Songbird (Bellator Saga Book 7)

by Cecilia London

  “Except me.”

  “Well, yes. Except you.”

  “What if I do manage to work things out with Alex?”

  “You will.”

  She was totally missing the point or choosing to disregard it entirely. “Things will change.”

  “Things always change. You need to get better at adjusting.”

  A valid point. “He’s got opportunities. That are outside Philadelphia.”

  “So?”

  Was she being deliberately obtuse or merely mischievous? I couldn’t tell. “It’s far away,” I whispered.

  “Is that what you’re worried about, on top of everything else?”

  “It’s an entirely separate continent.”

  “And more than a few time zones over to boot. What exactly is your point?”

  She was provoking me, trying to make me all schmaltzy and I had no choice but to give in. “I’ll miss you, Punky.”

  “The travel industry exists for a reason, Chrissy,” she pointed out, though I did notice her eyes were getting a little damp. As if either one of us had any tears left. “And I have a rich husband. Maybe I can get Jack to buy another plane. Or a cottage in Marseille.”

  “A cottage would be nice. But Marseille is nowhere near Barcelona.”

  “Hey, if I’m going to invest in overseas property, it’s going to be in the land of my people.”

  “Could we use it when you’re not there?”

  “Nope. No Chrissys are allowed in the McIntyre Illicit Sex Chalet de Provence.”

  “How is that any more illicit than what you two do in this house?”

  She smirked. “Different language?”

  “I’m not saying I want to use your Cottage of Adventurous Marital Intercourse, but you’re mean for not even offering it up. Especially since you’ve been so obsessed with my romantic life.”

  “I know. You should probably leave the country to get away from me.”

  “Will you help me brush up on my Spanish?”

  “I will,” she said cryptically. “If you finally admit that my mastery of French is equally useful.”

  I would never, ever do that, even though I had spent two years in a country where French was one of the two official languages. “I’ll just do some online quick-study program, then. Would you really buy a plane?”

  She put her arm around me. “I’d buy you a plane, and a cottage, and a really super nice phone with free long distance if that’s what it would take for you to take this chance. Although I’d probably have to discuss it with Jack. He does prefer input when I buy new electronic devices.”

  I used stoicism as a defense mechanism. Caroline did the same with good-natured sarcasm. “Stop being so flip.”

  Caroline pulled me into a full hug. “Chrissy, if there is one thing I’d hope you got out of America’s virtual death spiral into hypocrisy, hatred, hubris, and almost total moral annihilation, it’s that you should live. And thrive. Not just survive.”

  “You survived,” I pointed out.

  “Yes,” she said gently. “My desire to survive almost cost me everything. And now I’m living.”

  Could I find a way to restore my relationship with Alex, and would it give me the courage to take that leap? “If this happens and I somehow end up in Spain, I really will miss you.”

  “I know.”

  I waited. And waited. And waited. But she said nothing further. “You’re not going to miss me too?” I asked huffily.

  She broke the hug and leaned back before pinching her fingers together and holding them millimeters apart. “This much.”

  “That’s not even a much. Or a tad. That’s literally almost nothing.”

  “It’s a tiny smidge. A pinch. I will miss you a pinch.”

  “You’re just trying to goad me into leaving.”

  She sniffled, and I knew I’d scored another hit. “Is it working?”

  I reminded myself that planes and phones and all the other ways people kept in contact with each other existed for a reason. For two years I’d believed that my best friend was dead, that I’d have to raise her children alone, without her influence. Now I had her back, and it was hard to walk out the door knowing I might be choosing to leave her again. But she was alive and that was all that mattered. “You’re one of the most important people in my life,” I said, my voice cracking.

  “I know.” She wasn’t bothering to hide her own tears. “But a few months ago you would have said I was the most important, which makes me think you’ve got to figure things out with Alex. You deserve the kind of happiness he can bring you. I’m only good for best friend hugs and homemade pie. And the occasional joke.”

  She was so much more than that, but it didn’t need to be said. And at that moment, all I wanted to do was call Alex. See Alex. Touch Alex. Fix things with Alex. “I need to go.”

  “Damn right you do.” Caroline started to guide me out of her office. “I’m not going to try to predict how your conversation with Alex turns out. I suggest you have it face to face so nothing gets misconstrued. Also, I want you to know that the instant you leave this house, I am going to very casually start searching for real estate in the south of France. Therefore, I would respectfully request that you take care of this as soon as possible so I can start planning my periodic trips to visit you. So, bye,” she said, as she kissed me on the cheek and shoved me out the front door.

  *****

  She was right. I had to move quickly. Best to rip the bandage off the wound while I had the courage. My moxie had its limits, though. I was too much of a coward to call.

  I texted him. Three words. Can we talk?

  I’ll come to you, he texted back. As thoughtful as it was promising.

  Although it was hard staring at the door he’d left through the previous evening. The knock was short. Not too loud, not too quiet. But it meant he was here.

  “Hi,” I said softly.

  “Hi.” He shuffled in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

  I gestured with my arm, too terrified to speak.

  “I missed you,” he said. “I—”

  No. He’d been humble enough to put his own vulnerabilities on display. He wasn’t going to compound the harm I caused by apologizing first. “Stop,” I said. “It’s not time for that yet.” I sat down on the couch and took a deep breath. “Will you come over here and hold my hand?”

  “Anything you want.”

  I closed my eyes as he squeezed both of my hands in his. “I want to tell you about Tom and Jessie. It’s time. I know I should have shared all of this with you earlier.” Come on, Christine. Suck it up and say it out loud. “But I was afraid. It was enough for you to deal with the difficulties and annoyances that come with my status in society. I didn’t want to tack on my issues as well.”

  “Christine—”

  “Please let me finish. This is a really good apology and I need you to hear it.”

  He squeezed my hand a little harder. “If you need to. But it’s not necessary.”

  It was. “I didn’t want you to have an excuse to give up on me,” I whispered. “Which is an atrocious thing to think of you and I’m sorry.”

  “Have other men given up on you?”

  My father. “Aside from Tom, I never really had a stable male figure in my life. Until you.”

  “I still want to be that man, Christine.”

  Maybe he could help me. I just had to be honest. I covered my eyes with my hand. “The man I needed the most left when I wasn’t ready.”

  “This is deeper than your husband and child. You realize that, don’t you?”

  Show him who you really are. “I know. I’m hoping you’ll help me figure it out.”

  “Then tell me,” he said. “Tell me about that night.”

  Chapter 16

  There was a bite in the air. Snow had fallen off and on all day, but night descended and the heavier showers came. Visibility was low, but Tom was careful driving the car for a number of reasons, precious cargo and common sense chief
among them.

  They couldn’t afford miscues or mistakes. They had fake IDs, good ones, and had changed their appearances accordingly. They also had guns, which they hoped they wouldn’t have to use but were tucked away in their backpacks nonetheless.

  They had changed course several times. Drive north, double back, look at the map, listen to the rumors floating through the Underground. Double back yet again, circle around, drive further north. A smaller port seemed better suited to their goals, so they scratched their plans for Buffalo and headed into far northern New York toward Fort Covington. Marguerite remembered the area from her time at summer camp. It was remote, she said. Little traffic. Low population. Less conspicuous.

  Christine tried not to think about anything, tried to keep her focus on Marguerite and Sophie and the ultimate goal, with Jessica doing her best to keep the girls entertained in the back seat. Marguerite rarely spoke, except when she would gently rock her sister during the times Sophie would burst into tears and talk about how much she missed their parents.

  The child wanted to go home. They all did. Home wasn’t an option.

  They’d waited long enough. Tonight was the night. Damn the torpedoes, start the engines. It was time for liftoff to Canada. Tom kept making cheap jokes and Christine would do her best to laugh them off but his humor did little to ameliorate their situation.

  They’d all practiced acting as normal as possible. Which seemed such a ludicrous thing, but was necessary for this endeavor to succeed. Stay calm. Smile at appropriate times. Hand over the passports as if it were an inconvenience, part of a tiring routine. No panicky giggling, uneasy looks, side-eyed glances. Just like any other perfectly legal border crossing under any other circumstance.

  At first they thought they were safe. The officers stationed at the port of entry glanced at their passports, then back at them, then at each other. They typed information into their computers. Waited for images to scan. Looked at them again. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. The officers, both men, walked into an inner office, away from the car screening area. It was fine. They’d seen them do that with other passenger vehicles who were allowed to pass. All expected. And yet, Christine could see her daughter clutching her backpack, could see her husband tightening his grip on the steering wheel. She saw the glint of metal in the distance.

  “Shotgun,” Tom said. He shoved the transmission into park, grabbing for the backpack Jessica handed him from the back seat. “AR-15s. Four men total.”

  The officers had found some friends, apparently. Well-armed friends. Christine instinctively grabbed her own bag. “Thomas—”

  Her husband’s eyes didn’t betray the fear she knew was in his heart. “Chrissy, go. Now.”

  No one else in the car waited for further instruction. They burst from the vehicle almost in unison, with Tom yelling at them to cross the open field to the woods beyond. There were other routes to the border but the field led to trees which led to cover which led to drastically better odds.

  The snow provided them with limited visibility at short distances. Both disadvantage and advantage. If they couldn’t see where they were going, neither could their pursuers. At long distance, Christine was sure that the men following them would be able to see their coats. How foolish for them to fail to consider wearing all white during this, one of the coldest and snowiest winters in recent memory. Their long charcoal and black coats made them sitting ducks, even if they were running as fast as their legs would carry them.

  Tom rammed Christine forward, the first time the former Notre Dame linebacker had ever laid hands on his wife in such a violent way. “Take the girls. Go. Jessie and I will cover you.”

  She wanted to argue. Wanted to say they all could keep pace with each other, form some sort of protective circle even though her husband and daughter were the only two people armed. But there wasn’t time. She pushed ahead.

  She’d never heard gunshots before. Caroline and Jack had taken Tom and Jessica to the range to practice with the Glocks, but had known better than to take Christine. She had no interest in ever firing a gun. Her husband and daughter had fewer qualms. They all knew the risks. And they knew that arming a person who had no desire to be armed was almost as dangerous as not being armed at all. So it was Tom and Jessica who slid the handguns from their bags, who chucked extra magazines into their pockets, who somehow managed to turn around and view the government agents chasing them, all while continuing to provide the other three with cover.

  Short, jarring, popping noises. Like firecrackers. Or cars backfiring. Christine now realized how easy it was to conflate those sounds, confuse them for something else, fail to fully comprehend the damage they could cause. More pops, the blast of a shotgun, voices shouting profanities, all caught up in the wind and whirl of winter.

  Running through deepening snow, cursing herself for wearing such a damned stupid cashmere scarf and tailored coat, feeling the moisture seep into her ankle boots, chafing where skin met sock. Run then trudge then lift then yell, trying to stay focused on the trees in the distance, on the darkness beyond. Ignore the shots ignore the yelling ignore the reality. Withdraw. Run. Trudge. Form a human shield for two young girls when such a thing was literally impossible. Yell again.

  Keep running. Don’t stop. I’m right behind you. Tom and Jess have our backs.

  She threw the two girls onto the ground, into the snow. Snow so deep it almost covered them. And she listened.

  Sudden quiet. The utter silence of a wooded area which once seemed so distant but was now so near. Voices retreating. No more reloading. No more shots. She dragged herself to her feet and pressed the girls ahead, until they reached the woods. Branches shaking in the wind, dropping piles of heavy snow in their wake. Needles crunching under their feet where the snow refused to stick to the ground. Panting. Heaving. Crying.

  “I have to go back for them,” Christine choked out.

  Marguerite grabbed her arm. “Aunt Chrissy, no.”

  Had Marguerite ever called her Aunt Chrissy before? Was that her new name? Her new identity in a world in which so much of a person could be lost? She heard Sophie start to sob.

  “Mo! Aunt Chrissy! Don’t leave me.”

  “I’m not leaving,” Marguerite said. “Neither of us are.” She grabbed Christine’s sleeve, unable to hide the fear in her eyes as she stared at her over Sophie’s shoulder. “Don’t go out there.”

  “I have to,” Christine said.

  “Don’t.”

  It wasn’t just fear. It was much more than that. Christine had to tread lightly. She pressed her hand to Marguerite’s cheek. “Listen to me, very carefully,” she said. “If I go out there and don’t come back, run north.” She gestured into the woods. She didn’t have a compass but knew that the border was just over the horizon. “Keep going, don’t stop for anything, and get to someone in a position to help you out. Understand?”

  Marguerite clenched her teeth, shoving Christine’s hand away. “Don’t go out there,” she repeated.

  Christine gulped. A determined teenager was no match for a guilty conscience. She had to go. She had to know. “We—I need—”

  She didn’t want to start further argument here in the forest, where time seemed like such a precious thing. So she ran back, into potential danger, into a clearing, into where any number of bloodthirsty snipers could line up and take their shot.

  Four men, face down in the snow. Still. Silent. Covered in blood.

  Good. Those motherfuckers deserved it.

  She almost smacked herself, disgusted at the pure vengeance in her thoughts. The world blurred. And she saw her daughter.

  “Jessie,” she whispered.

  A pine tree, tall and green and glorious in the nighttime snowstorm. Majestic and beautiful in stark contrast to the bloodied bodies and even bloodier ground. And Christine’s brazen, brash, beloved baby girl, with a hole in her back and an even bigger one in her head, motionless next to the tree.

  Her world stopped. Her life stopped. Christi
ne stood there, the words choked in her throat, her heart and her very existence sinking deeper into the earth. She heard footsteps crunching behind her and turned, seeing the ashen faces of Marguerite and Sophie.

  Sophie started to scream, and her sister practically wrestled her to the ground, her hand over her mouth. “Stop it, Feef! They’ll come back. Be quiet!”

  Christine stared at them, her mouth agape. Why were they there? She had told them to stay in the woods. Why hadn’t they listened? It wasn’t that hard to listen. Her instructions to them had been perfectly clear.

  What if they never listened to her the way they listened to Caroline? What if, as Marguerite said, the men came back? What would the three of them do then?

  She could run even further into the clearing. Draw attention from the girls. Make herself the mark. Sacrifice herself so they could live. So her daughter could come back. That was how it worked. She could switch places so easily. Barter her life for Jessie’s. Bargain with a higher power. Force a miracle. Anything was possible.

  Marguerite rocked Sophie back and forth, trying to calm her. And then Christine heard another voice.

  He was trying to pull himself up against a nearby tree. To maintain some dignity. Thomas Desmond Sullivan was never a man afraid to ask for help, but it was clear that pride and adrenaline were dictating his movements.

  She ran to him, dropping to the ground at his feet. Blood staining the snow, staining his coat, staining his shirt and pants. A shot to the abdomen. Christine tore off her gloves, her hands shaking, and removed her scarf, pressing it to his stomach.

  “That’s… no good,” he managed.

  Marguerite came up behind her, yanking her mother’s cherished blue and gold Marquette scarf from around her own neck. One of the few precious items Christine would never, ever expect her to give up.

  “No,” she said.

  Marguerite handed it to her. “Please.”

  Both scarves soaked through almost immediately. No way to stem the tide. No tools to use to tie off the artery. No one to call. No one to trust. All those years of medical school and general practice rendered useless by a single bit of well-placed lead. Christine held the fabric against the wound, feeling the pulse of blood that refused to stop flowing.