Swerve

by Inglath Cooper

  Knox whips the Jeep off the road and comes to a tire-smoking stop. Without saying a word, we’re both out and running back to the spot where the crate is tipped up on one corner.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I say. “Are they okay?”

  “I don’t know,” Knox says, leaning in to get a better look at the chickens. “There are two in there.”

  He pulls the corner of the crate forward, leveling it on the grass. But just then the latch at the top pops open, and the two chickens fly upward like a phoenix rising from the ashes. They flap onto the grass just beyond the crate and land, only to fall over. They get up and try to walk and fly at the same time.

  “You get the one on the left,” Knox says, taking off after them. “I’ll get the other one.”

  And that’s how we end up on the side of I-66, chasing after two chickens whose destiny has somehow just taken a one-eighty turn. It takes us five minutes or more, and I can’t even imagine what the cars driving by must think. I catch mine first, but only after all but throwing myself on top of the chicken, her outraged clucks making me laugh even as I hold on tight to her, turning over to lie on my back and stare at the sky that is now bright blue again.

  “Got her!” Knox yells out. He is laughing too, and a minute later, he’s standing beside me holding that chicken as if it’s the prize at the end of a battle that has overthrown a rogue dictatorship.

  He drops down beside me, holding his chicken on his chest. We both drag in deep breaths until we can talk again without gasping. The chickens cluck softly now, no longer fighting us, and I have to think they somehow know what they’ve escaped.

  “For a psychiatrist,” Knox says, “you’re not the sanest person I’ve ever met.”

  I start to laugh again. “Coming from you, I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

  The Senator

  “I’ve come to know that what we want in life is the greatest indication of who we really are.”

  ―Richard Paul Evans

  HE’D EXPECTED PUSHBACK from the younger senator. From everything he’d heard, the guy was a straight-up arrow. Driving all the way out to Loudon County for dinner might interfere with the eight hours of sleep he publicly declares necessary for his well-being. Arrogant little shit.

  Hagan knows he sounds like a pissy old fart, but sometimes the arrogance of his underlings was more than a little hard to take. They thought they knew everything. Had it all figured out. Riding high on their ideals and the certainty that they were the sole mediums for all solutions to human problems sent to them via the universe.

  Will Arrington wasn’t the first upstart he’d had to shape into a new way of thinking. There had been others before him. With the right inducement and the appropriate compromising position soundly documented via today’s technology, there had yet to be a resister.

  He actually looks forward to these virgin initiations. There’s the power aspect for sure, but something innately satisfying about bringing the proud to a slightly more acceptable position of humility.

  He gets up from his desk, pulls a key from beneath the middle drawer, and walks over to the filing cabinet in the corner of the office. He opens the drawer, then pulls it out altogether. He reaches inside and uses a second key to open the door carved into the actual wall. It’s small, six inches by six inches, but large enough to hold the small boxes of Rohypnol. The oval, greenish-gray pills are hard to get these days. He uses four layers of purchasing to get to the actual dealer so that he’s as removed as possible. These newer versions of the drug make clear liquids turn bright blue and dark drinks cloudy. He’ll need to make sure Arrington orders red wine or a dark soft drink. As a last resort, coffee at the end of the meal will do.

  Also known as roofies or the forget pill, it’s his favorite inducement because most people don’t remember what happens when they are under its influence. He knows from personal experience that the Proprietor records what goes on in the rooms at the Hotel California. Which is where Sergio comes in. He has agreed to get him a copy of the video. He knows it’s risky. The proprietor would do away with Sergio in a heartbeat if she knew of their agreement. Not that Sergio is going to tell her. He’s got his own motivation, admitting once that he is saving up for a new life on an island somewhere. Hagan just hopes it’s not anytime soon. But then, given the way the guy likes to spend money, probably not.

  He places one of the small pill boxes in the pocket of his suit jacket, makes sure it’s securely hidden.

  Tonight’s the night, to quote an old Rod Stewart favorite. And then everything’ll be all right.

  Knox

  “I did not become a vegetarian for my health, I did it for the health of the chickens.”

  ―Isaac Bashevis Singer

  THEY ARRIVE AT the entrance to Hotel California just before four o’clock. Knox makes the right turn onto the long, paved drive that leads to the hotel.

  The chickens are sitting side by side in the middle of the back seat, their heads tucked close to each other.

  “I can’t believe they’re just sitting there like that,” he says, glancing at Emory.

  She reaches back to rub each of them, and, amazingly, they seem to like it. “They know they’re safe,” she says.

  “I’ve never spent any time around chickens, but they seem content.”

  “Wow. It’s beautiful,” Emory says, as the hotel comes into sight.

  “Yeah. Explains why it’s a getaway for the wealthiest of the wealthy.”

  Knox turns the Jeep into the parking lot to the right of one of the enormous oaks on the front lawn. A half dozen cars are lined up in the individual spots, all Mercedes or better. He notices a couple have Washington, DC, plates.

  He pulls in at the end of the row, cuts the engine to the Jeep.

  “Should we both go in?” Emory asks.

  “Why don’t I go in first?” Knox asks. “Get the lay of the land.”

  “Okay. I’ll stay here with the chickens.”

  Knox shakes his head as he walks across the parking lot and up the wide stairs at the front of the hotel. What the heck are they going to do with two chickens?

  The lobby is impressive—gleaming, old, hardwood floors, walnut maybe? Enormous, ornate gold mirrors line the wall of a winding staircase centered in the middle of the entrance. To the right is the check-in desk.

  The man standing at the center looks up to greet him with a subdued smile. He’s wearing a stern navy suit, starched white shirt, and muted pink tie. His bald head gleams beneath the crystal chandelier hanging above him. “May I help you, sir?” he asks in a voice that sounds as if he’s spent a good deal of time reading classic novels. Somewhere between Charles Dickens and F. Scott Fitzgerald.

  Knox steps up to the counter, rests a hand on the rolled edge of the heavy wood. He decides to use his MPD credentials on the hunch that he isn’t going to get far with this guy without them. Hoping he doesn’t ask for ID, Knox says, “I hope so. I’m with the DC Metropolitan Police Department. I’m looking for someone who might have visited your hotel or be connected in some way.”

  The man draws in a nearly invisible breath, makes an obvious effort to keep his smile in place. “Yes?”

  “His name is Sergio.”

  The man considers this for a moment, raises an eyebrow. “Do you have a last name?”

  “No. I don’t.” Knox keeps his voice even, as if he isn’t aware of the other man’s subtle condescension.

  “Our guest records are confidential, of course, but I don’t recall anyone by that name visiting the hotel in recent history. Nor am I aware of anyone by that name connected to the hotel.”

  Knox weighs the answer.

  “Is there a manager I could speak to?”

  The smile becomes more accommodating, even as he shakes his head. “I’m afraid she is not available at the present. If you would like to leave your name and number, I will ask her to call you.”

  He hands Knox a pen and a white notecard. Knox writes down his contact info, handing it
back to him. He thanks the man and turns for the door, unable to shake the feeling that there’s something going on under the surface of their communication.

  His phone dings. He pulls it from his pocket, taps the text app, and sees that it’s a message from Emory.

  Just saw a dark Range Rover pull out from behind the hotel. Headed for the entrance gate.

  Knox slips the phone back in his pocket and takes off running for the Jeep. He jumps under the wheel and says, “How long since you saw the vehicle?”

  “He pulled out right after you went in the hotel. I texted you, but wasn’t sure it went through. I only had one bar. I started to come in and get you, but I didn’t want to give away anything.”

  “Let’s just see if we can catch up. Luckily, this place is at the end of the state road, so he could only go one way.”

  He guns the Jeep out of the parking lot, one of the chickens clucking in protest.

  “Did you get a good look at the driver?”

  “I think it was a man. He was driving fast, and I wasn’t expecting to see it. Did you find out anything inside?”

  “No,” he says, reaching the hotel’s entrance gate and swinging right. He floors the Jeep, and they’re at seventy on the two-lane road with no vehicles in sight ahead of them. “Can’t put my finger on it, but something was up with the guy at the front desk. He was doing his best to not look bothered by my questions.”

  They drive over the speed limit for ten minutes before he finally lets up and says, “Afraid we aren’t catching up with him.”

  He pulls into the parking lot of a small car garage. A mechanic standing in the entrance of one of the bays lifts a hand in greeting. Knox lifts a hand to let him know they’re all good.

  “What now?” Emory asks.

  “Well, no idea if we’re on to anything or not. Let’s go back as customers though. We could have dinner at the restaurant. See what we see.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You do remember we have two chickens in the back seat?”

  He glances over his shoulder. “You call and see if we can get a reservation, and we’ll run back to the city, deposit the chickens at your house, and change clothes.”

  “I’ll look up the number,” she says, picking up her phone.

  Emory

  “Hope is the thing with feathers

  That perches in the soul

  And sings the tune without the words

  And never stops at all.”

  ―Emily Dickinson

  THE RESTAURANT AT Hotel California has an eight o’clock reservation for two available. Knox drops me and the chickens off at my house and heads back to his apartment to get clothes, because a coat and tie are required attire.

  I spend twenty minutes or so fixing a spot for the chickens in the laundry room. An extra litter box borrowed from Pounce filled with kitty litter seems to suit them fine for a potty, as they both make immediate use of it. I place a water bowl and food bowl next to a pillow, then look online to find out what to feed chickens, afraid to guess and be wrong.

  At the top of the search request: “Many chickens also love food treats such as corn, bananas, tomatoes, or leafy greens. Healthy treats such as these make a nice supplement to a pelleted ration. Make sure to avoid feeding highly salted foods, chocolate, avocado, alcohol, or caffeine, as these foods can make your bird ill.”

  For now, spinach, tomato, and banana should suit them nicely.

  Remembering that chickens like to roost, I place a broom between the washer and dryer, then pick up each chicken and set them atop the broom stick. They each squawk at first, but then massage the stick with their feet, moving left then right until they find a spot they’re happy with. Soft clucking indicates they’re satisfied with my offering.

  I leave the laundry room, closing the door firmly behind me. Introducing them to Pounce will have to come later.

  In my room, I scan my closet for a dress that seems appropriate for the restaurant, finally deciding on a black sleeveless that fits nicely but falls short of sexy.

  I jump in the shower, quickly pull my hair out of its ponytail and give it a quick shampoo, not taking time for conditioner. I run a razor over my legs and armpits, then towel off before grabbing the blow dryer from a cabinet drawer.

  Pounce meows persistently, weaving back and forth between my ankles. I reach down and rub his back. “I miss her too. We just have to get her back. Neither one of us is going to give up hope.”

  Knox

  “Knowing someone isn’t coming back

  doesn’t mean you ever stop waiting.”

  ―Toby Barlow

  HE SHOULDN’T NOTICE how she looks.

  He actually tries not to while she locks the front door of the house and walks quickly to the Jeep. He wonders if he should get out and open her door, then decides it will seem like this is something other than what it is.

  She gets in, tugs down the skirt of her dress, before clicking her seat belt.

  He backs out of the driveway, keeping his focus straight ahead. “Chickens settled in?”

  “Actually, they seemed happy. I looked up what to feed them. Luckily, I had some spinach and bananas.”

  “Are you going to keep them?”

  I think about it for a moment, and then, “Yeah, I think I am.”

  “What did Pounce think of them?”

  “I decided to wait on that introduction.”

  He smiles, one wrist draped over the steering wheel. “I’m guessing that was a good idea.”

  ”I think he’ll come around.”

  “I’d bet against it.” He looks at her then, a second too long, and the Jeep swerves a little. “Sorry.”

  She glances down at her hands, and he can feel her awareness of the fact that he was looking at her.

  “You look nice,” he says.

  “Thank you. So do you.”

  They drive in silence for a mile or two while he searches for appropriate footing, a place to steer the conversation that is in line with the actual reason they are dressed up and headed back to Hotel California.

  “What happens if we see him?” Emory asks, looking at the darkness speeding by outside her window.

  “I’ll call for backup. We already know he’s willing to kill to keep his tracks covered.”

  “What if he’s already killed her?”

  “You can’t think like that.”

  “I don’t want to. I just can’t bring myself to think about how she is, if she’s hurt or hungry or—”

  “Emory. Don’t, okay? It won’t help anything. And she needs you to keep pulling for her.”

  She looks at him then, and he lets himself glance at her face. The pain has unraveled, her eyes damp with tears. He’s realized that most of the time she keeps it tightly wrapped, the edges pressed together one over the other, so that anyone who didn’t know what was going on in her life would have been hard pressed to notice anything was wrong. Maybe it was the professional persona she’d had to develop with an impending career in psychiatry.

  “How long do families wait?” she asks quietly. “Before they give up.”

  “Some never do. Others need to at some point. Have to have the closure to go on. We’re not there yet, Emory. I’m not giving up.”

  She reaches across, covers his hand with hers. He can feel her gratitude in the pulse throbbing in her palm. And something else he’s reluctant to name. It’s nice though. He doesn’t pull his hand away and feels a bit of a loss when she finally pulls her own back to her lap, and her view to the darkness out her window.

  The Senator

  “Knowing where the trap is—that’s the first step in evading it.”

  ―Frank Herbert

  HE GIVES HIS driver Arrington’s Georgetown address. When they pull up in front of the Beaux Arts townhouse on Massachusetts Avenue, he realizes the young senator is even more well-funded than his own research had indicated. The Embassy Row properties were hard to come by and would be valued at u
pward of seven million.

  Nice to know though that he had chosen the appropriate form of persuasion with Arrington. Money wasn’t likely to have much pull, when it was already in such apparent abundance.

  He sends a text to let Arrington know they’re out front. The driver leaves the engine running, and in less than a minute, the young senator appears at the door, turns to tap a code into the lock, and then strides down the stone walkway, his very posture indicative of his position in life, his confidence that he has it all nailed down and perfectly within his control.

  The driver gets out to walk around to the back of the car, opening the door as the senator approaches. Hagan turns his head to the window, allows himself a smile of satisfaction. But when Arrington slides into the back seat, Hagan’s greeting is just plain old South Carolina glad-you-could-come.

  Mia

  “Man is the cruelest animal.”

  ―Friedrich Nietzsche

  SHE COMES OUT of the fog with a start, opening her eyes to find a woman standing next to the bed, studying her.

  Mia has never seen anyone with eyes like this. They make her think of a machine. Her eyes are more robot than human. Taking in what is in front of her without emotion, simply processing information and drawing a conclusion.

  “You are awake,” the woman says.

  Mia bolts upright, the haze around her brain fully lifted. She doesn’t bother answering, pulling the front of her robe closed and sliding back to the headboard of the bed.

  “There is nowhere to go,” the woman says matter-of-factly. “Surely you realize this by now.”

  The sudden urge to launch herself at this evil woman is nearly overwhelming. Mia’s fingernails aren’t long but she wonders if they would be sufficient to claw the woman’s eyes out. She wants to. She wonders where the girl of a few days ago has gone. That girl would have been nauseated by the idea. Now, the thought is so exhilarating that she has to forcibly tamp it back down.