“I’m happy for you. But why are you really here, Dad? You didn’t drive half-way across the country to show me the Ducati when you could’ve sent a picture.”
He turned towards CC who was hanging back outside the cubicle and took a cardboard carton from him.
“You sure you can handle that, Mr Ledger?” CC hovered behind him, his hands outstretched as though ready to catch the box if it slipped from his grip.
Ledger and CC watched her father struggle to set the box on the visitor seat she had just cleared. Gene ignored their palpable concern to flip open the top flaps and rummage inside. With growing unease Ledger watched him bring out three framed photos. He held them stacked in his left arm.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“I came to bring you a few things.”
He moved around the desk to place the first photo. She rolled her eyes.
It was Ledger as a child, about six years old, flanked by Gene and Autumn. After Gene saved her from the bomb that blew her mother to bits in Bosnia it had taken him nearly three years to complete the paperwork and sidestep the red tape to adopt Ledger and bring her home.
Ledger had spent those years in a Bosnian displaced persons camp with only brief and sporadic visits from Gene and Autumn.
The adults had their arms around her stiff, still body. The three of them looked like strangers, not yet a family. The adults’ blond, well-fed American wholesomeness stood in stark contrast to the thin, dark, feral child. She carried herself like something wild, defiant and determined.
Ledger hadn’t looked at that photo in years. Seeing it with fresh eyes she was surprised that the child she had been didn’t look beaten down, terrified and defeated. It was as if the photo captured the moment Ledger realized she was being offered the chance of a lifetime. Energy fairly crackled out of her pose. Her direct stare into the camera lens, a gaze that was at once alert and curious, was a promise to claim the future.
Memories jolted her. The thrill and terror of boarding the plane, clinging to Gene and Autumn’s hands. The sudden thrust of gravity pushing her back into her seat as it sped along the runway. The burst of power as the plane climbed abruptly into the sky. She had watched the earth fall away with a sense of wonder. Then she found herself thousands of feet up in the air, eyes glued to an unending ocean of clouds with no ground in sight.
During the trip Gene and Autumn had talked to her about the life awaiting her, what she could expect, and about the shortcomings of her having no official paperwork other than her adoption papers. “We’d like to make your birthday July 4. It’s like a birthday for America and a day of celebration where we come from, so we think it’s appropriate. What do you think?”
Ledger had very little clue what they were talking about, but she had nodded her head. She never wanted to go back to the displacement camp. If the price was to share her birthday with a country, she could willingly do that. The alternative was so much worse. It had taken her years to accept that no one was going to barge into the bedroom so painstakingly decorated by her new parents and drag her back to the Bosnian camps.
Up until that plane trip, for as long as she could remember she had lived in a state of perpetual vigilance, a handmade weapon always by her side.
With that thought, another memory flashed to the fore, one she had suppressed long ago. A time when she’d had to use the wooden bat spiked with a dozen nails hammered painstakingly into place to form a lethal deterrent because the young women and girls of the camp tended be treated as easy targets by roving groups of angry young men.
Ledger had never revealed the daily horrors of living in such conditions to Gene and Autumn. She had never confessed to using her weapon on a teenage boy on the verge of manhood. Much bigger and stronger than she was, he had singled her out as the weakest link in the group of girls he was tracking. She had followed him, tempted by an offer of food. When she realized her mistake, she took off. But he had easily run her to ground, trapping her against a wall as he fumbled his pants down and her skirt up. His excitement and confidence in overwhelming her had made him careless. He knew he was bigger and stronger than her. He wasn’t bulky. No one in the camp could claim that privilege. Food was much too scarce for that. She could use her fists and feet all she wanted against him. He was confident her stick thin arms and legs would only produce feeble kicks and punches, no match for his teenaged testosterone fueled muscles.
So intent on his purpose Ledger had caught him unawares as she ripped the weapon from the string she used to tie it to her waist and whacked as high as she could. The weapon bit into his stomach, below the protection of his ribcage. Once the spikes penetrated his flesh the momentum was sufficient to keep them driving forward before she dragged the spiked bat down. He was gutted. His belly ripped open. Blood flowed thick, mixed with oozing intestines from a dozen gashes. She had watched the utter surprise flood into his eyes.
As he gripped his bloodied intestines, she had twisted out of his grip and dashed away. It had taken him a day and a night to die. There was little medical care in the camp, and no facilities for the complicated operation needed to save his life.
Gene placed the second photo in its shiny silver frame beside it. Ledger aged eleven in a sequin-spangled leotard receiving a medal.
“I didn’t know you’d been a gymnast,” CC said.
Annoyed he was still hanging around, Ledger speared him with a sharp glance.
“Gold medals at two national championships,” Gene said. “Scout was amazing. She had so much potential. She really found her passion and calling with that sport. Then she had a growth spurt.”
Between eleven and thirteen she had shot up eight inches and reached her full height of five foot nine. She towered not only over the girls in her class, but most of the boys as well. She could no longer accomplish the necessary somersaults without her height slowing her up. She was the elephant in the room and she had to be cut from the team. Giving up gymnastics had almost killed her.
Ledger’s mouth firmed. “Stop, Dad. I’m not sharing my private life with people at work.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” CC said, but a smirk invaded his voice.
Ledger glared at him until he quickly backed out, turning on his heel to head along the hallway.
“That’s your problem, Scout, you’re too much of a loner,” Gene scolded her. “I blame myself. I should have done more when your mom died to make life better for you. Instead I uprooted you from our home in New York and moved to Indiana to live out my dream. You shouldn’t have had to depend solely on me. I just wish you would let people close enough to expand and broaden your world.”
“It’s not your fault I was born a wanderer. I don’t put down roots like you and Mom. It’s just not in my genetics. In that way I’m still Romani through and through.”
“Moving half-way across the country didn’t help. Dragging you away from school. I know that’s the reason you lost your way for awhile.”
“No, Dad. I went off the rails because I was sixteen and thought the world was against me.”
“That’s because it was. Your mother’s death was a senseless mistake.”
A car accident in a busy New York thoroughfare. An everyday occurrence. One that had smashed their world to smithereens. Ledger had dropped out of school immediately and taken to roaming the streets instead, only coming home occasionally. Gene’s response was to remove them from their memories and start a new life in the Midwest. Ledger had refused to attend her new school and again lost herself in the streets.
“I thank God every day that you found your way back.”
“Thank parkour instead. That’s what saved me.”
Pushing her body to its limits, testing herself with wild tricks on obstacles and buildings in cities around the country, she had finally found an outlet for her gymnastic passion that wasn’t quashed by height restrictions. Scout had pushed the envelope, not by drinking or doing drugs, but by inviting danger into her life with every stunt. By flinging
herself from wall to wall. By clinging to brickwork with the tiniest of toe and finger holds. By somersaulting from balconies and rooftops. People posted videos of her stunts and it was almost as if she was flying effortlessly.
For two years her only contact with Gene was through the comments he left on the social posts her parkour crew posted.. She never responded. But she read them.
On the 4th of July she turned eighteen, one of her crew fell to his death. He was scaling an oceanfront condominium tower on North Atlantic Drive in Daytona when a gust of wind caught him and smashed him back to earth. For Ledger and the crew there was no point doing parkour in sheltered surroundings. The attraction was you took your body into the open, that you risked yourself against the city walls and buildings.
His death had been a somber bookend to the despair she had felt at Autumn’s death. It was a sobering lesson. As hard and fast as she ran she was never going to outrun death. So she had returned to Gene. She turned up to his Indianapolis house unannounced. He took her in her arms. Only one of them cried.
She was grateful he asked no questions about those lost years. Never probed into how she had managed to survive on her own. She had discovered that ten years of living soft hadn’t been enough to wear away the necessary survival instincts impressed upon her since birth. The remaining decade of her life had helped her improve on the civilized veneer she showed the world, but underneath she still harbored instincts honed from a harsh childhood.
Gene set the final photo frame into place beside the others on the faux wooden hutch.
Ledger stood in dirty fatigues in a line with other soldiers, their arms entwined around each other’s shoulders. Many of them sported wide grins. It was an impromptu shot that had been taken after a grueling training session, their last before seeing action overseas. She was eighteen years old. Gene had argued long and hard to convince her to apply to West Point. After a year of service she had finally complied, snagging one of the coveted positions offered to enlisted personnel.
“Do you regret leaving the army?”
Ledger gave an irritable sigh. “Weren’t you the one who taught me regret’s for losers? I want to make a difference, Dad. In the end I left because in the army I was a cog in a big machine that was grinding me down. I transferred to Homeland Security because I want a real chance to protect our borders. America’s kept me safe all these years and I want to return the favor.” But even as the words left her lips, she was flooded with doubt. How did Bogel’s determination to send law-abiding mothers and fathers back to Mexico keep the terrorists waiting to infiltrate the country at bay?
“Then you should make a real effort to blend in with your new colleagues instead of scaring them off. It doesn’t hurt to share your story with people. It proves you’re human. Never forget how far you’ve come, Scout.” His fingers rippled over the tops of the frames.
Ledger shook off his words with the toss of her head. “What’s with all the advice, old man?”
“That’s just it. I am an old man and I’m not going to be around forever.”
Her focus on him sharpened. She noted again the strain in his face, the darkened hollows under his eyes and his loss of weight. “What exactly does that mean? Are you sick? Is there something I should know?”
He ran a hand through his hair, struck a pose and smiled. “You already know plenty, Scout. You knew it long before I could teach you. Now, I’m wearing my glad rags for a reason. Let’s go to dinner. Take me to the best place in Portland and let’s live it up!”
8
Gene’s Ducati 750 GT looked like a brand new machine. She wouldn’t have recognized it from the completely disassembled bike he had purchased. There was no doubt he had done a superb job with the final engine rebuild. When she was helping out in the garage he had begun developing a network of connections to source the parts he needed from Canada to California, even Europe and Australia.
The electronic ignition he had incorporated kicked over immediately. Ledger relished the sweet, full-throated growl exiting the Conti exhaust, powered by the four stroke V2 engine. Gene kept the bike at a steady ten miles an hour above the speed limit, skimming past cars as he split lanes up the highway.
Since Ledger had last seen the bike, Gene had splashed out on a new paint job. The gas tank, mud flaps and support struts were royal blue with a silver stripe running on top of the tank, split in two by the fuel cap. Flaunting its new LED headlight and with its engine roaring, Gene cruised along East Burnside Street. CC had recommended they try Ernest’s, a new seafood restaurant that had plenty of great online reviews.
“It sure is a smooth ride, Dad. The engine handles both the high and low revs like a dream,” Ledger said as Gene slotted the bike into a curbside park between the front and rear fenders of two parked vehicles for a spot directly in front of the restaurant.
Gene chuckled. “Better than when this bike originally left the factory floor in Bologna, if I do say so myself,” he agreed. “I rode one of the originals back in the ‘70s and man, I thought then it was a low-steering ride with a somewhat wooden feel, especially for the price tag they sold for here in the States. On this baby the spring valve engine’s really torquey and I can confirm it’s at its best just above four thousand r.p.m. That suits my lazy shifting. And I overcame the stiff clutch lever by using an extended operating lever. It just makes such a terrific touring bike. And better yet it’s just a really feel good ride.”
“I can see you’ve fallen in love with it. I take it if you’re pushing the bike to its speed limits you fixed the brake problem?” Talking shop was Gene’s way of bonding. Her father was physically demonstrative, but not too hot on putting feelings into words.
He nodded. “I changed to Ferodo Platinum brake pads and rebuilt the calipers and master cylinders with new internals and brake lines. It’s cost me plenty. Still if I’d wanted cheap maintenance costs I wouldn’t have picked the 750 GT. Too much engineering complexity for that.”
“Talking of cost, I think CC might’ve given us a bum steer. This place looks decidedly upmarket.”
Ledger had been expecting a mid-range bistro, but through the plate glass window she could see waiters in vests and bowties serving a clientele in cocktail dresses and suits.
“I told CC I wanted to take my daughter to the best restaurant in town. Take my advice. Dine out on the old man’s dime while I’m still paying.”
“You do realize I earn a pay check?”
“I know you can pay your own way, but let an old man have the pleasure for once.”
Ledger paused on the sidewalk to straighten her jacket, although she wasn’t sure it made much difference to her practical work outfit of straight-legged jeans, ankle boots and Sig Sauer packed away on her hip.
“Why do you keep calling yourself ‘old man’? You’re my dad, period.”
“Because I’m pushing seventy, and that’s officially old. Now, let’s go inside. I want to order the most expensive meal on the menu.”
“Do you have a point you’re trying to prove?” Ledger asked, as she shouldered open the door. It sucked against the rubber seals. They both passed through and stepped up to the hostess in place behind a lacquered wood desk.
Inside everything was brushed steel and satin finishes, acres of plush carpeting underfoot and subdued lighting overhead that had little to do with reducing the electric bill and more to do with providing an ambience of opulence.
Despite having no reservation, Ledger suspected a monetary exchange occurred because they were whisked away to a table for two near the back of the restaurant. The lighting was so restrained Ledger could barely distinguish the satisfied smirk on Gene’s face. She suspected these were the seats reserved either for guests requiring extra privacy or ones the manager wanted hidden away. Gene’s cash might have got them in the door but their casual clothing had been the deciding factor on their placement.
One waiter unfolded crisp white linen napkins over their laps, another poured water from a glass carafe into cry
stal glasses, while a third placed menus nearly a foot tall into their hands.
“What do you recommend?” Gene asked the last server, standing discreetly with his hands clasped behind his back.
“You can’t go wrong with Pacific North West oysters. Or the seared octopus or even the freshly caught wild striped bass.”
Gene raised an eyebrow in Ledger’s direction. “We’ll have two of the wild striped bass,” he said. “Plus a bottle of champagne.” He stabbed at the drinks menu, picking a mid-priced vintage. “That one’ll be fine.”
When the server left, Ledger cast her eyes heavenward and sighed. “Dad, you don’t even like champagne! So, please, tell me, what point are you trying to prove here?”
“I want to make a memory.”
Her eyes clouded. He kept sending cryptic messages and she was fighting hard not to interpret them.
“We have memories. Plenty of good ones.”
He nodded. “It doesn’t hurt to add one more.”
“Please, Dad, tell me why you really came all this way.”
“Alright, alright. There is a reason for my visit. I didn’t tell you at the time, but your mother left a sizeable amount of money to you when she died. I’ve held it in trust all these years. She wanted you to have it when you turned thirty. She thought that was a good age. You would either be embedded into a career or a family or both, and the money would be useful. I want to hand it over now. It’s a little early, but I think you can handle it.”
Ledger took a slug of champagne from her flute. “I don’t want the money. Why don’t you take it and retire?”
“I’d go stir crazy if I retired. You know me. I can’t sit still. And I get all the young guys to do the back breaking work under the hood. I’m into the diagnostics now. Like a doctor. They feed me the symptoms and I point them in the right direction to fix the problem. Don’t disrespect your mother’s last wishes. She was the one with all the financial nous. She invested money for you when we first brought you home. She made good investments. You can leave the inheritance invested if you don’t want to touch the principal, and just spend the interest.”
One Way Out: Scout Ledger Thriller Page 7