Flight of the Scarlet Tanager

by Bevill, C. L.

  “If he’s fine, then why keep him here?”

  The older woman shrugged, adjusting Teddy’s IV, and punching numbers into the machine that regulated the flow into the young woman’s veins. “Well, he fell the same distance as you and other than having bit the inside of his mouth it seems like he missed out on any damage. Lucky little guttersnipe. Of course, one of the paramedics said he puked more seawater out in the ambulance than you could find in the bay, but what the hell. He’s young. He’s already bouncing off the hospital walls. Mama’s got her hands on him and she isn’t letting go anytime soon.”

  “I hit the water sideways,” Teddy murmured in brief explanation.

  The nurse nodded. “Could have been worse. Deflated lung. Broken ribs. Et cetera. Not even going to mention that you could have drowned. Sometimes we see all that from bungee jumpers who miscalculate the distance between the span of the bridge and the depth of the water, but the Bay Bridge isn’t one of those bridges, of course. Not enough distance to the water. Not that I would know from personal experience. I’d break the bungee cord.”

  “Where am I?” asked Teddy. So far, so good. No personal questions yet. It won’t be long, though. “I mean, what hospital is this?” So I can more effectively plan my escape from this place. She could see that she was on the third floor of the building. No jumping out this window, that was for damn sure. Not even with a bungee cord. Well, maybe with a bungee cord.

  “Lincoln Memorial Hospital, sugar.” The nurse finished with the IV machine and turned back to Teddy. “You need to use the phone? Call your mama? Someone?”

  Teddy glanced at the telephone, half hidden behind the yellow carnations. “Maybe I should.” My long-lost twin sister who married Prince Rodrigo from Argentina, and who desperately needs a surrogate mother for her unborn child, of course. Time for more diversionary tactics. “Who sent the balloons and the flowers?”

  The nurse smiled again, showing a gold tooth in front. She had a craggy face that lit up when she smiled. Perhaps that was why she did it so often. Or perhaps it was because she liked to be friendly. Teddy almost sighed reluctantly. The other woman answered, “The carnations are from the Sheltons. Mama sent them an hour ago. Didn’t want to wake you up, so she had one of the candy stripers put it on your table. The balloons are from your buds down at that ship place you work for. Sailor Jack’s isn’t it?”

  “Sure,” agreed Teddy. Sailor Jack’s was the name of the whale watching/fishing guide business she worked for. Sailor Jack was the owner of two ships, the Mary Celeste and the Sir James Murray, both of which seemed to bring him an okay profit in the summer time. Mostly Jack and his crew fished in the winter. But Jack always had a need for low-paid employees in the summer; people like Teddy who liked to have it green in her hand, instead of messing with social security forms and the such. Jack might have pitched in a buck or two for the balloons. But it was Big Bridget, Jack’s wife, and Tommy, who was Jack’s son, who would have put in the most. These were friendly people who genuinely seemed to like Teddy and treated her almost like a member of the family. Inviting her over on those late Sundays when all the tourists had gone. Barbequing in the back yard with whatever the catch had been, throwing in a couple dozen hot dogs just to spice up the mix. Children everywhere. Family members. Asking if she was attached. Maybe she was interested in Bridget’s nephew, Jeffrey, who wasn’t bad, if one liked the type. Then she did sigh.

  “Well,” said the nurse abruptly. “I should tell Doc Goodstreet that you’re awake and feeling chipper enough to read over his notes. He’s doing evening rounds and should be visiting after a bit.” She looked around.

  As Teddy watched the nurse leave her room she made a plan. Wait for the doctor. Ask for a sedative. Tell the nurse I am one tired puppy. Wait until about ten o’clock. Take this IV out. Find my clothes. Leave Dodge City pronto.

  She nodded to herself. She’d be out of the state before they could put out a missing person’s report on her. It was too bad. She really liked the Oregon coast. On her time off she spent hours on the beach, walking, hiking, exploring. One of Big Bridget’s son’s was teaching her how to surf. She even liked her job at Sailor Jack’s. However, the part-time gig at the fish factory, gutting about a hundred thousand smelly fishies an hour, was something she would not miss. But there were other coastlines she could see. Other people she could learn from. At least she could while she was still able...

  In the hallway, Nurse Dolores Chapman meandered back to the nursing station. She spoke to one of the aides about bringing some pain medication to Mr. Bartley in Room 337 who was screaming about his hiatal hernia, loudly threatening to sue every person in the hospital back to the beginning of time. She wasn’t impressed. She’d been sued before. Then she called Dr. Goodstreet on his paging service, leaving a message about the Smith girl’s wakefulness.

  Shaking her head, Dolores clicked her tongue, organizing files in the nursing station. That girl didn’t look a day over sixteen years old. And her coworkers had told the doc that she didn’t have any relatives.

  Dolores wondered if the young woman was a runaway. Teddy Smith, indeed. Hunh. Pretty young thing, except for that diamond in her nose, cubic zirconia? And the ring in her eyebrow, and her hair dyed the color of a parakeet’s ass. What a shame that was. A good girl. She had single-handedly saved that child in Room 315. Even the paramedics said she had. They couldn’t have gotten the rescue craft out into the bay in time to prevent him from drowning. Only that young woman’s quick thinking had saved the day. And doesn’t she have a sweet, little southern accent?

  Dolores turned her head and glanced at the waiting room with the television on. There were a few people there. One man waited for his sister to come back from gallbladder surgery. He tapped his toe on the floor and kept his eyes on the television, not particularly concerned about the routine laparoscopic surgery being performed on his sibling. Another man in a cheap, three-piece suit was obviously a lawyer, waiting to see if Nurse Ratched would disappear so that he could start chasing his personal brand of ambulances on this very floor. Dolores figured he was going to start with Danby Shelton’s mother. Try to get her to sue the township of Sullivan’s Bay, for not having protected her child from falling into the bay. Earlier the nurse had been forced to chase out two journalists who wanted to take pictures of Teddy Smith sleeping in her bed, the stalwart heroine recovering her strength. She wandered over to the waiting area and looked up to see what on the television set that was engrossing the pair of men.

  And there was the girl from 301. Right on the TV. On CNN Headline News. A clever cameraman, handily armed with his camcorder, had taken film of the entire event. Caught Danby Shelton slipping off the side of the bridge. A moment later, Teddy Smith had streaked by, only her slender shape and the vivid color of her hair testifying that it was the same girl in the hospital room Dolores had just left. The amateur photographer had rushed to the side of the bridge and caught the girl as she sliced into the water. Then as she had dived under. Perhaps thirty seconds later, she had popped up like a cork, with Danby in her arms, showing that even little girls with pierced flesh and hair like a clown’s head could be heroic.

  The last shot before the news anchor cut into the story was a close-up of Teddy’s face, showing every detail, her eyes closed, her lips half-parted, the gush of blood still streaming off her forehead, as she was carted off the Mary Celeste by the paramedics.

  Pretty young woman, Dolores thought again with a sigh.

  Chapter Three

  San Francisco, California - August 15th

  An excerpt from Routen’s Birds of North America, edited by Houston Routen, Cacky Press, 1992, pg. 154: Although many birds are carnivorous and prey on other types of animals for food, the term ‘bird of prey’ is used more exactly for the orders of Falconiformes and Strigiformes, sometimes called raptors. The term ‘raptor’ is derived from the Latin, ‘to seize and carry off.’ The Falconiform family includes the hawks, vultures, falcons, ospreys, and secretary birds, wh
ich are primarily diurnal hunters, that which hunts in daylight hours. Oppositely, the Strigiform family includes the nocturnal stalker, the owls. Both families of the birds of prey are canny adversaries, usually very strong, usually large birds, with hooked beaks, and razor-sharp talons for the effective carrying off and killing of their quarry...

  The man’s name was John Gower. He stood six foot four inches in his stocking feet and tended to tower over most people. Frequently he would slump his shoulders so that he would better blend into his environment, bringing him down a full half foot. But in San Francisco, he seemed to stand out no matter how much he slumped so he discarded that tactic. He merely sipped from a blended coffee purchased from a nearby exotic coffee shop and continued to watch the building across from him, oblivious to any stares.

  He was tall, broad, and his hair was the color of finely spun straw gleaming in the early morning light. Possessing forceful features with clean lines he had trenchant jawbones that sliced a triangle shape across his visage. Even his eyes, the color of aquamarines sparkling on a lady’s finger, caught the undesired attention of the average passerby. A handsome man, he used his natural endowments to his advantage, and he knew how to conceal the same attributes when it was necessary. However, it was San Francisco, and odd things happened frequently in the downtown area.

  The locals were used to the strange things that tourists did on the Wharf. And as long as it wasn’t too illegal then there wasn’t a problem. And barring his appearance this man was far from unusual. So Gower watched the imports building across from the entrance to Pier 45, and waited.

  Fisherman’s Wharf was booming with business, even at half past six AM. Trucks rolled down the curving streets. Garbage trucks spewed forth their clamorous back-up signals so as to not run over the unwary pedestrian, while they picked up load after load of refuse. Tourists were lining up for a trip around the bay, with perhaps some close-ups of Alcatraz Island, a cruise under the Golden Gate Bridge, and a glimpse of mist-laden Angel Island in the distance.

  But all of the peripheral events only piqued his interest minutely.

  It was the shop that declared itself to be Taylor Street Imports that occupied Gower’s rapt attention. A few minutes later when the owner unlocked the front gates and rolled them up, the watching man threw his coffee cup into a nearby garbage can and strolled across the street. His casual stride lengthened for a moment to avoid an eighteen-wheeler with a full load, speeding in the city streets to make his delivery on time.

  The owner of the imports shop was Sam Loyal, a relatively rich man for San Francisco, and who lived in a painted lady in the Marina district. Gower had seen that house up close and personal. He’d even been inside the day before yesterday, performing a careful search through Mr. Loyal’s most personal possessions, finding nothing that would aid him in his hunt. It was a gorgeous place decorated with a carefully selected array of colors that brightened the street upon which it regally sat among all its sisters. Loyal had purchased the majestic old girl right after the earthquake of 1989 from a family who decided that fortune favored the cautious. The entrepreneur got it for a song, considering the cost of prime California real estate.

  Gower knew about that because he’d seen all of Loyal’s business documents, courtesy of Loyal’s CPA, who was a man that could be bought.

  In person Loyal was average height. A man with average build, gray hair, brown eyes and who enjoyed the expensive apparel in the form of fancy suits to the office or even to the supermarket. On paper Gower knew it was only a matter of time before the IRS started to get interested in the amount of money that Loyal spent versus the actual amount he stated on income tax forms that he was pulling in from his business. Then there was the matter of illegal drugs that were making their way through some aspects of Loyal’s business. Sniffing around for the last six months, the DEA and customs would also be especially inquisitive about any further information about Mr. Samuel Loyal.

  Gower smiled to himself. Sam Loyal was just the kind of individual he loved to deal with. A man with something to lose. A man with everything to lose. A man who would be willing to answer questions, if the right kind of pressure was brought to bear upon him.

  The tall man came into the shop just behind the owner and carefully closed the door. Bells tinkled as they settled back into their place above the door. Sam Loyal jumped a little when the blonde-haired man reached behind him and threw the deadbolt on the door. Loyal said calmly, “There’s no money here. I haven’t gone to the bank yet. There’s only my wallet.” He reached into his suit pocket and produced the calfskin leather wallet and held it out gingerly.

  “I’m not here about your money,” replied Gower amicably. He stood against the glass door and blocked it with his body, gazing intently at Loyal. In his mind’s eye the average sized man would have crumpled immediately upon being placed in a position of peril. Surprisingly, Loyal had some grit to him. A pity, the taller man thought. It makes things more...difficult. It implies that he possesses some traits of morality that make his continued existence undesirable.

  Loyal’s face convoluted with confusion. “Then what? I’ve made my payments on time. Joe keeps the books pretty well. I’m...”

  “Shut up and listen,” interrupted the other man softly. Something in the tone made Loyal’s mouth snap shut. “You had a girl working for you.”

  “I’ve had lots of girls working for me,” Loyal protested before his mouth abruptly shut again. In his years of dealing with a potpourri of people in the cutthroat world of import and export, he’d learned much about the psychology of dealing with the unknown. And his instincts were screaming that he was standing on the edge of a precipice. He could step back or fall off. The choice was entirely up to him. There was a certain gleam in the bright blue eyes of the stranger, one that said volumes about who was in charge at this point, and Loyal preferred that he wake up safe and sound in his bed the following morning instead of on a slab at the morgue.

  “This girl was different,” continued the stranger, his voice full of both honey and venom. “You paid her under the counter. Stiffed her on benefits that way. She probably put in a lot of extra hours for you that you wouldn’t have dreamed of compensating her for. A girl who spoke as though she was better educated than most. Perhaps she had a slight southern drawl. Not some Mexicana looking for a way to bring the rest of her family across the border. Not some Asian woman who would do almost anything to bring in the money. A girl who stood out. A girl who was...remarkable. You know who I’m talking about.” Gower watched as Loyal slowly returned his wallet to his pocket. The confused expression had cleared to perplexed perception and Gower knew that Loyal knew exactly whom he was talking about.

  “Who are you?” asked Loyal softly as he judged the other man. The blonde-haired man had on a suit, tailored to fit wide shoulders and a build that most men would envy. It wasn’t as good a quality as Loyal’s suit. Hair cut well, framing an exquisite face. Manicured fingers on well-tended hands and were powerful enough to perform whatever job this man desired them to accomplish. A man with a taste for the finer things in life. The entrepreneur thought that he could relate to this man. Certainly not a cop. His shoes were too expensive. The same kind that O.J. Simpson said he hadn’t owned, Bruno Magli’s. Not customs. Not DEA. Not a fed. Maybe someone’s private watchdog, a lawyer, a relative? Looking for Mary. Mary Lynn, who disappeared three months ago without any kind of notice. Loyal had noticed her absence in a way that he wouldn’t have noticed other employees’ absences. She had been remarkable. She was different. He almost missed her enough to contact the police about her absence. But of course, he had not.

  Gower curled his lips into a travesty of a smile. “Tell me about this young woman. Tell me everything.”

  Loyal did have a lot to lose. And although he had liked the young woman calling herself Mary Lynn, had enjoyed her sarcastic wit and vivid energy, he knew that she was like many of the people he hired on the sly. These people worked in his warehouse, packing, s
hipping, handling imports, sending them to hundreds of other stores all over the country. Many of them had been runaways. More of them were illegal aliens. Some of them were called throwaways. They didn’t get paid minimum wage and they certainly didn’t get any kind of health benefits because they needed the cash in hard form. Just like Mary Lynn had.

  That girl had possessed no social security number. No driver’s license. No proof of identity or even age. Just a girl who needed money for some place to live and a little food to live on. A girl who didn’t want to give strange men blowjobs in the back seats of their cars in some dirty alley. She wasn’t like the rest of the people who worked in his warehouse. She was definitively a cut above. Educated. Smart. Astute. A woman with an articulate manner and above-average intelligence. But all of that and a nickel didn’t cover Loyal’s butt. It came down to him talking about a former employee, about whom he truly didn’t know much, or being on the receiving end of this blonde-haired man’s ire. So he did exactly what the blonde-haired man told him to do.

  Loyal told him everything he knew about Mary Lynn.

  When he was done, Gower considered his options while the other man broke a sweat, realizing that his life was still in jeopardy. Then there was a ringing that broke the silence of the small business office. The stranger pulled out a cell phone that appeared as slender as a credit card, and answered with a curt, “Yes?”

  Loyal took a step back into the office, hoping to get enough room in between himself and the blonde-haired man to make a run for it. But after a monosyllabic conversation Gower simply closed his phone up and replaced it in his jacket. He gave Loyal a scrutinizing glance, and said, “You won’t mention this discourse with anyone.” It wasn’t a question.