Adam dove into the turquoise depths of his Olympic-sized swimming pool. For the briefest of seconds he was still, then he exploded into motion.
For a full 50 meters he swam with mechanical precision, every toned muscle, every measured breath propelling him forward until his fingers reached the far end of the pool. He stood, breathing hard, then turned and rested his arms on the cool surface of the tiles he commissioned and had flown in from Mykonos.
Stars shone in the night sky. His house gave off a warm glow. Once again he heard a crash, splintering wood, and a hailstorm of glass, all lodged in his head like an unwanted song.
Jay’s party was six nights ago, though it felt like six years. You can have it annulled, she said. He had watched her through his office window as she paced back and forth across the sun room. The phone call shouldn’t have lasted that long; had the deal not been so complex, none of this would have happened.
He remembered it as a fever dream. The wave of glass rose, crested, and fell, and Luna emerged with her diaphanous gown swirling around her like sea foam. Her steady stride quickened until it matched the shrieks of the burglar alarm. As she passed the office, she met his eyes.
Roland appeared by his side, and saw her expression of incredulous fury. What the fuck, he rumbled, as she disappeared beneath the stucco archway. From the driveway came the sound of her car purring to life and skidding away.
It had taken every ounce of Adam’s self-control not to sprint after her, to keep the staggered expression from his face. Call Enrico, he said to Roland.
Enrico had followed the tracking device beneath her front bumper to a palm tree-lined community of small, brightly painted houses. Eventually he pulled over, parked, raised his phone, and snapped a series of photos: a lavender house with a front porch, a mailbox with “1725” in large black type, an old grey Subaru parked outside the garage. Squeezed beside the Subaru was a bright red quarter-million dollar Tesla Roadster, three awestruck teenagers peering into its windows.
Enrico texted the photos, followed by some basic information: Kelly McPhee. 1725 Hobart Avenue. Age 37. Single. Director of Starfish Key Wildlife Center, Key West. Ten minutes later, he sent a video.
Adam ran a hand through his wet hair. Another lap, he commanded himself.
Instead he walked up the pool stairs, dried his hands on a towel, and reached for the cell phone resting on a table. Three taps, and the video appeared.
Luna stood on the porch of the lavender house. The teenagers looked up from the car. When she raised her hand, they waved in return. She walked past them and stood at the curb, barefoot, wearing track shorts and a faded T-shirt. She spotted and marched toward the camera, and the picture tilted.
“Enrico,” came her voice.
“Hello, Mrs. Mathe…”
“Give me the phone!”
Once again the picture tilted. Adam sank slowly onto a pool chair, eyes fastened to the screen. Luna’s face appeared. “Adam?” she said, managing to look rattled and defiant at the same time. “I’m staying with Kelly for a week. If you don’t give me some space, I swear to God I’ll disappear. And this time, it’ll be for good.”
The picture tilted, a street light appeared, and Luna walked back into the house. The video ended, and Adam placed the phone back on the table and stared into the pool. I don’t make mistakes, he told himself again, but locking that door was a big one.
He thought back to the following morning, after she parked the Tesla in the garage and she and Kelly drove away in Kelly’s car. Enrico had installed a tiny wireless camera in a bougainvillea across the street, and the image of the lavender house appeared on one of the monitors in the surveillance room of Cielo Azul. The same image appeared on Adam’s phone and computer, and he received an alert whenever the motion sensors picked up activity. One of Enrico’s colleagues, driving a battered Hyundai, kept an eye on Starfish Key. She’s doing yoga in the Seychelles, Adam told those who asked.
She had emailed him from the wildlife center, requesting a small list of supplies: her phone, some toiletries, shorts, pants, a few t-shirts, sneakers, and her silver necklace. He had them delivered, along with a beautiful vase of flowers. No note. No more mistakes, he thought. Each night he watched the two women sit on the porch, their feet on the railing, drinking beer from bottles.
A week, she said, and he tried. He made it to six days, then he dispatched the Gulfstream to Pennsylvania. All he wanted to do was prove to her that he knew her better than anyone; that while other men might show their regret with jewelry or cars or houses, he alone knew the way to her heart was through the bird whose small downy feather she kept inside a silver bead on a leather cord. He would present the bird to her. She would understand.
And if she didn’t understand, well, then, he’d have the bird.
But she had understood. It worked. She agreed to come home. He had been so triumphant he’d told Enrico we’re done, shut it down. Wait a day, then retrieve the equipment.
When the alarm went off two hours ago he was in his office, clearing his schedule so he could welcome her home properly. Enrico rebooted the camera and the lavender house appeared on Adam’s computer screen, the garage door open, the Tesla gone. Later they found it parked at a public beach half a mile away.
Adam rose, jaw clenched, and stood at the edge the pool. He launched himself forward, thinking, the eagle. The fucking eagle.
• • •
Roland Edwards was not happy.
It was 1:00 in the morning and the Monroe County police were still asking the same questions. Harper Napinski sat in her office chair, one ankle resting on the opposite knee, regarding the officer with the death’s-head stare of a linebacker. She was built like a linebacker, too, which had earned Roland’s grudging respect, as did the way she could sling a Burmese python over her shoulder and lug it to wherever she needed it to go.
“And why was the back door unlocked, again?” asked Officer Peters.
“I told you why it was unlocked ten minutes ago,” replied Harper, “just like I told you why it was unlocked ten minutes before that. I came in late to give one of the gibbons some meds, and it didn’t occur to me that there might be an eaglenapper in the neighborhood.” She narrowed her eyes at the cops. “I’m beginning to think you don’t believe what I’m telling you.”
“No no,” said Officer Peters quickly. “This is standard procedure. Just one more time? The camera was off because …?”
“Because when I came in it was flickering, and I turned it off thinking it would reboot. Once again: I work with animals, not electronic equipment. I turned the camera off, I checked around, I turned the camera back on, and I texted Gus, who works with the electronic equipment. I didn’t see the need to hurry, because I knew Carlos was somewhere nearby.”
Carlos, the night guard, rested his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “I was checking the tennis courts,” he sighed. “It was not me who took the eagle.”
“Gentlemen,” said Harper, rising and holding out her formidable arms. “Would you like to frisk me to see if I am concealing an eagle on my person? If not, I have to be back here by seven, so I’m ready to call it a night.”
This is bullshit, thought Roland.
He left the room and stepped back into the night. He took off his jacket, loosened his tie, and walked toward the pool. In the distance, he could hear the sound of thrashing water.
Harper’s flat, virulent gaze had triggered a blaze of images and a series of audio flashbacks: the whir of automatic cameras, the roar of a stadium gone wild, the crunch of a career-ending tackle, and the voice of a man he’d seen on the cover of Time magazine.
His cell phone had rung when he was still on crutches. I’ve followed you since you were a freshman at Ohio State, Adam Matheson said. I’m really sorry about that tackle. I’m making a lot of money, and they say I need to hire more security. Would you consider working for me?
Fuck you, Roland had snapped, and hung up.
Eleven months later it was clear no miracle would return him to the field. Two hours after his final orthopedist appointment he’d been sitting on a park bench in Chicago, staring bitterly at Lake Michigan and swigging a pint of Jack Daniels, when his phone rang.
I was wondering if you might reconsider, said Adam Matheson.
There had been money, gadgets, custom-made suits, and private jets; training in weapons, boxing, martial arts, and evasive driving; and late nights on the road drinking high-priced Scotch with a man who became more famous by the year, but never lost his teenaged-boy fascination with his football hero. This is my friend Roland Edwards, he said to captains of industry and owners of teams. Roland Edwards! they beamed, and shook his hand.
Come on, baby, said Lyllis, as she curled against him. It’s not your dream. But it’s a damned sight better than most folks get.
I know, he replied. But whenever he heard a sportscaster’s voice, his hand slid toward his left knee and his latent rage returned. It flared during the playoffs, or when he spotted another gridiron biography. Eventually he developed a sense of gratitude, but its focus did not please Lyllis: he was grateful there were so many people in the world who hated Adam Matheson.
There were stockholders blindsided by hostile takeovers, insurance policyholders left dangling when the company moved out of state, homeowners whose wells were contaminated by the new factory. The list went on and Adam, a fixture on the social circuit and usually pleased to see his picture in the media, was not difficult to track. Roland’s earliest encounter was with three men who were waiting in the dark outside a restaurant in New York City.
Adam had bought the manufacturing plant where they worked, fired everyone, and was in the process of selling off the pieces. The men, in their 30s and burly, were slightly inebriated and intent on confronting Adam with his crimes. Roland had seen his boss defuse far more volatile situations; he wouldn’t have been surprised had Adam invited them into the restaurant and bought them six or eight rounds of the best Scotch in the house. Instead, Adam taunted them until one threw the first punch.
How did that make you feel? he asked, sitting next to Roland in the back of the limousine, after Roland beat all three men so viciously that the ambulances called ahead to check the hospitals’ blood supply.
Roland held an ice bag to his split lip and blackened eye, fully expecting to be fired. It made me feel damned fine, he answered belligerently.
Good, said Adam.
Fourteen years later Roland stood next to Adam Matheson’s pool. He watched as his boss climbed the stairs, water streaming from his taut body.
“Cops are leaving,” said Roland. They’ll be in touch.”
“Anything?”
“No.”
Over six feet himself, Adam had to tilt his head back to meet Roland’s eyes. Roland noted the jut to Adam’s chin, the rigid set to his fingers even as he gestured downward with a calming motion.
“All I want to do is talk to her,” he said. “So find her.”
“Got it,” said Roland.
• • •
Squinting in the morning light, Ned let himself into his building and entered his apartment. He found the giant box empty and the guest room door slightly ajar. Cautiously peering through the gap, he saw the enormous eagle standing on a giant perch.
“I thought while you were getting used to each other it would be better to have a door in between you,” said Luna, emerging and closing it behind her. Although he had no intention of getting used to a predator he knew could take him down without ruffling a feather, Ned found himself nodding in agreement. “I put a plastic tablecloth on the floor,” she added, “so you won’t have to worry about your rug.”
Ned hadn’t even considered his rug. “Listen,” he said. “Remember last night I told you the less I knew, the better? Can you just tell me who the eagle belongs to? And, like, what the penalty might be for stealing it?”
“‘It?’” repeated Luna, with an offended lift of one eyebrow. “His name is Mars.”
“Sorry. Stealing him.”
“He doesn’t belong to anyone. He lives at the Western Pennsylvania Wildlife Center. That’s his home. He has a mate. He can’t be released.”
“Why not? He looks awfully healthy to me.”
“Because some shitty guy took him from his nest and raised him in captivity. He doesn’t know how to be a wild bird.”
“And why would your husband …”
Luna frowned, and Ned stopped. “Never mind,” he said. “Like I said — I’ll get you to Immokalee, but that’s as far as I can go.”
“That’s fine,” she said earnestly. “I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
Ned pulled a plastic bag from the pocket of his cargo shorts. Earlier she had put down her coffee cup, grabbed her wallet, and announced she would be right back. He asked if she would be taking the bird with her; when she said no, he quizzed her and bolted from the apartment.
“Here,” he said, pulling out two burner phones and some change.
“Thank you,” said Luna, and held up one of the phones. “This one’s for Harper. We’ll leave it someplace for her before we get on the highway.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want her calling me from her phone. I’m sure Adam has it tapped.”
“But that’s not legal.”
Luna gave him a look of amusement, then pulled her own phone from her pocket. “You’re an IT guy,” she said. “Can you transfer all the numbers from my old phone to my new one?”
“Because he’s listening in on you, too?”
“Not only that. He tracks me through it.”
“Do you think he’s tracking you right now?”
“Nope,” she said, smirking. “Because when I don’t want him to track me, I turn it off. He put a tracker in my car, too, so I left it at the beach.”
Ned took both phones and disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned Luna had cleaned his kitchen, made a fresh pot of coffee, and was sitting on his couch, intently scanning Gaming World magazine. The eagle sat majestically on its perch in the box.
“Great, thanks,” she said, when he handed her the phones. “I put Mars in his crate, so we’re ready whenever you are.”
“His ‘crate.’ That’s what you call it?”
“Yes. See, the front has that metal grate, and there are little windows on the sides, but the rest is hard plastic. If the whole thing were made of metal, he could hurt himself or damage his feathers. And I cover him with that dark sheet when we’re moving, so he doesn’t get freaked out by the things passing by.”
“Hmm,” said Ned, filing it all away for future reference. The metal screen door, he noted, had a squeeze spring which could only be opened from the outside. He’s not really that scary, he thought, and sidled forward for a closer look.
“You might not want to…” Luna began, as he crouched down and peered inside. There was a rush of feathers, a huge and sinewy yellow foot hit the door with a heavy clang, and what looked like four curved black bayonets burst through the metal grid not far from Ned’s face. He scrambled backward as Luna shot off the couch, grabbed the dark sheet, and draped it over the crate.
“Sorry!” she cried.
“‘Don’t worry, Ned!’” he quoted, his voice filled with outrage. “‘He’s really gentle!’”
“He is! He just…”
“He just what?”
“He just doesn’t like men!”
“He doesn’t like men? What do you mean, he…”
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said, grabbing her new phone and beckoning energetically. Once there she faced him, her voice low and urgent. “Ned — it’s not his fault! I promise you I’ll keep him covered all the way to Immokalee, if you can just get us there. Okay? Do you need more coffee?”
For a moment he was silent, struck dumb by her beauty, then he pulled himself together. “Do I look like I need more coffee?” he demanded.
“Let me show you,” she said determinedly, furiously typing on her phone. “Look.” The text was addressed to “Group.”
777-388-0021 Everyone, I need help. This is my new number, PLEASE DELETE last one from your phones/computers. Heading north. Need a bed & a flight cage, or as close as you can get. Details on arrival.
“They’re rehabbers,” said Luna. “Rehabilitators. They’re my friends. They take care of injured and orphaned wildlife, like I did at Starfish Key. They’ll help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Get where I’m going. I can stay with Warren in Immokalee, but that’s just my first stop.”
“Where’s your last stop?”
“Not sure.”
“Doesn’t your husband know your rehabber friends? How do you know he won’t hack their phones?”
“He doesn’t know them. I only know them through the internet. Except for Warren and everyone at Celia’s, I’ve never met any of them in person.”
“You’re like gamers.”
“I guess we are.”
A silent minute passed, and then another. Luna stood holding her phone, staring intently out the window, agitation rolling off her in hot waves. Ned knew he should say something comforting, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what.
“They’re not answering me,” she said finally, her voice increasingly hard-edged. “Maybe they’re busy. It doesn’t matter, I can do it alone. I don’t need anyone’s help.”
She narrowed her eyes, as if daring him to contradict her. Ned quickly looked away and into the living room, where her huge and bloodthirsty bird stood inside its sheet-covered crate. Luna followed his gaze and once again her expression transformed, her icy eyes infusing with color, her clenched jaw softening, her lips rising into a small, devoted smile. Ned watched this facial sleight of hand with fascination, unable to fathom how a creature so terrifying could provoke it.
Her phone pinged.
It pinged again, and kept pinging. She grinned with relief, and held the phone out so he could read along with her.
squirrelsrus@gmail.com Sending you directions to my place. Let me know, or just show up.
bearwithme@hotmail.com What did you do this time? Is it juicy? Door’s always open.
meadowlark@outlook.com You need supplies? Will send interns to meet you.
carnivorous@gmail.com Mi casa es su casa, babe. Bring wine.
blossompossum21@att.net No flight cage, but can clear out the bigger possum run. Tell me when.
chiroptera@gmail.com Fuck you, Luna, you bitch! Everyone knows you do jack shit for wildlife!
“Oh, that’s just Esther, sometimes she hits the bourbon,” Luna chortled. “She does that to everyone! She’s always really sorry when she sobers up!”
“But …”
“I still haven’t heard from Warren,” she said, looking concerned. “The thing is, if he doesn’t have anyone in rehab sometimes he goes into Big Cypress without his phone.”
“You mean the swamp? Aren’t there alligators in there?”
“He’s a panther rehabber. He likes alligators.”
“Ha ha,” laughed Ned, the sound more high-pitched than he’d intended. “Very funny.”
“No, really. He lives on the edge of the Panther Refuge, and he knows more about them than just about anyone on the planet.”
“Wait a minute! Panthers are mountain lions, right? Cougars? Same thing? He has them walking around his house?”
“Of course they’re not walking around his house! They’re wild animals!”
“Oh, wild animals! You mean like the one standing in my living room?”
The phone pinged. “Warren!” she sighed with relief, and turned the phone toward Ned.
PRIVATE CALLER Come on up. Got one kitty and a fine collection of dildos to show you.
“No,” said Ned, holding up a restraining hand. “Allow me. ‘Don’t worry, Ned, it’s not what you think.’”
Luna gazed at him in surprise, then slowly she smiled; a big, genuine smile that lit up her face, flashed through her eyes, and sent shafts of light, he was sure, beaming into the dark corners of every swamp in Florida. Ned gazed back at her, thinking, no wonder the guy took her eagle.
“That’s exactly right, Ned,” said Luna. “It’s not what you think.”