Anna Lee stood in her kitchen, holding a cup of coffee and looking worriedly at Luna. “I swore those three volunteers on your phone list to secrecy,” she said, “but dang if one didn’t spill the beans, and now everybody here knows who y’all are.”
“Even the Paulettes?” asked Luna.
“The Paulettes are now the Nedettes,” said Paul.
“The Paulettes ain’t the problem,” said Anna Lee.
“It’s Fish and Wildlife,” said Paul. “They’ve been saying they just wanted you for questioning, which wasn’t so bad.” He turned his laptop around to face her. “But now they’ve issued a warrant for your arrest.”
Luna stared at the screen. “‘Wanted for the theft of a protected species,’” she read aloud. “Does that mean the police have a warrant for me, too?”
“Probably. But it also means if you’re caught at a rehabber’s, the rehabber could lose their license.”
Luna swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’ll get out of here fast, and I’ll get rid of my phone so none of you can be linked with me.”
Anna Lee covered Luna’s hands with hers. “Sugar, that’s not what we’re sayin’,” she said. “We ain’t givin’ you the kiss-off. Y’all got 119 rehabbers on your phone list. We’re your family, and we’re going to git you and that bird to Hélène’s. It’s already arranged, your next stop is Sean’s.”
“Ned called this morning, and he said last night you gave him a mighty clear kiss-off,” said Paul. “So he’s going back to Florida, but first he’s going to bring you another vehicle.”
Luna sat on the ground of Paul and Anna Lee’s flight cage, hugging her knees and watching Mars on his perch in the sun. She worried constantly that he was becoming stressed by all the traveling, the different flight cages, and the air of tension surrounding him. But his appetite was healthy, and he acted unperturbed. Don’t you worry about that raptor bastard, Carlene had told her. He’s unflappable.
Her phone pinged.
PRIVATE CALLER How’s my girl? How’s the birdie?
777-222-3800 Are you okay? Are you crazy?
PRIVATE CALLER Excuse me, but I consider myself the only sane person in this whole operation. Do you need anything?
777-222-3800 I need you to be safe!
PRIVATE CALLER As I will be. And the same for you. Keep me posted and give Sean my best regards. That’s all for now.
777-222-3800 Don’t go! Are you still there?
Her phone remained silent, as she knew it would. Warren already knew where she was headed, which also didn’t surprise her.
Luna climbed to her feet. She needed to grab her duffel bag, then get Mars into his crate. She headed across the parking area just as a battered grey minivan pulled in.
“Morning,” said Luna, as Ned climbed out of the driver seat.
“Morning,” he responded, without warmth.
She squinted at the van. “Did you rent that under your own name?”
“What do you take me for? It belongs to Iris’s brother. He said you can drive it to your next stop, then he’ll pick it up next week.”
“Okay. Sorry. Thank you. Listen…how are you going to get home?”
“That’s my problem, isn’t it? Come on. I’ll help you load up and see you off, then I’m out of here.”
He waited while she loaded Mars into his crate, then helped her carry the crate into the van. Silently they walked into Paul and Anna Lee’s house. “Anna Lee?” called Luna. “I’m leaving! Paul?”
There was no reply. The hallway was empty, as was the kitchen. But standing In the living room and looking out the bay window was an extremely tall, powerfully built man in a perfect suit. They slid to a stop.
Roland turned. He took off his sunglasses, folded them, and tucked them into his pocket. Unhurriedly he lifted his eyes to Luna’s. “You’re not being very cooperative,” he said.
Luna scowled as her fright turned to anger. “What do you want, Roland?” she demanded. “How did you find me?”
“Jesus Christ!” whispered Ned. “Roland Edwards!”
Roland looked Ned over, then turned back to Luna. “Adam wants to talk to you.”
“Too bad! No deal!”
“Ah, shit, Luna, just talk to him! Why are you making this so hard?”
“I’m not the one making it hard! Tell him to leave me alone!”
“Come on,” he snapped. “Let’s go.”
“‘Let’s go?’” Luna repeated. “Are you kidding?”
“You heard her,” said Ned. “Leave her alone!”
Roland shifted his aggravated stare to Ned. “What happened to the hair?” he asked.
“Same thing that happened to the shoulder pads,” Ned retorted.
Luna looked at Ned in disbelief.
Roland stepped toward him with slow, fluid grace, as if he were reaching toward a partner in an underwater ballet. Ned heard a heavy thump, saw a flash of orange, and felt himself sail backward. As the floor slammed against him he heard Luna shout, “Goddammit, Roland!” and Roland rumble, “Hell, I barely touched him.”
Ned sat up, blades of pain shooting through his head, his glasses swinging haphazardly. As the room swam into focus, he saw Roland take Luna’s arm in a rough grasp. Inconceivably, instead of trying to pull away, she clenched her other hand into a fist. She swung her whole body behind it, and her roundhouse punch landed with a thump just beneath the huge man’s collarbone.
“Sonofabitch!” he muttered, pinning both her arms and propelling her forward as if she weighed no more than a hand towel. Ned was halfway to his feet when he heard the unmistakable sound of a ratchet. Standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room was Anna Lee, wearing a formidable scowl, and Paul, pointing a shotgun at Roland’s face.
“Let her go,” ordered Anna Lee, her voice low and menacing. “Go on! Don’t make my husband splatter your brains all over this nice clean living room.”
Roland paused, his eyes on Anna Lee.
“Don’t you screw with me, mister!” she snapped.
Roland released Luna. He let out an irritated sigh, then in a single movement dropped to a crouch, launched himself forward, and caught Paul at the waist. Paul flew backward, and the shotgun ripped a hole through the wall. Anna Lee dove for the gun but Roland rolled to his feet, grabbed it, clamped an arm around Luna, and dragged her from the room. They burst through the front screen door onto the porch, and stopped dead.
Standing in a half circle were nine volunteers, each pointing some kind of firearm at him. “Good thing you’re so much bigger’n her,” drawled a young man holding a rifle. “‘Cause that means I got a clear shot of your head.”
“Holy Moses!” said another. “That’s Roland Edwards!”
Luna yanked herself away as Anna Lee and Paul appeared in the doorway, each supporting one of Ned’s arms as he swayed between them.
“Fuck you, Roland!” she shouted furiously. “You want a message for Adam? Tell him ‘Fuck you, too!’”
“Get in the van!” Paul ordered, as he pulled the shotgun away from Roland and limped down the stairs.
“You’d best stay where y’are,” a middle-aged woman called to Roland, holding her pistol with both hands. “‘Cause besides the guns, we all got shovels.”
“Luna,” said Roland. “You just made me mad.”
“Come on!” cried Anna Lee.
The van was parked nearby, the engine running. The sliding door was open, revealing Mars’s covered crate and Luna’s duffel bag.
“Thank you!” said Luna, as they helped Ned into the passenger seat and closed both doors. She slid into the driver seat, and shifted into gear.
Luna stopped the van at the end of the driveway. She looked at the broken glasses resting on Ned’s lap, at his rapidly swelling jaw, at the shades of violet already blooming beneath one half-closed eye.
“Didn’t I tell you I didn’t need any more of your goddamned help?” she cried. “Didn’t I tell you …”
Ned slid his hand behind her head, pulled her toward him, and gave her a long, deep kiss. “Oh my God!” he said, and sagged against the headrest. “Ouch.”
“Did I hurt you?” she gasped.
“Just drive,” he said, and closed his eyes.
• • •
The heat rose in waves from the sidewalks of Charleston, South Carolina. People moved slowly, hurrying only to cross from the sunny to the shady side of the street. On the outskirts of the city, the grand old Southern architecture metamorphosed into bland modernity. Warren stood on a warehouse roof, snapping a cartridge into his rifle and contemplating the soullessness of modern life.
He had parked a mile away, then jogged to the warehouse. Streams of Five Alarm Chili-fueled sweat ran beneath his filthy shirt and grimy pants. His sneakers, old and rotting veterans of Big Turkey Swamp, bore fresh evidence of the local dog population. His face and hands were blackened, his hair and beard flecked with bits of debris. He lowered his head and inhaled deeply, searching for a trace of Harper; and there she was, rising like an olfactory genie, sinuously winding through sweat and swamp.
He checked his watch. He had accessed the building’s stairwell through an unlocked door just off the south corner. The owners didn’t seem particularly concerned with daytime security, probably because heavy metal tubing wasn’t easily pocketed. He drained the contents of his water bottle, and dropped the empty container into a large black garbage bag. Beside the bag lay an oversized rucksack, as well as his rifle’s empty foam traveling frames.
He rested the barrel on the metal rail encircling the roof and focused on the entrance to the office building across the street. Eight minutes later, the door opened and two suited men emerged. They carefully scanned the area, then Adam Matheson appeared.
One of the men opened the door of the waiting limousine. Ignoring him, Adam gazed into the sky’s hot glare and pulled out a pair of dark glasses. Warren waited until they were firmly in place, then sited their bridge in his crosshairs.
Smiling, Adam rolled his shoulders in what Warren interpreted as a triumphant stretch. Another 500 acres of prime wildlife habitat covered in cement, thought Warren. He squinted, slid the rifle a hair’s breadth to the left, and pulled the trigger.
The door to the office building shattered and crashed, and one of the men knocked Adam to the sidewalk. As the clang of an alarm filled the air, both men dragged Adam into the limo. With a scream of tires, the car raced away.
“Yo!” said Warren. “That had to hurt!”
With fluid precision he disassembled his rifle and eased it into the oversized rucksack. From a side pocket he pulled out a roll of duct tape and a pint of cheap brandy. He ripped off a length of tape, placed the roll and the rucksack into the garbage bag, and taped the edges closed. He opened the brandy and held it aloft.
“Here’s to staying positive and testing negative,” he said, and took a long swig. “Ugh!” he grimaced, and poured half of it down his shirt. “What I won’t do for the cause,” he mused, capping and sliding the bottle into his back pocket.
Police sirens wailed. Warren sighed, his eyes half-lidded, and an expanding stain appeared on the front of his pants. Finally he scratched his beard, hoisted the garbage bag over his shoulder, and headed for the stairwell.
The street was ablaze with police cars. Warren exited the stairwell and was ambling along a block away when another cruiser screeched to a halt beside him. Two uniformed officers jumped out and drew their pistols.
“Stop right there!” shouted one, then recoiled.
“Officers!” grunted Warren, raising a hand in greeting. “Can I offer you some assistance?”
“Did you see anyone come out of any of these buildings?”
“Yeah,” said Warren, and gestured vaguely down the street. “Down there.”
“What did he look like?”
“Like Frank Zappa!” replied Warren.
“Come on,” said the other officer, turning away. “There’s nothing here.”
The police car moved off, and Warren continued down the street.