The Speed of Sound

by Eric Bernt

  A small crowd inside the store had gathered to watch him WHISTLE, CHIRP, and WHIR with his avian friends. The onlookers’ expressions said it all. No one had ever seen anything like it. Not even the gray-bearded owner, who’d been in the bird business for over forty years. When there was a momentary lull in the conversation between Eddie and the birds, the proprietor asked, “You mind if I ask you something?”

  “I don’t talk to strangers.”

  The old man nodded as if he’d just been charmed by a precocious child. “Well, let’s fix that, then. I’m Rupert Kreitenberg, and this is my shop. We’re not strangers anymore, are we?”

  Eddie made his BUZZER sound, startling the proprietor. “We are most definitely still strangers, Rupert Kreitenberg.” Eddie kept his eyes on the monk parakeet.

  Kreitenberg studied him with admiration. “You’re the first person I’ve ever met who seems to love birds as much as I do.”

  “How much do you love birds?” Eddie asked.

  “More than I’ve ever loved anything else.”

  “More than people?”

  The owner smiled. “Definitely more than people.”

  “What is your favorite bird?”

  “Can’t say that I have one. I honestly love them all.”

  “Every single one?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Even pigeons?” Eddie knew that most people did not like pigeons, especially people who lived in New York City.

  “Yes, even pigeons.”

  Eddie turned to the old man without emotion. “I love birds more than people, too. Well, all except one.”

  “That person must be very special.”

  “Yes, she is. She is very special.”

  “Is she your girlfriend?” Rupert asked with a certain charm that was disarming.

  “She’s my doctor. But I don’t know where she is right now.” Eddie thought for a moment before continuing. “My name is Edward Parks, but I ask people to call me Eddie because it is the familiar of Edward and I am familiar with everyone I know.”

  “Hello, Eddie. My name is Rupert.”

  “Yes. Rupert Kreitenberg. You already told me that.”

  “So I did.” He smiled warmly.

  “We have something in common, which means we aren’t strangers anymore.”

  “I’m glad we’re not strangers anymore, Eddie.”

  Eddie closed his eyes, rotating his head slowly back and forth as he listened closely for any hint of falsehood. There was none. He turned his attention back to the birds.

  “Do you mind if I ask where you learned to communicate with birds like that?” The proprietor couldn’t stop smiling.

  “No, I do not mind.”

  Rupert waited for an answer, then realized Eddie had already given him one. Rupert asked the question again, but this time more directly.

  “Harmony House.”

  “What is Harmony House?”

  “A special place for special people.”

  The proprietor’s suspicion about Eddie was confirmed. He’d read about people with mental disorders who could do all kinds of amazing things, like memorizing phone books or counting cards. Apparently, talking with birds could now be added to this list. “Is that where you live?”

  Eddie nodded. “I have lived in Harmony House since I was eleven years old, two months, and twelve days.” The birds CHIRPED at him. Eddie responded.

  “Do you understand what they’re saying to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mind telling me?”

  “No, I do not mind telling you.” Eddie WHISTLED, CHIRPED, and WHIRRED to the man, repeating the sounds he had just made to the birds.

  Kreitenberg nodded. “Fair enough.”

  “What is fair enough?”

  “I believe what you meant to say is there is no translation. It’s music. How do you translate music, right?” Eddie CHIRPED some more. The old man smiled with astonishment. He was like a veteran music teacher unexpectedly coming upon a prodigy of unfathomable talent. It was how Beethoven’s father, who was a decent composer himself, must have felt. “You know, I’ve spent my whole life around birds, and I’ve never seen anyone do what you can do. Did someone teach you?”

  “No.”

  “Then how did you learn?”

  “I have golden ears like William Tuthill.”

  “Who is William Tuthill?”

  “He is the architect who designed Carnegie Hall.”

  The shop owner nodded, now remembering that little bit of New York history. “Yes, Eddie, I believe you do have golden ears.”

  Eddie returned his focus to the birds. “They do not like to be kept in cages, you know.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they do.”

  “If you love them more than people, why do you keep them in cages?”

  “Selling them is how I make my living.”

  Eddie looked confused. “How does selling birds make you live?”

  “It’s the way I earn money. Selling birds is how I keep a roof over my head.”

  Eddie looked up. “Structural support beams keep this roof over your head.”

  “This shop is how I put food on the table.”

  “I carry mine on a tray.”

  The owner could only stare in wonder. This young man was unlike anyone he’d ever met. Rupert knew this was one day he would never forget.

  CHAPTER 69

  West End Avenue, New York City, May 27, 7:44 p.m.

  Skylar was exhausted. She’d been searching for miles. The shadows on the buildings were growing longer. There wasn’t much daylight left. And she was no closer to finding Eddie than when she started. In fact, she was further away than ever. Somehow, she could sense it. She was looking for a needle in a haystack. The best way to help him might be to turn herself in and help Homeland find him before something unforgivable happened.

  She moved to a graffiti-strewn pay phone mounted on a wall, only to find the receiver had been smashed long ago. There were no other pay phones in view, because so few people used them now, but there were dozens of cell phones in use all around her. Everyone she approached, asking to borrow their phone, looked at her with mild annoyance, moderate disdain, or outright disgust, if they acknowledged her at all. Skylar was beginning to dislike New York almost as much as Eddie did.

  She walked to a newsstand, where she pleaded with the proprietor to borrow his phone. Engrossed in his own conversation, he pointed across the street to the dilapidated Jones Marquis Hotel. She darted through traffic and into the hotel lobby, where the elderly front-desk clerk flat-out refused Skylar’s request, even when she explained it was a police emergency. He pointed to the 1970s-era phone booth on the other side of the lobby and told her to call 911.

  Skylar collapsed inside the booth and pulled the glass doors closed. She enjoyed the moment of privacy, then collected herself before calling to turn herself in. Skylar glanced out through the glass doors at the elderly clerk as she dialed 911. The clerk leaned down behind the front desk to pick up something off the floor. It turned out to be a rusty little birdcage containing a yellow parakeet, which he placed on the counter. It was apparently dinnertime for the tiny creature. It flitted about excitedly in the cage as the elderly clerk scooped out a small portion of seeds, which he poured into a rectangular dish at the bottom of the cage.

  Through the phone, the police operator spoke the six words she repeated several hundred times each eight-hour shift. “Nine one one, what’s your emergency?”

  Skylar hung up the receiver. She was no longer ready to give up her search for Eddie. Not yet. Skylar still had one more trick up her sleeve. She grabbed the well-worn yellow-pages book dangling from a metal chain inside the phone booth. The book was missing its cover and a considerable number of other pages. She prayed the one she needed was still intact. After flipping through the eight and a half pages of listings for “Beauty Supplies,” she came to the listings for “Bird Shops.”

  In all of New York City, there were only three. Total
page space was less than one-quarter. Only one of the shops, Flight, on East Eighty-Seventh, had any kind of ad at all. The other two, Give ’Em the Bird and Beautiful Birds, on Amsterdam, simply had their addresses and numbers listed. Skylar didn’t know New York all that well, so she wasn’t entirely sure which of the three shops was closest, but she thought it was the one on Amsterdam Avenue. And she had to start somewhere, so she left the hotel, after tearing out the yellow page containing the three bird shops, and hailed a cab.

  CHAPTER 70

  New York Office, Department of Homeland Security, May 27, 7:55 p.m.

  What Skylar couldn’t have known was that the Jones Marquis had only five months ago been a popular address for prostitution. The New York City Police had successfully raided the establishment on several occasions, and had installed a camera directly across the street, providing a clear view of every individual who entered or exited. The ACLU had tried to force its removal, like they had so many others, but the matter was successfully tied up in the courts and the camera had already caught all the working girls and johns it was going to, so the matter seemed to simply fade away. While the hookers had moved on to another area, the camera remained, mostly because it was cheaper to leave it up than take it down.

  The city was full of such surveillance refuse, which now included over 127,000 cameras. The law-enforcement and intelligence communities had only recently figured out how to utilize them in real time. Part of the solution was the new facial-recognition software being used inside 633 Third Avenue. Three of the eight Homeland analysts using it were currently engaged in a debate over whether a recent “catch” with a 55-percent-probable identity match for the female suspect as she entered a particular hotel several minutes ago was worth forwarding to the agents in the field.

  The analysts had studied the profile image as closely as the particular camera’s resolution would allow. Three hundred and fifty horizontal television lines (TVL) was on the low end of surveillance-technology resolution, and not nearly as useful as cameras with 480 TVL or higher. The three analysts did the best they could with what they had to work with, enhancing the footage to a nominal degree. When they brought the possible catch to Max Garber, he refused to act on it. Seventy percent was their threshold. Anything less sent field agents on too many wild-goose chases.

  As the three analysts continued brainstorming how to improve the image to give them an actionable probability rating, none of them did what Max Garber did, which was to simply watch the ongoing real-time footage from the same camera. The same blonde woman in the same outfit who had only been seen in profile entering the hotel a few minutes ago could now be seen exiting the hotel, hailing a cab. This image was not in profile. She was looking directly at the camera. It was only moments before 87% Probable Match—Skylar Drummond appeared across the bottom of the screen.

  “Hey, guys.” He pointed to the image, leaving the other three analysts speechless. Within seconds Max was on the phone with Agent Raines, who immediately directed four field teams to go after the cab Skylar Drummond had just gotten into. They were going to form a perimeter around the moving vehicle and immediately close in as soon as it stopped moving. Max contacted the New York City cab-dispatch office, and coordinated with them to track the cab’s progress without alerting the driver. The dispatcher would also steer other cabs away from the immediate vicinity.

  Agent Raines was right to have singled out Max. He was their quarterback, and the other DHS analysts were only too happy to follow his play call.

  CHAPTER 71

  Amsterdam Avenue, New York City, May 27, 8:03 p.m.

  As Skylar’s cab pulled to the curb, she asked the driver to wait for her. She said she’d only be a minute. Before the driver could protest, she was already rushing inside Beautiful Birds. Skylar entered the store and quickly moved through the overcrowded rooms. There were cages of every conceivable size stacked on top of one another. Big ones. Small ones. Wood ones. Hanging ones. And ones that looked like modern art. Prices ranged from forty-seven dollars to several thousand dollars. There weren’t many birds, though. As far as Skylar could tell, there were three cages of canaries, two parrot cages, and several containing birds she didn’t recognize. Not finding Eddie, she quickly bypassed a line of customers waiting for the proprietor, and asked if he’d seen anyone matching Eddie’s description. The shop owner said he had not. When she asked if he was sure, he said yes, he goddamn was. And if she didn’t mind, he had paying customers to attend to.

  Skylar headed back out the door. One bird shop down, two to go. She stopped suddenly on the sidewalk. On any other day, she wouldn’t have noticed them, but the black Suburbans arriving at either end of the block caught her eye. The vehicles were identical. It could be no coincidence.

  She turned around and raced back inside the store. She went to the rear of the shop, passing floor-to-ceiling stacks of bird food, which looked like they were going to fall at any minute. She approached a door marked “Employees Only.” It was locked. Skylar knocked urgently, but no one answered. She was cursing to herself, when the door cracked open.

  An overweight teenage boy, whom Skylar took to be the son of the owner, poked his head out of the door. “Can I help you?”

  “Does this place have a rear exit?” she asked urgently.

  “No.” He tried to close the door and return to playing Ultra Street Fighter II on his Nintendo Switch, but Skylar blocked the door with her foot.

  “How about a bathroom? Is there one back here? I really have to go.”

  “I guess.” He reluctantly opened the door and pointed inside to a bathroom. Skylar raced inside it, locked the door, and turned on the faucet full blast.

  CHAPTER 72

  Beautiful Birds, New York City, May 27, 8:07 p.m.

  Agent Raines rushed inside the bird shop moments later. There was no sign of Skylar, so he quickly made his way toward the back and the “Employees Only” door. He banged on it loudly. After a moment, the teenage boy opened the door, clearly annoyed. “What?”

  Raines flashed his badge and spoke urgently. “Homeland Security. I’m looking for a woman in her late twenties.”

  Before the agent could provide any further description, the boy’s eyes went wide. He dropped his game controller and pointed toward the bathroom, where the faucet could still be heard running. He was barely able to speak. “She’s in there.”

  Raines immediately drew his weapon and advanced swiftly toward the bathroom door. “Skylar Drummond, this is Homeland Security. Come out now.” There was no response. The agent checked the door handle and confirmed it was locked. “Open the door. I won’t ask again.” Getting no reply, he kicked in the door. Wham! The door splintered readily.

  He rushed inside the small bathroom; a window above the toilet was open. Peering out, he saw that one of the exterior metal security bars had completely rusted, allowing Skylar to bend it just enough to squeeze by. There was, however, no way in hell his 6’3”, 220-pound frame was ever going to make it through, no matter what kind of shape he was in. He caught sight of Skylar as she ran out of the alley. “Son of a bitch!” Raines raced back into the store.

  Skylar barreled out of the alley onto Sixty-Eighth Street, where she carefully peered around a wall of plywood surrounding a construction site plastered with posters for upcoming movies she would never see based on graphic novels she had never heard of. She didn’t know how Homeland had found her, but realized they probably had dozens of agents out there looking for her. Skylar was also vaguely aware of the vast number of security cameras around the city. She knew she had to be more careful. But when opportunity presented itself, she wasn’t about to hesitate.

  A cab pulled over halfway down the block next to a petite woman attempting to carry shopping bags from various retailers. Fortunately for Skylar, the load was too much for the shopper. By the time the woman had given up trying to carry her haul all at once, intending to place her bounty into the cab several bags at a time, Skylar had already slipped into the cab, shu
t the door, and instructed the driver to hit the gas. As the cab sped away, the shopper raised the middle finger of her right hand and yelled at the top of her ample lungs, “Selfish bitch!”

  CHAPTER 73

  Harmony House, Woodbury, New Jersey, May 27, 8:09 p.m.

  The Department of Homeland Security was back to square one, which meant Michael Barnes was, too. But he was calm by comparison. In fact, as the Harmony House security director received updates from his two men in the vicinity, Barnes enjoyed learning of Raines’s outbursts. It meant he was an amateur. Had he even half the patience or experience Michael Barnes did, Agent Raines would have asked one simple question: Why had the doctor gone to a bird shop, of all places? Why not a hair salon or a bank branch or a fast-food restaurant? The answer was simple: Edward Parks had a thing for birds.

  Michael Barnes was now sure of one thing: Skylar Drummond didn’t know where Eddie Parks was. She had made an educated guess, and a good one at that. Because New York City had only three listings for bird shops. With only two left, Barnes had a fifty-fifty shot of guessing which one Skylar Drummond was going to next. He liked his odds, and placed his bet.

  CHAPTER 74

  Upper East Side, New York City, May 27, 8:16 p.m.

  Lutz drove with reckless abandon. Hirsch navigated for him. By sheer luck, they made every traffic light en route to East Eighty-Seventh Street. Good fortune, it seemed, was on their side.

  They arrived outside Flight in just under seven minutes, less than half the time it should have taken. The two security specialists bolted from their double-parked car and raced to the bird store’s entrance.

  To find the doors locked. The lights were off. According to the sign listing the store’s hours, they had closed at eight o’clock. Hirsch peered in the storefront window as Lutz banged on the door loudly. The birds inside shrieked, but nothing else moved. There was no one there.