. “I’m not crossing. I’m just providing transportation for these two people and their cargo.”

  Ned lowered his window. Flagler had explained that a random search of their names in the Border Services database would produce a list of their recent criminal activities, so it was wiser to say as little as possible until Hélène’s people took over.

  “You are the two people crossing?” asked the officer, whose name tag read LEVESQUE. “Identification, please.”

  “Our IDs were lost in an accident,” said Ned.

  Officer Lévesque squinted at him, then looked pointedly at the hearse. “Turn around, sir,” he ordered Elias. “Canada does not accept…”

  “Officer, we’re taking two eagles to the Port Clyde Eagle Sanctuary,” Luna interrupted. “Hélène de la Croix is expecting them.”

  The man frowned, as if debating his next move, then raised his walkie-talkie. “It’s Lévesque,” he said. “I need a trolley.”

  • • •

  There were less than a dozen people in the Fort Frances Border Station at 12:48 a.m. The room was brightly lit. Cleaners wielded mops and vacuums, and the few people waiting slouched in their chairs. Among them was Gunderman, who wore jeans, a short-sleeved shirt, and a baseball cap. He watched Officer Lévesque enter the building, followed by Luna Burke, Ned Harrelson, and a maintenance man pulling two large animal crates on a trolley. They crossed the room and stopped at a table, behind which stood Officer Tremblay. Carefully they placed the crates on the table. Tremblay lifted each cover, and briefly peered inside.

  Gunderman lowered his head and pretended to read his magazine. Late that afternoon he had called Canada Border Services, then stopped by and explained the situation to Officers Lévesque and Tremblay in person. He also called Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry, and spoke to two more officers on the phone. All had been helpful and cooperative, even when he said he was working on a hunch, even when he explained that the situation was so delicate he could not reveal the names of the people involved until they had been apprehended.

  And not only had the hearse arrived, as he predicted, it had arrived sooner than he hoped. The two N
atural Resources officers were on their way. It was a public place, and there was no sign of Warren. All Lévesque and Tremblay had to do was stall things until the Natural Resources officers arrived, then Gunderman could step forward and make a textbook arrest.

  “You have no identification at all?” asked Tremblay. “Why would you think we would let you into this country?”

  “People from the Port Clyde Eagle Sanctuary are meeting us here,” said Ned, glancing at the entrance.

  “Documentation is your responsibility, not that of any Canadian citizen,” Tremblay replied. “Where are your permits for these eagles?”

  Luna handed him Elias’s manila envelope, and Tremblay pulled out the documents. “This paperwork is not acceptable,” he said. “Your Form 3-177 is incomplete.”

  “I see no reason to bring eagles to Canada,” said Lévesque. “We have enough eagles.” He turned to Tremblay. “I’m going to call security.”

  “Wait!” said Luna. “The Port Clyde people have our…”

  “You are their colleagues?” interrupted Tremblay. “Both of you? You handle these birds yourselves?”

  Luna and Ned nodded.

  “I would like you to demonstrate this. Take one of them out.”

  Luna blinked, taken aback. She hesitated, then reached into her duffel bag and pulled out a leather glove.

  “Not you,” said Tremblay. “You.” He nodded at Ned, and gestured to one of the covered crates. “Take that one out.”

  Gunderman watched, surprised by the officer’s stalling strategy. The two fugitives struggled to appear composed, with Luna Burke succeeding far better than Ned Harrelson. Gunderman had no idea whether Harrelson knew how to handle an eagle. He took the glove, fumbling, and Gunderman had his answer: Harrelson was terrified.

  • • •

  Please be Banshee, Ned prayed.

  He attempted to force his features into a semblance of insouciance as he pulled the cover away from the crate and glanced inside. It was not Banshee, with whom he had no history. It was Mars, the great god of war bird, the lethal predator who haunted his dreams and made him question his manhood, who held the heart of the woman he loved in a scimitar-taloned grip.

  Luna’s deadpan expression slid into place. She gave the entrance a final glance, then focused on him. Ned straightened his duct-taped glasses, and opened the crate.

  He’s okay with you, Stanley had told him the day after Luna had been kidnapped, when the two of them were desperate for something to do that might help her once they were reunited. Remember when he landed on the tennis ball? If you were the kind of man he hates, that ball would have been you.

  This is not making me feel better, Ned replied.

  But he had done it. In the quiet flight cage, coached by Stanley and ready to run if required, he had done it. But that was then.

  Ned pulled on the glove. He reached toward the sleepy bird, trying to keep his heart from accelerating, remembering when the police arrived at Carlene’s songbird sanctuary and Mars had nearly lifted Luna off the ground. “Please, buddy,” he said, in the quietest, friendliest undertone he could manage. “We both need this.” He tucked the leather jesses under the thumb of his glove and nudged the hard yellow foot, the dagger beak inches from his eyes. The eagle stepped onto his glove, and Ned took him out of the crate. He held his arm steady, and Mars raised his wings. Every person in the room looked up and caught their breath. The huge bird gripped Ned’s glove, surveyed the area, then lowered and folded his wings. Ned turned toward Luna, and saw her poker face had failed.

  • • •

  “You can put the bird back,” said Tremblay, and Gunderman watched Ned return the eagle to its crate. The Natural Resources and Forestry officers were still nowhere to be found. He continued to monitor the scene, ready to change his plan if they were delayed much longer.

  A grey-haired, uniformed officer strode down a hallway toward the group, accompanied by a young man in khakis and a short-sleeved shirt. Lévesque looked at the officer in surprise and snapped to attention. “Sir!” he said. “We weren’t aware you were in Fort Frances!”

  “Good evening,” he replied. “Do we have a problem?”

  He glanced inside the crates. Lévesque grabbed the manila envelope from the table and extended it toward him. The man took the envelope and pulled out the paperwork.

  “They have no personal identification, sir,” said Lévesque.

  The man frowned. “Do you know how tired we are of you Americans?” he asked. “Why do you think rules don’t apply to you?”

  Gunderman rose and moved quickly toward the group. “Thank you for your cooperation, officers,” he said to Lévesque and Tremblay, as he flashed his U.S. Fish and Wildlife badge. Ned and Luna regarded him incredulously.

  “Sir,” he addressed the grey-haired man. “I am Federal Wildlife Officer Erik Gunderman, and these eagles are under the protection of the United States government. I am here to impound and return them. I have alerted two of your officers from Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry, and they’re on their way.”

  The man extended his hand. “Officer Gunderman,” he said. “I am the Regional Supervisor for the Canada Border Services Agency. This problem falls under my jurisdiction, but the Canadian government very much appreciates your help. Tomorrow morning my office will coordinate with Natural Resources, and we will send you a full report.”

  “Sir, the birds are going to the Port Clyde Eagle Sanctuary!” said Ned. He glanced at Luna, who was strangely quiet in the face of adversity. “They should be here any minute!”

  “You mean Hélène de la Croix?” the supervisor replied, with a look of aggravation. “Talk about someone who doesn’t think the rules apply to them!” He turned to the young man in khakis. “We’ll take the birds to quarantine. Put the crates on the trolley.”

  “Supervisor!” said Gunderman. “Both these birds have been taken illegally from a federally licensed wildlife center, which is a felony violation in the United States! I am here to recover the birds, and arrest these two perpetrators!”

  The supervisor regarded him. “Thank you, Officer Gunderman. The birds will be in our quarantine facility and available to you after proper procedures have been followed. Meanwhile, I will contact Ontario Provincial Police myself, and they will place these people in temporary custody.”

  Gunderman’s face flushed. “I strongly request you turn them over to me immediately!”

  The supervisor cocked his head. “Are there extenuating circumstances?” he asked, and all eyes turned to Gunderman.

  Gunderman hesitated, then focused on Luna. He expected her to look back at him with anger, with defiance, maybe in triumph. Instead she regarded him with compassion, an opposing team member who knew she had won by a lucky shot. She looked fragile and exhausted.

  Gunderman’s eyes moved to the silver nameplate on the supervisor’s chest. DE LA CROIX, it read. He looked up and met the man’s unwavering gaze. “Please call me in the morning, Officer Gunderman,” he said. “And thank you for your diligence.”

  The young man in khakis reached for the trolley. The small crowd vanished down the hallway. Lévesque and Tremblay went back to work.

  Gunderman stood alone. The air softened. He could almost feel the breeze as it skimmed the mudflats, slipped through the Spanish moss, and swept across the River of Grass.

  • • •

  There were few cars in the parking lot of the Fort Frances Border Station. Ned and Luna followed the trolley toward a large green SUV waiting at the edge of a spotlight. A young man in jeans stood by the open rear door.

  “Hey!” he said with a grin, his voice low. “Welcome to Canada! I’m Chris, guess you’ve met Philipe!”

  The young man in khakis nodded as they transferred the crates from the trolley to the car. The supervisor wrapped his arms around Luna. “It’s good to have you back, Luna,” he said. “We’ve missed you.”

  “I’ve missed you too, Guillaume,” she said, returning his hug. “Thank
you!”

  The supervisor extended his hand to Ned. “Guillaume de la Croix,” he said, and scanned the parking lot. “There should be two police cars here. Just go, I’m sure they’ll catch up. Maman is waiting for you.” He nodded at Chris and Philipe, and returned to the building.

  The side of the car was adorned with the graceful logo of the Port Clyde Eagle Sanctuary. Chris opened one of the back doors. “Hop in!” he said.

  “Hold on,” said Ned, trying to decide whether or not to follow Warren’s instructions. Common sense told him he should leave the knife and the gun wrapped in the towel beneath Mars’s perch. Inconceivably, however, he, Luna, and the two eagles had made it to Canada, so he was reluctant to deviate from the script. He hesitated as long as he could. “Luna needs to check something,” he finally blurted.

  Moments later they were on the road. Chris and Philipe chatted with them quietly and briefly, under strict orders from Hélène not to rouse the sleeping eagles and to give the human refugees time to rest. Ned replayed the last hour in his mind, still trying to understand how they had managed to thread the needle into Canada. “What would have happened if those other officers had shown up?” he asked.

  “They were never going to show up,” said Philipe. “They were Natural Resources officers.”

  Luna saw Ned’s blank expression. “Hugo is the head of Natural Resources,” she explained. “Hélène’s other son.”

  Chris piloted the SUV carefully down the highway. “You must be wrecked,” he said. “Take a nap, and we’ll be there before you know it.”

  He and Philipe conversed in an undertone. Their hushed voices lulled Ned and Luna to sleep, until a gentle turn awakened them. Ahead was a narrow country road. Shafts of moonlight appeared through the heavy trees.

  “Ned?” Luna whispered.

  “Uh-huh?”

  She laced her fingers through his, and gave him a look that made his heart pound. “I…” she began. “I…”

  “You what?” asked Ned.

  She hesitated, and the car slowed down. “Is it an accident?” asked Philipe.

  “What’s going on?”

  “There’s a car parked sideways on the road.”