by Bryan Davis
Nathan thrust his finger downward. “Go!”
Clara kicked off her high-heels and clambered down the steps. A bullet shattered the glass and zinged past Nathan’s ear. He leaped halfway down the first flight, shaking the entire framework as he landed. “Faster!”
As his footfalls rang through the metal stairs, a shout sounded from above. “You follow. I’ll get the car.”
Scrambling across a landing, Nathan caught up with Clara as she turned down the next flight. Another gunshot cracked through the whistling wind. Nathan hopped up on the railing, slid past Clara, and dropped feet first to the landing. “Come on!” he shouted as Clara caught up. “He can’t get a good shot through the steps!”
As they closed in on the ground level, they dropped below the top floor of the parking garage across the street. Nathan glanced up. Their pursuer was galloping down the steps two levels above.
Seconds later, Nathan halted at the final stretch, a long, horizontal ladder that would swing them down to the sidewalk as they added their weight to the stairs. He leaped out, grabbed the railing, and rode the metal bridge to the ground. When the supports smacked against the concrete, Clara hopped on the rail and slid down, almost beating Nathan to the bottom.
They jumped from the stairs. As the rusty span sprang back up, Clara pointed down the road. “The limo’s that way!” They broke into a mad sprint, Nathan intentionally staying one step behind, glancing back constantly. Suddenly the black Mustang careened around a corner three blocks to their rear and thundered toward them.
“They have wheels now!” Nathan shouted.
“So do we!” Clara turned down an alley where the black stretch limo idled. A stubby man in a chauffeur’s cap leaned against the front fender, tipping back a bottle of Mountain Dew.
“Mike!” Clara waved her hands as she slowed down. “I’ll take the car!”
Mike spun around and opened the door for them. “In trouble again?” he asked.
“Big time!” Now puffing heavily Clara slid behind the wheel. Nathan leaped on the hood and vaulted to the other side. Throwing open the passenger’s door, he dove in and jerked upright in his seat.
The Mustang, its convertible top now folded down, skidded to a stop in front of them, blocking the alley’s exit. Clara lowered the window and glanced between Mike and the Mustang, her eyes wide as she tried to catch her breath. “How do I get to the expressway?”
Mike pointed at the street in front of them. “That’s Congress. Turn right, cross the bridge, and you’re there.”
As the window hummed back to the top, Clara smacked the floor stick into gear. “Get buckled!”
Nathan clicked the buckle and grabbed the hand rest. “Let’s do it!”
She slammed down the accelerator. The limousine roared away, the tires squealing as she angled toward a narrow gap between the Mustang and a lamppost.
As they closed in, the bearded man stood on the seat, propped a foot on the window frame, and aimed his gun.
Clara ducked behind the wheel. “Get down!”
Nathan scrunched but kept his eye on the action. A bullet clanked into their limo as it clipped the Mustang’s fender, shoving it to the side. The gunman toppled over and rolled onto the pavement.
Clara barged into traffic amid a hail of honking horns. “Maybe they learned their lesson and won’t follow.”
As he rocked upright, a tight lump squeezed into Nathan’s throat. “Think we can somehow sneak back and get Mom and Dad?”
Clara grabbed his shoulder. “Nathan, they’re —” She released him and spun the wheel, wedging the long car into the left lane between two yellow taxis. “Watch my back and tell me if you see them.”
Nathan wheeled around. The black Mustang roared into view, weaving back and forth as it darted past car after car. Setting his fists on top of the windshield, the gray-bearded man aimed his pistol.
“He’s going to shoot!” Nathan shouted. “Step on it!”
Clara jerked the car through traffic, zigzagging from lane to lane. They bumped a Mercedes on one side, then a pickup truck on the other. Tires squealed. Horns blared. A bullet ripped through the rear window and into the dashboard, shattering the radio.
Clara stomped the accelerator to pass a city bus, flattening Nathan against the passenger seat. He pushed back up and peered over the headrest. The Mustang careened around the bus but slowed as a car swerved in front of it.
Clara slowed the limo to a halt and pointed ahead. “The drawbridge!”
Nathan glanced between the shattered rear window and the windshield. Red-and-white crossbars lowered about four car lengths in front, while a pickup truck pulled behind them, preventing any escape to the rear. “Any ideas? We’re sitting ducks!”
“Not if I can help it!” Clara jerked her thumb toward the rear. “Keep watching.”
“What do you have up your sleeve this time?”
She clenched her fingers around the steering wheel. “Survival!”
He peered back again. The Mustang angled its front grill toward the left, inching back and forth to get enough room to go around the car that blocked it. Nathan lowered his head. “Looks like he’s trying to push over the median!”
Clara scrunched down. “Perfect!”
“Perfect?” He spun around. “But they’ll catch us for sure!”
“Only if we go back. We always go forward.”
“But going forward puts us in the river.”
“Tighten your strap, Kiddo! We’re taking off !” She jerked the wheel to the left and floored the pedal, sending the limo lurching across the median and into the oncoming lanes.
Nathan grabbed his seat belt and pulled it tighter. “You can’t jump the gap! There’s no way this tank can make it!”
“And neither can that Mustang!” They crashed through the crossbars and zoomed up the steep metal incline. The limo launched over the edge and into the air, flying for a brief second before falling toward the river below.
2
REFLECTIONS OF MIND
The car splashed tires-first into the water. Nathan’s head rammed against the ceiling, but his seat belt kept him from thrashing around. When the bouncing stopped, the car settled into a slowly sinking drift on the river’s surface. He patted his torso. He was alive!
Clara lowered the two front windows. “Get your shoes off and be ready to swim.” She squeezed through the opening and rolled into the river.
“My backpack!” Nathan reached over the seat and grabbed the strap. With water gushing in all around, he slipped off his dress shoes, took a deep breath, and dove out the window. He paddled furiously in the icy water, trying to keep his head above the wake of passing sailboats.
A splash erupted next to his shoulder, followed by a loud Crack! from up above. Nathan looked up at the bridge. The gray-bearded man had perched atop a supporting pylon, a pistol at the end of his outstretched arms.
Clara spat out a stream of water. “Dive!”
Nathan dove into the cloudy river. It would hide them, at least until they had to come back up for air. Weighed down by water, his backpack felt like concrete, but he couldn’t let it go. Dad’s mirror was inside.
A bullet splashed above and ricocheted off his shoulder, slowed by the watery cushion. Hiding helped, but they couldn’t stay under forever. He popped back to the surface and shook the water from his hair. Clara appeared next to him. “Gotta get the mirror!” he called.
As the limo’s roof sank below the rippling waves, Nathan unzipped the pack and grabbed the wrapped mirror, shivering so hard he could barely breathe. He finally let go of the strap and let the backpack sink to the bottom.
A bullet pierced the foaming surface, nicking a toe on Nathan’s foot, again too slow to do any damage. He threw off the bundle’s cloth wrappings, revealing the square mirror.
Clara flailed in the water, sputtering, “What are you doing?”
“Dad told me to look at it if I get in trouble.” He angled the glass until he could see the bearded man
standing on the pylon. With the bridge now beginning to close, the gunman lowered his weapon and jogged out onto the metal ramp.
From somewhere behind Nathan, music played over a raspy PA system. Nathan swiveled toward the sound. A tourist boat headed their way. Passengers leaned close to the edge taking pictures, their cameras flashing every half second.
Kicking madly to prop up his shivering body, he spun back to the mirror. He had to concentrate. His father never gave a warning without a good reason.
In the reflection, the man aimed his gun once again. Nathan cringed. Where was a cop when you needed one? A bullet ripped through the frame, shattering it in his grip. He juggled the mirror, finally grabbing the bare glass with both hands. Resisting the urge to glance up at the bridge, he pulled the glass closer. In the reflected image, the police arrived and nabbed the gunman.
Another bullet zinged into the river. Clara grabbed Nathan’s elbow to help him stay above water. “Don’t turn,” she said. “Keep focused!”
Spitting oily water as the waves slapped against his lips, Nathan changed the mirror’s angle slightly. The bridge had closed, and cars were crossing again.
“Okay.” Clara let go of him. “It’s safe now.”
Nathan turned and looked up at the bridge. Two policemen cuffed the gunman as the span lowered to a close. He squinted at the scene. That had already happened. How did—?
A flotation ring splashed at his side. Another one bumped Clara’s shoulder. They turned to the source, following the trail of two lifelines to the tourist boat. While a crowd of passengers looked on, two men held the ropes and waved, yelling something that the wind carried away.
Nathan grabbed his ring and made sure Clara had a good hold on hers. Still clinging to the mirror, he rode the swift tugs toward the boat. Whatever this Quattro viewer was, it held a lot more mystery than met the eye.
Nathan pulled a blanket around his body and tucked it in at the sides. It felt good — snug, cozy, warm. The car’s vent blew a jet of heated air across his face, adding to the pleasure. Wearing a pair of mid-top boots borrowed from the tour boat captain, an oversized Chicago Bulls sweatshirt that one of the tourists stripped off as soon as Nathan climbed aboard, and jeans, gym socks, and underwear fished out of a police charity bin, he felt comfortable, almost strangely so, especially considering the calamities that had crashed down on his life just hours before.
Now able to rest and think, the ghastly image of his parents’ lifeless forms pulsed in his brain. The police had found no coffins in the prop room, so the bodies had to be in Mictar’s clutches. Why would that creep want them anyway? What else could he do that Dr. Simon hadn’t already done? The thoughts sizzled through his brain like electric shockwaves. He had to concentrate on something else or he’d go crazy.
Leaning his head back, he cast a glance at Clara. Dressed in a purple jumper and matching shirt from the charity bin, she looked serene, far more peaceful than he expected. He couldn’t resist grinning at her outfit. It reminded him of a Voodoo priestess he had once seen as he passed by an alley in Port-au-Prince. She had fixed her dark eyes on him and chanted mysterious Creole verses into the midst of a boiling cauldron. Her brew suddenly spewed a plume of hot gasses and smoke. When it cleared, she was gone.
Nathan shuddered. Too many mysterious things had happened in his life, and the mirror’s strange behavior seemed to top them all.
Clara gazed out the windshield of the Jeep Cherokee they had rented “on credit,” as the sympathetic rental agent had termed their deal. After spending the night on a bench in the police station, she seemed wide awake, her eyes brimming with speculation. “Do you remember the field trip for our introduction to England class back when I first became your tutor?”
Nathan squirmed in his blanket and stared out the side window, but with dawn just beginning to break, it was too dark to see much, only the silhouette of the retreating Chicago skyline framed by a rising orange glow. “Yeah. At Scotland Yard.”
“Do you remember what a safe house is?”
“I think so. A place where no one can find someone, like in a witness protection program.”
“Exactly. I don’t know what your father learned about Mictar and Dr. Simon, but it’s obvious it led to his and your mother’s deaths, and you’re their next target.”
“But I don’t know anything. Dad never told me much about his assignments.”
“He kept them to himself to protect you, but the murderers don’t seem to care about that.” Clara pushed a button, turning off the Jeep’s global positioning system. “I’d better not leave any clues that might give away our destination.”
Her last word throbbed in Nathan’s ears. Destination. It sounded final, like perdition, a place to stay away from. How bad could it be? An old spinster’s log cabin, squirreled away in a remote forest? There’d probably be nothing to do but play cribbage with her and listen to her complain about aching bunions while country music squawked on scratchy vinyl records. Or maybe it would be even worse.
He shook his head. It would be better not to ask. Clara would tell him soon enough. He thought about suggesting Dr. Malenkov’s house, but that would be too obvious. Mom’s stepfather’s home would be the first place they would look.
“I’ll have to leave you at the safe house,” Clara continued, “and attend to some important details.”
“Can I go with you? Nobody will be tailing you, will they?”
“We can’t take any chances. Your father left me instructions in case something like this happened, and it’s my duty to follow his directives to the letter. After we make one stop on the way, I’ll get you settled at the house. But then I have to leave immediately to meet with your father’s lawyer to receive your parents’ estate for you. After that, I’ll return with some clothes for you and a replacement violin.”
As new warmth flowed into Nathan’s cheeks, he pulled the blanket lower and dipped his chin close to his chest. He couldn’t believe it. His parents were dead and now he had to hole up in some stranger’s house. Not only that, his only real friend in the world was going to take off and leave him alone there. Could it possibly get any worse?
Clara reached over and rubbed his shoulder. “Going to the safe house is what your father wanted. You’ve always trusted him before, haven’t you?”
He raised his chin just enough to nod. He had always trusted Dad, but he wasn’t around anymore to make sure his promises were being kept.
She caressed the back of his head. “Oh, Nathan, I’m so sorry. There are a million things to do, and no one can expect you to do them. If I don’t concentrate on my duties, I’ll break down and cry.”
A wave of sorrow swept through his mind, sending a hot flash through his body. “I know what you mean.”
“I’ll get everything you need to make you comfortable in your new home. You’ll feel better in no time.”
He squeezed his eyelids shut and whispered, “I don’t want to feel better.” Tears begged to get out. A new shaking sensation crawled through his insides, more like a cathartic convulsion than a shiver. Thoughts of his mother — her gentle touch, her kind words, her matchless talent — flashed in his mind. Then memories of his father — his strong embraces, his odd, yet direct way of teaching, his protective hands — seemed so real, almost as if he were whispering at this moment, touching his son’s shoulder the way he always used to do when he wanted to share a philosophical gem.
Nathan trembled. It was too much. It was just too much. Finally he wept. His head bobbed, and his nose began running. As Clara’s fingers massaged his scalp, he swallowed down the pain. He couldn’t let it boil over like that. If he kept it up, he’d be blubbering like a baby.
After a few seconds, he sniffed and looked at her through a blur of tears, trying hard to keep his voice steady. “I’ll do whatever Dad said, but don’t bother getting a violin. I don’t want to play anymore.”
“Don’t go making promises you’ll be sorry for later.” She flipped on the Jeep’s stereo.<
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Violin music streamed through the speakers. Vivaldi. At other times it would have made him feel better. Now? Not likely. He sniffed again and wiped his eyes with the blanket. He didn’t really want to be comforted. He just wanted to go off and wander in the woods, feel sorry for himself for a while. He deserved it, didn’t he? He’d lost everything and no one really seemed to care. It was time to mope and be miserable.
But Vivaldi had other ideas. As they drove on and on, the sweet violins bathed him in soothing majesty, stroking his aching heart with the very same four seasons of life he had so recently celebrated with his own violin.
After a Beethoven sonata, a Mozart symphony, and dozens of miles of dazzling cornfields waving their golden tassels in the brightening sunlight, Nathan slipped off his shoes and pulled his feet up under his body. He gazed at Clara, blinking through his diminishing tears. “Do you really think Mom and Dad are dead?”
Clara’s lips wrinkled. “Yes, dear. You saw the bodies. That was no illusion.”
Nathan gave a nod, then tightened his chin. He couldn’t believe it. No … he wouldn’t believe it. No matter how many times his dad’s investigations had exposed a nest of human rats, he had always managed to escape their plans for revenge. As a master illusionist, his collection of mirrors and lights would confuse his pursuers, allowing him to disappear like a phantom. Maybe even the bodies in the coffins were an illusion of some kind. And how could Dad ever be duped so easily by Dr. Simon? He was too smart for that. He was too …
He shook his head slowly. Clara was right. This time everything was different. Dad was dead. So was Mom. Not only that, his father had said that Dr. Simon wasn’t so bad, so maybe he really was fooled. And maybe this Mictar was just too powerful.
He breathed a deep sigh and pressed his teeth down on his bottom lip. He had lost this battle. Sure, he and Clara had escaped with their lives, but it was a retreat. He had tucked his tail between his legs and run away like a wailing puppy. But the war wasn’t over yet.
