Little Bird (Anna Series Book 2)

by Lee Alan

  “Welcome to my world,” Claire said. “If I hear one more thing about that movie, I’m gonna personally visit George,” she waved her hand, “whatever his name is, with one of those killer light sticks.”

  “Light saber” Anna corrected her. Claire gave her a look that said “please don’t tell me you’re a fan.”

  “Corey loves it,” she explained and received another one of those looks.

  “So, you guys are serious?” Claire asked, tucking into a chocolate special with sprinkles on top.

  “I hope so. We’re getting married.”

  “No shit!” Claire said, although she didn’t look surprised.

  “I’m afraid the shit is real.”

  “You got a bun in the oven?”

  “Nope. Well, at least, I don’t think so.” Anna blushed, expecting something sounding more like congratulations for the upcoming wedding.

  It also struck her that she couldn’t answer the question with complete certainty, and she made a mental note to take a pregnancy test. Her thoughts turned to what Corey’s reaction might be to such news, and this caused her stomach to flip. The truth was that they hadn’t even discussed their lack of care about such things.

  “Sorry,” Claire said. “In my neck of the woods, it’s the usual culprit.”

  “Was it a rough place?” Anna asked, curious. “Where you grew up, I mean?”

  “Strict is more the word,” Claire said a little too quickly. “How about you?”

  “My parents were lovely,” Anna said. “The best.”

  “Were?”

  “Both passed away,” Anna answered, fighting the usual emotions the statement stirred in her.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yours?”

  “In heaven, I hope,” Claire said, stirring the coffee. She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I pray for their souls every day.”

  “Is that why you moved here?” Anna pressed gently before regretting the direct question. “Sorry. It’s none of my business.”

  “It’s complicated,” Anna noticed moisture welling in Claire’s eye, but the other woman wiped it away before it could form into a tear. She decided to change the subject, not wishing to push the sensitive subject.

  “Hermon is such a cute name,” she said, looking back to the little boy playing. “Where did you get it from?”

  “Guess what his middle name is?” Claire asked, ignoring the question.

  “Tell me,” Anna replied, noticing Claire’s demeanor had visibly lightened.

  “Shmermonson.”

  Anna blinked. “Wow. Really? Hermon Shmermonson. I mean, is it like Swedish, or something?”

  Claire blinked, her face deadpan. She then burst out laughing in a rich, warm tone. A second later, Anna realized how gullible she’d sounded and joined the other womans chuckles.

  “Swedish? Really?” Claire asked, placing her coffee on the table to stop it from shaking. “Actually, it’s from the book of Enoch,” she said more seriously. “Well, the Hermon part, anyhow.”

  “The Bible?” The question drew another one of those grey–eyed “well, duh” looks.

  “It’s a mountain, I think—the place where angels gathered on Earth.”

  “Wow. Sounds pretty deep,” Anna commented. “What made you pick that particular passage?”

  “I didn’t. My pa did.” Claire returned to stirring her coffee, and intense emotions seemed to simmer beneath her outer calm.

  “Yowzer,” Anna said.

  “Told you he was strict.”

  “No kidding.” A dozen questions flew through Anna’s mind, along with a swell of sympathy for her damaged, new friend. “I still love the name, though.” she added, again not wishing to risk being the cause of more upset.

  “Yeah. It’s hard not to like everything about Hermie.”

  “Things are going to be tough, then? For Christmas, I mean?” Anna asked, not sure if she’d just traded one difficult subject for another.

  “We’ll be fine—I was just bitchin’, earlier. It would just be nice to have a pot to piss in, for a change.” She sighed. “Oh well, at least he’s allowed gifts this year.” Anna opened her mouth to make a suggestion, but Claire headed her off by waving a half–eaten donut in her direction. “Don’t you dare say what I think you’re about to say,” Claire interrupted her. “This isn’t about me beggin’ for money. You dig?” Her tone sounded deadly serious. “It’s important to me that you don’t offer, Anna.”

  “But…”

  “No buts, lady. I mean it. Me and Hermie will be fine. He needs to understand that life doesn’t involve filching off others. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Anna relented, although she felt terrible. It would be so easy to help this young family without any real cost to herself, but she had to admire Claire’s determination to instil her child with principles. She also found it refreshing to find someone interested in her, rather than her money, which had become a familiar issue lately.

  “The next donuts are on me, by the way,” Claire added, obviously wanting to emphasize the point.

  “Okay, okay, you win.” Anna held her hands in surrender. “I just want you both to be happy.”

  “What’s happiness got to do with anything? That’s for the next life.” Claire looked serious. “The Almighty provides. That’s all we need to count on.”

  “Got it,” Anna replied. Even as she spoke, though, another idea came to her—one that could give an excuse to treat this lovely family and which may also fit with Claire’s strict moral compass.

  “Claire,” she began, trying to frame the question in her mind.

  “Anna,” she responded lightly after the pause lasted a second too long.

  “This might sound a bit crazy, but how would you like to be my bridesmaid?” she asked, cringing at how needy it sounded. Claire’s body language conveyed a mixture of elation and guarded curiosity.

  “You’re shitting me?” she asked. “If this is getting me back for the Shmermonson thing, you’ve beat me, hands down.”

  “I shit you not.”

  “Why me? I appreciate that you’re grateful and all, but this trip out is more than enough, thanks.”

  “It’s not about that,” Anna disagreed. “You’re the first person I feel I can trust after, well… since everything happened.”

  “You don’t know that, and what about your other friends?” Claire asked. “Surely there’s someone you can rely on. A family member?” Despite the words, Anna could sense her interest.

  “Trust me, there’s no one. Not since Julia… not for a long time. It’s hard to explain, but for years I had no choice in my life, including choosing friends. Now, it’s like I’m starting from scratch, but with only Corey to share it with.” She said this with welling passion, “I know that must sound crazy, but it’s the truth. Nothing creepy—I just want another person to share all this with.”

  Claire stared back, her feelings a mystery to Anna. “You mean you want someone to shop with?” she asked after a moment, lips twitching with amusement. Anna enjoyed the pleasant connection passing between them.

  “So, when’s the big day?”

  “February.”

  Claire looked like she would choke on the last morsel of her treat. “In two months? You are pulling my chain!”

  “February,” Anna repeated, grinning at the shock she’d caused.

  “Where?”

  “London.”

  “Why the hell do you want to get married in Ohio?”

  “No. London, England.”

  Claire looked puzzled for a second, but then her eyes widened as the full realization struck. Holy cow!”

  “Indeed,” Anna answered, rewarding herself with a bite of the gigantic cookie she hadn’t touched until now.

  “What about Hermie?”

  “Leave him here.”

  “What?”

  Anna smiled. “Now, that was for pulling my leg before,” she said, her eyes twinkling with fun. “Bring him with you
.”

  Claire mulled it over. “Looks like I’ll be needing a passport.”

  Chapter 10

  Officer Plum–Dike loved toilet time. A small part of him argued that he shouldn’t get any pleasure from reading the prisoner’s correspondence while taking a dump, but he couldn’t help but get off on the crazy shit that came from learning about the lives of his loving flock.

  He’d come to understand the three types of deluded fools writing to the inmates. The first and most sensible kind were those who dumped their prisoner spouse shortly after lover boy was safely locked away. They usually went for someone a tad less stabby. Plum–Dike considered delivering the sad news to these rejected inmates as another perk of the job.

  The type he found more puzzling were those long–suffering fools who chose to stay in touch with their former lovers for years. Sometimes it was even after hearing in graphic detail how Mr. Perfect had strangled a kid to death while wearing his dead granny’s tights. Last were the ghouls—he despised these sick fucks with a passion. These certified, bat–shit crazy, prison wife wannabes, were attracted to serial killers like flies to dog shit. Hell, even Teddy Bear—as sick and twisted as it could get—had his fan mail.

  Plum–Dike stared at the most recent letter between Tony Eckerman, the Phoenix Strangler, and some religious nut–job. “Disappointing,” he said, holding the envelope upside down to see if any dirty pictures dropped out. No such luck today.

  “Hey, is that what yer old lady says when she clamps her eyes on yer shrivelled old pecker, Plum–Dike?” the voice was Finnan’s, coming from the stall next to his.

  “Fuck you, Finnan. Why don’t you jerk off in your sister’s panties some more?”

  A mocking snort replied.

  Jesus, I hate that fucking Mick prick. Oh well, I won’t be strangling the snake today, he thought, turning his attention back to the letter.

  He took several squares of paper from the roll attached to the door and considered giving up on his afternoon entertainment. While he waited for inspiration, Plum–Dike inspected the toilet paper, wondering how it was possible to invent a material which actually repelled moisture, instead of absorbing it. Typical—all they care about is saving pennies, these days, even if it means making a hard–working fella wipe his ass on this chicken shit tracing paper.

  He decided to switch to plan B and read the letter to search for something worth knocking one out for. Unfortunately, it turned out to be the same crazy Bible shit she’d spouted in her first communication: something about the coming of the end of days for the wicked. He almost felt sorry for the Strangler that he’d gotten himself lumbered with such a fucking prude. With a sigh, he finally decided to give up, and he raised the letter to return it to the envelope. In doing so, he noticed an odd citrus smell.

  Wow, did they finally get around to cleaning these toilets? Concluding that such a rare event was beyond the realms of reason, he searched for another source to explain the fruity aroma.

  Orange, he decided.

  He hated the smell. As a child, his mother would force him to eat at least one a day after reading that fruit was the miracle cure to all illnesses. In his case, the ailment was a skin condition giving him an unfortunate body odour problem—the same problem that’d led his classmates to give him the knick–name Rotten Plums. After several tearful complaints to his parent, the daily dose of what he’d come to call ‘agent orange’ had followed. Of course, it’d made didly shit difference to his skin condition, but it had left him with a lifelong dislike of the stench.

  He looked around for the source of the smell, but couldn’t see anything obvious lying around on the dirty bathroom floor. Curious, he breathed in again.

  “Definitely orange,” he said.

  Laughter followed from next door. “I’d get the doc to look at that, if I were you, Plum boy!”

  “Shut it, Finnan!”

  Inwardly cursing his neighbor once more, he shifted his considerable bulk around on the toilet seat to get a better view of his surroundings. In doing so, he happened to bring Eckerman’s letter closer to his face. The pungent, fruity smell became much stronger. He sniffed the paper and wrinkled his nose.

  Maybe Bible freaks use it for perfume?

  His twenty years of experience as a prison guard disagreed, though. The Strangler was a slippery customer who’d not been in here long enough to be broken. It was possible that he could be trying to hatch some mischief with the Bible nut. She was his only known contact on the outside, so if he was going to do something, it would probably be through her.

  Plum–Dike made a mental note to send the letter to the forensics team based in C–wing.

  ***

  November 23rd,

  Dearest Kate,

  What can I say? How can I express the feelings of joy passing through my spirit as I read your words? You ask if I have been saved. Do I understand the passion of our Lord?

  The truth, I swear, is that until I saw the light of wisdom through your gentle encouragement, I’d been a lost sinner without being reborn.

  I have something to tell you, dear Kate. One of the few freedoms we have in this God–forsaken place is to seek out our true saviour. Dearest Kate, I did it! Even now, I can feel the water kiss my forehead. It was like the touch of the sun on a warm summer’s day.

  Kate, I imagined you next to me during my deliverance. You held my hand, but I could not see your face. In the moment of my rebirth, I knew the Lord was sending me a message to seek out the woman responsible for saving my soul.

  Does that offend you, Kate? I pray this is not so, for I couldn’t bear it. I need to see your face. I’m not sure if they will allow it, but I beg you, please send me a picture.

  Since my baptism, I’ve passed my time by learning the sacred way and have read many things about my brother martyrs—they, who experienced the same persecutions I do.

  My Kate, we are not the only ones to have corresponded during the depths of injustice. In the old country, England, holy men would be imprisoned in the dreaded Tower of London.

  In those dark times, even a simple piece of fruit—an orange—sent from their loved ones, would be enough to keep them from falling into despair. Did you know that such a simple thing as an orange could be this important, Kate? I would urge you to also learn of these amazing men.

  Please read my words carefully and write back soon. Although I am no longer wretched, I still need your light to give me hope. Please, send me a picture.

  Thank you is not enough,

  Tony

  ***

  December 1st,

  Tony,

  I knew you were the one. I could feel it, even as I watched the tragedy of your trial unfold. Now, I am more certain than ever.

  It’s hard to express the joy in my heart to hear you are saved.

  I have enclosed a picture, as you ask, but fear that you will not like my appearance. Does it please you?

  I have done as you ask and read of the martyrs. Please be assured that I will be inspired to follow humbly in their footsteps. I hope my efforts are of some comfort to you.

  Please say I can visit. Is it allowed? When can we meet, my darling? If God is merciful, then let this be soon. I pray for this happy day to arrive.

  Write to me soon, my love,

  Kate

  ***

  Tony had risked one of Plum–Dike’s secretly–delivered beatings by smuggling the lighter into his cell. His costly prize felt like it would rupture his anus as he strode back from the tiny exercise yard. He concluded that the forty–minute daily ritual was a treat best enjoyed without a gas–filled plastic oblong container shoved up one’s ass.

  After completing the delicate operation of removal, he sat alone in his cell, staring at the letter from the woman calling herself Kate. The anticipation was almost too much. If she’d missed the real message, his cause was screwed. Please, you crazy bitch! He feared the worse. High intelligence had never featured in his estimation of religious
types. Only one way to find out, old boy.

  Tony raised the paper above the lighter close enough to provide heat, but not so close that the paper would set alight. He flicked the ignition and watched as a low, blue flame appeared under Kate’s neat handwriting. At first, nothing happened and his hopes sank, but a few seconds later, darkened words appeared below the visible ink.

  My Darling,

  You are so clever. The orange idea must have been divine inspiration. It fills my heart with joy to speak to you without the eyes of the heathen upon us.

  It doesn’t surprise me to know that your previous state of spiritual darkness came from the evil ways of Eve. To think such a creature would steal your heart and then forsake you for a man of greed—a wizard of Babylon, no less.

  My answer is yes, with all my heart. I will help you bring the Lord’s judgement upon them. But how?

  Oh, my dearest Tony, you have no idea how happy this makes me. I put my trust in the will of our Lord, and he brought us together.

  For too long, the doubting Thomases of this Earthly realm have tried to persuade me that my beliefs are a sickness of the mind. You have proven them wrong, my love. Only you had the grace to have faith in me. I beg you, my master, allow me to return your trust.

  Pray for me,

  Kate

  “Hallelujah!” Tony grinned, allowing the accompanying photo to fall back into the envelope without bothering to inspect it.

  This fishy didn’t float his boat. He couldn’t care less if she had the face of a supermodel and the body of a Brazilian hooker—he was already surrounded by crazies, and having another in his life was not part of the plan. She would come in useful, though, oh, yes. He would use this little fishy as bait to hook a better prize.

  Chapter 11

  The first time Katlin Macintosh entered the Clear Water Estate, she thought she’d wandered onto the set of a sci–fi movie, complete with giant UFO mother ship at its center. Sitting behind the wheel of the company van, she half–expected the branching structure of the dome to rise into the air. Amazing, she thought, as she parked in front of what seemed to be a deserted reception area.