“Hold me? Please. I need to feel you with me.”
Reid nodded as the turbulence returned the storm to his dark orbs. “All night, Lorna. I won’t let you go. Let me turn off the rest of the lights and I’ll be back.”
As the room went dark and Reid’s side of our large bed dipped, I scooted closer, meeting him near the middle. It wasn’t until his strong arms surrounded me that I closed my eyes again. Though I knew without a doubt that the darkness lurked beyond our dimension, I concentrated on the man holding me.
With his front to my back, and his massive body curved around mine, he reassured, “I’m here.”
“Please don’t leave.” It wasn’t a request I often made. I knew he had work. I knew the Sparrow world needed him. However, at this moment, I needed him too.
“I’m not leaving you, Lorna. When you wake, I’ll be here.”
I felt the release. Call it residual bliss or the effect of the sleeping pill. Either way, it moved through me until my limbs and eyelids grew too heavy to move, and I was lulled into a dreamless sleep.
Reid
Hours after my wife woke from one of her longest and most uninterrupted nights of sleep in recent days, I left her. It wasn’t without warning. I left her awake and in the penthouse, surrounded by those who loved her.
Currently, I was soaring above the clouds on the way to our destination, Washington DC. With Sparrow and Mason discussing logistics, I was communicating via the computer with Garrett, our top Sparrow on the ground. Much as we’d done nearly two years ago when we’d gone to DC to claim Mason’s freedom, we had Sparrows already in the city, setting up our hotel suite and securing the safety of the location.
In an attempt to keep this visit under the radar, we weren’t currently riding in the bird plane. This one was smaller with two sets of seats facing one another. For a less-than-two-hour flight each direction, the luxurious accommodations of the larger plane weren’t exactly needed. That wasn’t to say we were flying in a tin can, far from it.
Marianne was piloting—as was usually the case when Sparrow was aboard. Keaton was also present and in the aft cabin ready to see to our needs, not that we had many. It was simply standard to have at least one flight attendant when the king was present.
Patrick and I decided that a hotel would work best for the rendezvous point. A large elite establishment held many options. Comings and goings were less noticeable. The reservations were made under the guise of a difficult-to-trace LLC. The rooms were booked from yesterday to two days from today. Securing a booking for longer than required was also common. If word got out that Sterling Sparrow was coming to the city—any city—this extended booking made it more difficult to pinpoint his arrival and departure.
It was becoming increasingly annoying that the Sparrow entourage would be met with a gaggle of reporters. The legitimate side of Sparrow, the work of the Sparrow Institute, and the availability of social media spotlighting the name Sparrow, all garnered the increased attention. While the reporters’ questions were most commonly of no significance, their presence was unappreciated, especially when meeting with someone like Edison Walters.
One difference with today’s meeting versus the one nearly two years ago was that this time Mr. Walters knew it had been called by Sterling Sparrow. And while we had a cover for the press should we be questioned, Walters was equally aware that we weren’t arriving to discuss funding for lobbying on a hot-button issue.
Nevertheless, for appearances, the subject made a good cover. After all, the most obvious reason for Sterling Sparrow to meet with a legislative aide would be to discuss something relative to Chicago commerce.
Recent modifications in regulations increased the amount of emissions that were now considered acceptable. Sterling Sparrow, the real estate tycoon, was among a list of prominent donors, as well as local and state political officials—the mayor and Illinois governor—who opposed the recent relaxed standards based on the environmental impact. Yes, the change gave perks when it came to big business. However, with their nationwide passing, that wasn’t a boon to Chicago alone and despite promises, those perks hadn’t trickled down to the workers who kept Chicago’s economy going.
Edison Walters was involved with a congressional oversight committee designated to monitor the impact of the recent changes. Simultaneously, he was securing donors to fight for new stricter regulations. Some would see that as a conflict of interest.
In a nutshell, our meeting would appear to be nothing more than a legislative aide meeting with a prominent donor of one of the growing lobbyist PACs aimed at pressuring Congress to revisit the recent modification.
There was more to it—as was often the case with these kinds of issues.
The corporations that benefited from the adjustment didn’t add to the state and city tax base. Many had unexpired exemptions that they were no longer honoring in deed. Sparrow’s mother was among the aldermen willing to accept the regulation change as long as the tax revenue was increased accordingly. To say this was a simple two-sided issue would be erroneous.
In reality, we weren’t here to discuss any of that. It made an acceptable cover for our meeting.
I turned from the monitor to the two men with me. “Garrett has the presidential suite at Mandarin Oriental secure.”
“Do we have the space we need?” Sparrow asked. “I thought it was booked.”
“Garrett was convincing in his request.”
“Does he have it wired?” Mason added. “I want a transmission going to Patrick in real time, and we don’t have time before Top’s arrival to do much of anything.”
“Yes,” I answered Sparrow, “regarding the space. It’s their largest suite with over thirty-five hundred square feet. Two bedrooms.” I turned to Mason. “One is already wired for the on-site command center. Garrett has it manned, and there are Sparrows scattered around the hotel and on the street. If you’d rather sit at a table, there is a dining room that will work.”
“We’re not entertaining,” Sparrow replied, his tone clipped and gruff.
He wasn’t the only one on edge. We were all mentally preparing for what could go down. This wasn’t going to be a simple meeting. A man who maintained an alternate clandestine personality as possibly the most influential person in the world doesn’t negotiate easily, even when that negotiation is with a man whose own clandestine role was that of the kingpin of the underground of the third-largest city in the US.
Of course, Sparrow came to this meeting prepared with more than his own influence. He’d worked diligently since returning to Chicago to secure support from other leaders throughout the country’s underground forces. Without giving much detail or ever calling out the Sovereign Order, Sparrow implored the other leaders to consider the benefits of forming an alliance to fight a possible common enemy. He was forthright about the threat that had been made to his queen and the wife of one of his top men.
The world of the underground went by many names: Mafia, Cosa Nostra, bratva, brotherhood, or cartel, to name a few. It was dark and dangerous. People died. Property was destroyed. Fortunes were stolen. And yet a key connection was family.
Sterling Sparrow’s wife had been threatened.
There was no greater call to unity.
Mason stood. “He knows this isn’t about the emissions.”
For this occasion, Mason was more formally dressed than usual. His blue jeans were replaced with dress trousers, and his thermal shirt by a button-down under a sports jacket. It wasn’t exactly a suit, there wasn’t a tie, and his cowboy boots were still present; nevertheless, for Mason Pierce this was as close to formal as he usually came.
Of course, Sparrow was dressed like the Chicago royalty he was: dark blue suit, striped shirt, and silver tie. The cuffs of his pressed shirt glittered with expensive gold and diamond cuff links. His family’s crest shone from the gold ring on his right hand. And his loafers and belt were made of the finest Italian leather. At one glance, there was no question that he was a man of import
ance.
I’d also dressed for the meeting. While I hadn’t been in the room with Edison Walters the last time we all met, I had been present. This time would be different. This time I too would demand answers.
Mason paused as he peered out a small rectangular window. With blue skies above, the clouds below moved ominously, churning in peaks and valleys. “The forecast is for rain.”
No one responded.
“Fuck,” Mason said, turning back to us. “The tension is thick in here.”
He was right. Like a stagnant cloud, the stress combined with the importance of this meeting hung in a thick blanket around us.
Sparrow stood, pacing between the window and seats. “Here’s what we know.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Our only evidence of a connection to the Order is Andrew Jettison. We can imply and make assumptions, but if Walters is the man you say” —he was looking at Mason— “the only case we can make is with the DNA match.”
“I want to know,” I said for not the first time, “why? What is the endgame?”
“That’s our angle—mine,” Mason corrected. “Listen, I know you want revenge for your wives. I get it. But the reality is that Walters could be as responsible for the ladies’ kidnapping as Sparrow is for a gang shooting on West 87th.”
Sparrow bristled at the analogy. “I learn,” he said. “I don’t always know they’re going to happen, but once they do, I see the data. You’re the one who’s proclaimed the Order’s control. Do you think that my wife and the wife of one of my top men—forget that, the sister of one of the Order’s previous soldiers—were kidnapped and Top doesn’t know or wasn’t informed?”
Keaton entered the cabin with a knock coming from the door in the aft. “Excuse me. Marianne asks that you all take your seats and fasten your seat belts. We’re about to descend and she expects turbulence.”
Lorna
Twenty-six years ago
Days and weeks passed.
We’d been with Mom, Mr. Maples, and his daughters for over five months. The warmer days and nights of autumn slipped into winter. Holidays came and went. Mr. Maples didn’t believe in wasting money on decorations or a tree. There were no stockings like we’d had at Grandma’s. Thanksgiving came and went like any other day. He’d managed to recognize the gift-giving tradition of Christmas. While Missy, Mace, and I received a few gifts, we were expected to sit and watch as Anna and Zella opened the bulk of the presents.
I couldn’t explain how I felt with each passing day. If I did, I would tell things I wasn’t allowed to tell. I’d divulge secrets that could mean the end to my life with my brother and sister.
The best description for my feelings was that I had none.
None was easier to deal with than some.
While at school, I rarely participated. Lifting my hand to share an answer, even those I knew, terrified me. If I did that, the teacher would call my name, and the other students’ eyes would turn to me. I avoided the spotlight at all costs.
If people looked at me, would they know what I did?
The only time I felt like me was in the attic with Mason and Missy. Quietly, the three of us would make up games. We’d tell stories and smile. Sometimes we’d eat the food Mason brought from his job at a nearby convenience mart. It was something he’d do when we were sent to bed without dinner. He’d climb out the window and an hour later return the same way with brown bags in hand. They were usually cold sandwiches or apples, but they were food and that’s all that mattered.
The time in the attic was the closest we had to what life had been like with Grandma.
The biggest issue with the attic was that it was winter in Chicago, and the three of us slept in a drafty, unheated attic, often without light. Since no one came into our room except us—Mr. Maples only came to the doorway—we dug through the boxes of discarded clothes to create layers of mothball smelling material to protect us from the cold.
Through it all, I kept the secret of Mr. Maples’s and my continued friendship. With time I noticed that each time I followed him down to his room, not only was there a wine bottle by my mother as she slept, but also a bottle of sleeping pills.
Each time that we entered his room, Mr. Maples made me ask to be his friend.
Each time the words came out, I knew they were wrong, that what I was saying was a lie. I also knew I was wrong for saying the words and for maintaining this secret. Yet each time the lies came easier.
It wasn’t only for me, but for Missy and Mason. Unlike secrets around holidays and gifts that filled others my age with anticipation and hope, my secret dimmed the world around me. Day after day—even without being required to go to his room—the secret dulled everything. A smile would quickly fade as the secret lingered just out of sight.
I was stuck in the darkened world, sinking deeper and deeper, and I didn’t know that there was a way out. After all, I had asked. I agreed. Of course, my mom would be mad.
I didn’t want to be sent away.
Sometimes at school, I’d look at the other girls and wonder if they had secrets too. I wanted to ask, but then it would ruin the secret. And then I’d see them laugh with their friends and I knew they didn’t.
I didn’t laugh.
There was no pattern to Mr. Maples’s visits to the attic to retrieve me. Sometimes I’d follow him one night a week for two or three weeks in a row. Sometimes two or three weeks would pass before he showed up at the attic door. I’d grown used to what was expected of me—I had to touch him. I had to make him come.
I now understood what that meant.
While he wanted my hands on him, he always made me use my mouth. Kiss and lick. It was what he told me to do. When I did, it was like I went away. I was no longer in their dirty bedroom. I forced myself to think about other things. I would remember how Grandma would cook and bake. As my body performed the act, my mind would be away and my stomach would growl for the cookies and cakes we no longer were allowed to eat.
As long as Mr. Maples and I stayed in our secret routine, I could pretend it never happened.
I’d walk by my sleeping mother after I’d cleaned up his mess and not think about how upset she’d be if she knew what I’d done. I’d climb the stairs and slip into the second-floor bathroom, clean myself from head to foot without thinking too much about why I needed to be clean. And then I’d enter the attic and climb under the layers of old clothes and blankets, wrap my arms around Missy, and tell myself it hadn’t happened.
It was someone else who did those things.
It was Anna.
I had a reason for choosing her.
One night, a night I wasn’t summoned to Mr. Maples’s room, Missy woke me, needing to make a trip to the second-floor bathroom. As we left the bathroom, we heard something odd coming from Anna’s room. We both stilled, scared if Anna saw us, she’d tell Mr. Maples.
“Is she jumping on her bed?” Missy asked in a whisper.
Why would she do that late at night?
“I don’t know.”
“If her dad wakes up, he’ll be mad.”
He would. Hearing those words from my little sister, I knew she was right.
Yes, Anna was older than me, three years older, and mean. She and Zella belittled and made fun of me and my siblings any chance they had, but this night, she sounded...I didn’t know—upset. Maybe she was having a nightmare. Missy had them. Sometimes, while totally asleep, she’d thrash about. I had learned how to calm Missy.
“Maybe she’s having a nightmare,” I said to Missy.
“Wake her up. It’s always better when you wake me up.”
My sister’s large brown eyes stared up at me with more faith than I deserved.
I nodded, not because I wanted to help Anna, but because Missy believed I could.
My heart pounded as the squeaks of the bed and Anna’s cries grew louder.
“Please,” Missy pleaded in her little-girl whisper, “Lorna, help her.”
Taking a deep breath, I walked Missy to the s
tairs. “Go up to bed. I’ll help Anna and be up in a minute.”
My sister nodded, her smooth long dark hair moving in a wave over her slender shoulders. “She needs you.”
I kissed Missy’s head as I sent her up to the cold attic. “Cover up.”
She smiled down at me as she opened the door at the top of the stairs.
In the dim hallway, I walked as quiet as a mouse to Anna’s bedroom door. With each step, my hearing listened to the noises behind her door. I tried to match them with what I knew. I couldn’t.
The doorknob creaked as I turned it. Her cries were louder as were the groans of her bedsprings. I was about to speak, to tell her I’d help, but once I had the door open and the dim light from the hallway shone over her bed, I couldn’t move.
Much like during my times in Mr. Maples’s room, I was unable to move. The sounds I couldn’t identify mixed with my rapid heartbeat, echoing in my ears. I held my breath as Mr. Maples spoke. It wasn’t to me but to Anna.
The bed continued to bounce as she cried. He used the voice he sometimes did with me. “It’s okay. You’re my special girl.”
I thought I was your special friend?
It was an irrational thought, but at ten, it was there.
Mr. Maples and I may be friends, but he’d never done to me whatever he was doing to Anna. His hairy butt was out of his pants. He was lying on top of her as they bounced.
“Stop, Daddy.” Anna’s voice was filled with tears. “It hurts.”
“No, Anna. This is what grown-up girls do. It’s my job to teach you. You want to be a good grown-up girl, right?”
My stomach twisted in knots. I didn’t want to know her answer. Quietly, I shut the door. For a moment I hesitated at the bathroom, wondering if I’d be sick. The noises continued. If I stayed I might be caught.
What would happen then?
Swallowing back the yucky taste in my mouth, I made my way back up to the attic. As I climbed the steps, I decided that I was a better friend. Sometimes I cried, but not as loud as Anna.
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