He didn’t worry about anything the kid might say. In an hour the boy would convince himself he hadn't seen a thing, that it had all been lights and shadows. A shame about the old couple, though. They had fussed over him to an almost embarrassing degree, and he didn’t have the heart to tell them he wasn't what they thought he was.
Not in their wildest dreams.
Not in their worst nightmares.
Once he was back on the street again, however, his step was lighter and his smile broad.
What he hadn't tried to explain, and what they might not fully comprehend, was that his momentary pleasure of helping them out of a dangerous, perhaps lethal, situation, came not entirely from the possibility of saving their lives. It was wonderful that no one had been hurt; it was a bonus that it had all happened so cleanly in less time than it would take them to tell it when they called family and friends.
But it was even better, and in some ways more important, that another member of the opposition would now be off the streets for a while.
That kid wasn't a drug lord, wasn’t a mass murderer, wasn’t a major thief wanted in a dozen states.
But as young as he was, he was the opposition.
Clumsy, maybe; maybe even inept.
But he was the opposition, even if he wasn’t the usual prey.
Chalk one up for the good guys, he thought.
For a change.
In the words of her first hang-gliding instructor, Trish McCormick was "drop-dead gorgeous, a damn good student, and out of her freaking mind.” And the first time he had tried to cop a fee! during one their sessions, she hadn't wasted her time telling him off. She had slugged him instead, and though her knuckles had ached for several days afterward, she hadn't felt the least bit guilty.
He had been fired two days later.
As for his opinion of her, she knew it was one held by more than,a few. The "drop-dead gorgeous" part she wasn't too sure about. That she was pretty she already knew, without conceit; how much further that went depended, she supposed, on those who saw her. She had never let it get in her way.
She was also, for the most part, a pretty good student in whatever she put her mind to learn. That was, more than anything, a matter of pride. Despite the changing times, people who saw a woman like her, with rich and thick blond hair, automatically concluded she was dumb as a post. But she had long ago decided that the only person she had to prove anything to was herself; if she failed now and then, and she did, she couldn’t accuse herself of not trying.
The "out of her freaking mind” was something else again. Without question, she knew that was pretty much accurate, and she actually liked it. If. that is, they were referring to the chances she liked to take as she searched for ways to find out just how far she could go without scaring herself to death.
She had been doing it for years, ever since she was a teen and some half-baked, so-called Southern gentleman had told her she had the perfect figure for motherin' and cookin', so why did she want to ruin all that by, of all things unwomanly on this man’s earth, learning to drive in a NASCAR race.
She had taken strong exception.
And now that she was just past thirty, without children or marriage or very many regrets, the only true limit she had discovered was cave exploring. The idea that tons of rock and earth could slam down on her at any moment, without warning, and trap her, alone, in total darkness, had given her nightmares for a week after her first experience underground. Thinking it a common reaction for the initiate, she had tried it again, and again had nearly panicked.
A limit had been found; but only in one direction.
Today she was headed, in a sense, in a totally opposite one; today she would fly.
She loved it.
She loved the rush of wind against her face when she leapt off the mountain; she laughed aloud each time the wings that held her up shuddered against a gust and drove her muscles close to cramps as she forced the glider to do what she wanted; and she never landed without a shriek of sheer joy.
It didn't matter that she didn't do it very often. Her work, and her bank account, often conspired to hoid the experience down to once or twice a month, if that. It didn’t matter in the long run, however, because she desperately didn't want it to become ordinary.
She couldn't have stood that.
She couldn't have stood to lose the exhilaration.
In fact, her routine on flying days had been deliberately set to enhance that feeling: slow getting up, carefully filling time during the hours before flight by shopping or cleaning house, driving up Lookout Mountain at a pace that drove those who followed nuts, and sitting as she did now in the graveled parking area, watching others soar.
Leon's Air wasn't much of an operation, and not nearly as used at the other launch spot, a mile north along the ridge. But it had a feel to it she liked. It consisted of a large barnlike shed for storing rental equipment, the graveled parking area, and a five-foot concrete launch lip that extended over the edge of the drop.
There wasn't really room for much else.
The ridge here was only a hundred yards or so wide, barely accommodating the two-lane paved road that led back to the town of Lookout Mountain, some shrubs and trees on the east side, and Leon's place on the west. With the trees bare and the wind in constant motion, it often seemed as if she were walking on the edge of a two-sided cliff.
A man stepped out of the shed and waved.
She grinned and climbed out, the wind instantly taking her long blond hair and slapping it across her face.
"Hey," Leon Hendean said. "Happy almost New Year." He was tall, heavy without the fat, and bearded.
A bear who spoke quietly and gently . . . when he spoke at all.
Trish shivered as December cold slipped under her clothes, and thought, only for a moment, that maybe she'd picked a bad day. The sky was overcast, the wind a bit strong, and she was, for the time being, the only one here.
Sunset was only an hour away.
She made her way to the concrete lip and looked out over the valley. Nearly two thousand feet below she could see broad patches of green—some were farms, at least two were landing sites for the two hang-gliding operations. The rest of the land was heavily wooded, broken only by a winding two-lane road that ran north and south. What she couldn't see was the storage shed below Leon’s, the truck used to cart flyers and equipment back up the mountain, and the van that doubled as an ambulance in case of an accident.
Her hands fisted in her flight-jacket pockets.
"You going?” he asked, a few steps behind her.
It was weird—he ran this place, a growing favorite among those who liked to pretend they were eagles, but he never stood close to the edge. Trish, on the other hand, delighted in it, checking the area for emergency landing spots while knowing that, except for the valley floor, there were none. The mountainside was choked with rocks, trees, and brush, and for a good third of its height, it was vertical.
She had long ago conquered that unbearable feeling of wanting to let go, to just fall. Flying was a better way to get to the ground.
"What do you think?” she said, stepping back to stand beside him.
"Strong, but not impossible."
"Am I the first?"
He shook his head. "Had a bunch around noon, before the clouds came in. No reports."
No updrafts, no sheers, no abrupt changes in wind speed.
"Then what the hell, Leon.” She poked his arm. "Besides, it’s my century."
His grin made her smile. She had promised him a date on her hundredth flight, and was pleased he had remembered.
"Supergirl," was all he said, however, and she spent the next twenty minutes preparing for the jump, double-checking the equipment she knew he had already checked a dozen times that day, pulling on an insulated, modified flight suit to protect her against the cold, setting helmet and goggles, and making sure the bag into which her legs would be tucked was safely affixed to the glider's frame by its harness.
She barely remembered Leon helping her into the frame, hooking the harness, giving her a thumbs-up, bringing her to the edge.
She barely remembered the please God prayer.
She barely remembered the launch itself, concentrating instead on testing the wind as she swooped down the mountainside, then swooped up sharply until she was level with the shed's roof. She heard nothing but the wind, the snap of the glider's canopy wings, and her own muffled cries of delight as she banked to the left and began the downward spiral.
It was cold.
Too cold.
Despite her gloves, her fingers were freezing.
This was her least favorite kind of flying—taking herself all too quickly to the landing area. But she had underestimated the cold, and knew that if she wanted one more chance to play tag with the birds today, she wouldn't be able to take her time this time.
The valley shifted lazily, and all the noise was reduced to silence.
She was alone.
Out of her freaking mind with the indescribable, almost sexual feeling, of flying without natural wings.
That euphoria had, on more than one occasion, made her weep.
It also was a constant threat to her concentration, and she was startled when, five hundred feet down, a gust sideswiped her, driving her closer to the mountain wall.
She shifted legs and arms expertly and swung away, and down, and was caught again, this time taking her to the left, parallel to the trees that blurred past her.
Well, hell, she thought. She would have to gain some distance and dive a little. The wind wanted her to stay up, and the mountain wanted to take her. Not for the first time. A hazard of the sport.
Suddenly everything calmed and her speed decreased, and she was able to relax, just a little. Now, as she swung north again, she could see the details of the mountain's west face, truly gliding now instead of racing. Once, she had seen a family of deer picking its way across a clearing; once, not too long ago, she had seen something else, a dark creature she couldn't identify and hadn’t seen again. A bear, maybe, something like that.
Now she was flying.
Tension eased, and at a thousand feet she wondered if she could take a wide arc around the landing area instead of heading straight in. The clouds had already thickened; no chance she’d be able to go up again.
What would it hurt?
A decent flight now, and a longer flight later with Leon.
What could it hurt?
A flock of crows exploded from the trees to her right, out of the mountain, startling her as they flew overhead, and below her. At the same time, another gust, slapping her this time from above.
Something snapped.
She heard it, and her mouth dried instantly.
She felt it when the glider refused to obey her command to get the hell over there, down there to the green patch where now she could see the shed, and the truck, and the ambulance van.
Oh, God, please, she thought, searching the area just below for a safe place to land in case she couldn’t regain control; please.
The glider took her down.
Slowly, but too fast.
Her left arm ached, her gloved fingers almost released their grip on the crossbar, and for a wild, almost hysterical moment she was glad she had brought her own personal body bag with her—all they'd have to do when they found her was zip it up and cart her off.
The trees were too close.
A small clearing, canted and brown, broke the solid woodland wall.
Only chance, girl, she told herself, and headed straight for it.
Landing would be a bitch, she’d be lucky to break only a leg or two, but if she hit it dead center, she wouldn't break her neck against one of those trees.
Something snapped.
Trish fell, wings fluttering above her as she freed her legs, and braced herself to hit.
When she did, the fire in her ankles, her legs, her hips, drove her into the dark.
When consciousness returned, she was tangled face down in the frame, and she giggled when she realized she was alive. Broken ail the hell up, but still alive. As long as she didn’t move, Leon's valley people would find her. She knew that. He always followed his flyers with binoculars, radio in one hand, ready to transmit locations. Just in case.
"Okay," she said aloud, just to hear her voice. "Okay."
A test of her arms brought agony from her right leg, but it nothing she couldn't handle, and she wanted the damn frame off the back of her neck. Carefully, grunting, once screaming quietly, she managed to wriggle free.
There was no wind down here.
All she could hear was the sound of the crows.
She giggled again and, bracing for pain, lifted herself up on her elbows and looked around through the veil of her hair.
This time the scream was loud.
It didn’t last very long.
The early January night was raw, sometimes windy. Streetlights were brittle, footfalls sharp, and even a whisper sounded much too loud. The stars were gone, and light snow was promised over the city by morning.
Richard closed his eyes briefly; there was something more in the air.
A watcher.
Unseen, but out there, somewhere in the shadows.
His three-room apartment was in an old and small, undistinguished complex in Arlington. Although he was seldom there for more than a couple of weeks at a time, he had long ago come to a simple and effective arrangement with his landlady; she received treble the normal rent, and in return he was given unquestioning, absolute privacy— especially when he wasn’t there.
And because he liked her and wished her no harm, the day he took possession, he had added enough security measures at the door and windows to defeat a small army. Like the cat, curiosity would have killed her.
So far it had worked for almost eight years.
Now he stood at the living-room window, staring down at the empty street, one hand absently massaging the side of his neck. The holiday decorations were gone, from the streetlamps and from the houses across the way. The trees were bare. No cars were parked at the curbs.
Not a sound out there, and no movement at all.
Still, there was something out there.
He tapped a finger on the sill, a monotonous rhythm that quickly got on his nerves.
Something in the air.
He growled softly, almost a humming.
Perhaps it was time for him to take a late stroll around the block. The neighborhood wouldn't complain; he had made it a habit to let himself be noticed when he went out after sunset, just another fitness nut, out there walking off the pounds no matter what the weather was.
The telephone rang.
He started at the noise, then laughed at himself as he pushed a nervous hand back through his hair. You’re getting jumpy, he scolded, took one last look outside, and dropped onto the lumpy couch which, like all the other pieces of old, unmatched furniture, he had picked up from the previous tenant. One easy chair, a scarred side table, a standing brass lamp with a dark linen shade, a bookcase on the far wall, a thick wood shelf over his head on which perched a stone statuette of a night hawk, wings spread, eyes narrow.
The hawk was his.
"Richard?"
His smile broadened. "Fay? Is that you?"
"None other." Her voice was husky, almost masculine.
He looked across the unlighted room at the bookcase. He ignored the magazines and handful of books, concentrating instead on a niche that contained a two-foot high, blond-wood carving of a great horned owl.
"So what's up?"
"They need to see you."
He nodded, not bothering to add, it's about time. "When? Same place?"
"Yes. Tomorrow afternoon. Four.”
"Okay, fl be gone first thing. So how are you. Fay? It's bee
n—"
"There’s no time, Richard," she said, oddly impatient. "Just be there. And Richard ... be careful."
She hung up.
He stared at the receiver for a second before replacing it in its cradle, then looked back at the owl.
A gust slapped at the window, causing the glow from the streetlamp to shimmer, and in shimmering, shifted shadows that made the bird's wings seem to move.
"What?” he asked softly. "What?”
In a desert whose mountains were made of sand, whose sky was streaked with light and dark shades of green that roiled like clouds in an unfelt storm, he made his way through the ruins of a temple, or a mansion that once belong to a king—pillars on their sides, snapped in half or snapped off at the base, only a handful still standing, holding nothing up but the sky; portions of walls against which sand had been banked by the constant furnace wind; statuary whose faces had been scoured blind; shards of bowls and urns.
There was heat, but he couldn’t feel it.
He never had.
He had been here before, not just in his dreams.
A sudden gust punched his spine and he stumbled forward, awkwardly catching himself against a crumbling, waist-high wall before he fell. On it, faded by the unseen sun, chipped by falling rock, were hieroglyphs. He didn't look at them, didn't need to. They comprised a fragment of a much longer tale, the story of his people and the battle that had finally forced them out of the land of the Lower Nile.
Another gust forced him backward, half turning him around.
A third made him duck his head and move on, skirting a table tipped onto its side, nearly tripping through an empty doorway with no walls on either side.
The wind blew more strongly.
The sand didn't move.
He smelled fire and burning tar.
He heard his own breathing, rough and shallow, as he tried to keep his balance against the wind and the soft, shifting sands.
Through rooms and courtyards until finally he saw a fluted pedestal as high as his chest, standing alone in a wasteland of rocks and rocky sand. Its top was round and wide, its sides streaked with stains that could have been rust, could have been blood.
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