Someplace to Be Flying

by Charles de Lint

  And then she felt stupid.

  How could she have let herself get so carried away? What had she been thinking?

  The immediacy of her fear vanished as though someone had thrown a switch inside her head. It left her giddy with relief, if still a little unsteady on her feet as she got out of the car and walked over to where Hank was standing by the steps. She could tell he wasn't entirely sure of his welcome—showing up here unannounced and all, she supposed—but she'd soon put his mind to rest on that score. She didn't think she'd ever been so happy to see anyone as she was to see him at this moment.

  She gave him a hug that obviously startled him, but then he enfolded her in his arms.

  "You must be a mind reader," she said into his shoulder. "I can't tell you how much I didn't want to be alone right now."

  "Bad day?"

  She stepped back and shook her head. "Weird day."

  Taking his hand, she sat down on the steps with him. She liked the feel of his hand. It was calloused and the skin had the rough texture of someone who wasn't afraid of physical work; obviously a strong hand, but capable of great gentleness.

  "So what are you doing here?" she asked. "Not that I'm complaining or anything."

  He shrugged. "Just thought I'd drop by to see you. I wasn't sure when you were getting home—I only knew it was sometime tonight—so I thought I'd wait around for a while."

  "That's so sweet."

  He smiled. "I've been called a lot of things before, but never sweet."

  "I'll bet you say that to all the girls."

  His smile faltered.

  "I was only joking," she said, giving his fingers a squeeze.

  "I know. It's not you. It just reminded me of this friend of mine who's gone missing. We've spent the whole day looking for her, but it's like she's stepped right out of the world."

  The ground seemed to shift underfoot for Lily. She still felt safe sitting here with Hank, but what he'd said cut too close to what she'd hoped she'd left behind in the Tucson airport.

  "What's her name?" she asked.

  "Katy. Maybe you know her. She hangs around with Jack a lot."

  "Red-haired, kind of punky-looking?"

  "That's her. She's a good kid, but she's got some strange ideas."

  "Strange how?"

  "Well, for one thing," Hank said, "she doesn't think she was ever born."

  "Maybe you should run that by me again," Lily said when he didn't elaborate.

  Hank sighed. "It gets weird."

  "The way things are working these days," she told him, "weird is beginning to be normal."

  He looked up. "Did something happen to you in Tucson?"

  "You first."

  She thought he might argue the point—it was a guy thing, she'd decided a long time ago, wanting to hold on to all the facts before they shared what they knew—but Hank didn't seem to be like that. Another point in his favor.

  "Fair enough," he said. "I went by the bus a few days ago looking for Jack—I can't even remember why anymore. Anyway, he's not there, but Katy is. We get to talking and that's when she tells me …”

  "You sure she said cuckoo—not Couteau?" Hank asked.

  She'd just finished telling Hank about Margaret, how she seemed invisible to the other people on the video shoot, the odd things she'd said that only made sense in retrospect, how she'd headed off a second confrontation with the man they'd both seen die in a Newford alley—"Except she said this guy was the other one's brother"—how the two of them had vanished from the middle of the Tucson airport and nobody had even noticed.

  "Pretty sure," she said. "Why?"

  He told her about the case he was working on for Marty Caine. "The girl, Sandy, IDed this Philippe Couteau guy from a mug shot the cops had, and I swear he's identical to the man we saw killed."

  "So there's … more than one of them?"

  "Three brothers, at least." He went on to tell her what he'd learned about the Couteaus from the files Marty had, and later from talking to Eddie Prio. "So the big question is, what do they want from you? The guy in the alley—he didn't say anything?"

  Lily shook her head. "He just tried to take my camera bag."

  "And you're not working on something, some story that they don't want public?"

  "The closest I've come to the drug trade in the last little while is taking some photos of junkie musicians for an article Rory did for Spin. And that was after the business in the alley. I've never heard of the Couteaus before. Or cuckoos, either, for that matter. Or at least not in this context."

  "Well, judging from what happened to you in Tucson, they're going to keep coming after you and until we figure out why—what they want—it's going to be hard to stop them."

  "That makes me feel a lot better."

  He pressed her hand. "Sorry. I didn't mean to put it like that."

  "But it's true, isn't it?"

  He nodded. "Is there somewhere else you could stay—somewhere with a lot of people around and they wouldn't think to look?"

  "I don't know. Rory's got a spare room and there's always someone in the house. Or I could go to a hotel. But for how long? I can't live my life in fear."

  "No one should have to live like that." There was a grimness in Hank's voice that made her look at him, worried. "No one."

  They ran out of words for a while, sat there in the yellow pool cast by the porch light and looked out at the shadowed lawn, Hank's cab, the street beyond. That was what was oddest about all of this, Lily thought. Everything still seemed so normal. The world went on, oblivious to what was happening to them, to what they'd found when they'd inadvertently peeled back a layer of reality to find something else waiting for them underneath.

  "What's happening to us?" Lily said. "How can we live our whole lives in one world, never encountering any of this stuff, and now suddenly we can't get away from it?"

  "I guess we just weren't paying the right kind of attention before," Hank said. "Though you were already out looking for it—pumping Jack for stories and all."

  "Like that takes any work."

  That earned her a smile.

  "Though even with these cuckoos after me," Lily went on, "I still think I'd rather know than not. And I wouldn't have wanted to miss out on meeting Margaret. Or you, for that matter."

  She wondered how he'd take that, but where she'd been half-expecting him to duck the issue, he surprised her.

  "I know what you mean," he said. "I've been thinking it'd be worth going through a lot more than this to have had the chance to get to know you."

  He wasn't exactly blushing, but she thought he was about as close to it as you could get without actually getting a flush on.

  "Don't get me wrong," he added quickly. "I'm not trying to pressure you or anything. It's just … you know …"

  His voice trailed off and she had to smile. Big tough guy. She was liking him more and more all the time.

  "Why are we dancing around like this?" she asked. "What's wrong with people liking each other straight off, and talking about it?"

  "Maybe because we're not very good at it?"

  "Why don't we make a deal with each other?" she said. "We'll take it as it comes—slow or fast or not at all—and try not to hold each other to any expectations of how we think it might or ought to go."

  "Deal," he said and offered to shake on it.

  Lily laughed. She put a hand behind his neck and pulled him in for a kiss instead. It was a momentary impulse that got serious real fast.

  "Wow," she said when they finally came up for air. "That was nice."

  "Except now you're going to think I'm so easy," Hank said.

  Lily smiled and shook her head. "No expectations—remember."

  "I'll try."

  "Mmm. Still, let's change the subject before I get to expecting something else."

  "I can't think of anything else."

  "Me, neither," Lily said. She stood up. "So why don't you help me get my stuff upstairs."

  Walking over to the
car and opening its trunk gave her time to reconsider what they seemed to be getting into here. Warning bells weren't going off. In fact, it felt so right, she found that a little more scary than if she had been having second thoughts.

  "You're stronger than you look," Hank said, dragging her camera case out of the trunk.

  "How so?"

  "Lugging this thing around."

  Lily pointed to the bottom of the case. "It's got wheels."

  "Yeah, but you had to lift it into here."

  She grabbed her knapsack and closed the trunk. "This is true. And I have to schlep it up and down my stairs five or six times a week, so you can see why I'm so happy to have you here tonight. Who says only musicians need roadies?"

  "Not you, obviously."

  She held the front door for him. "Oh, come on. Don't try to kid me. You guys always like to show off how strong you are."

  "Says who?"

  "I don't know," she said as she led the way upstairs to her apartment. "Maybe all those teen magazines I read when I was a kid."

  "Is that what they talk about?"

  "Wouldn't you like to know."

  She adjusted the strap of her knapsack, which was starting to slip, and fit her key in the lock.

  "You'll have to excuse the mess," she said as she swung the door open and reached for the light. "But I left in a hurry and …"

  Her voice trailed off as the light came on. Her living room looked as though someone had been running around in it with a small front-end loader. Sofa and chairs overturned, cushions pulled out. Books and CDs strewn from the shelves. All the drawers had been pulled out of her sideboard and were lying on the floor, their contents scattered around them.

  She felt as though someone had punched her in the chest. All the air vacated her lungs, leaving her dizzy and weak. She had to lean against the doorjamb to keep her balance.

  "Lily?" Hank said from behind her. He stepped around her and took in the disorder. "Jesus, it really is a mess."

  "This … it's not …"

  He gave her a concerned look. Moving past her, he righted a chair and replaced the cushions in it, then came back and walked her over to it.

  "Put your head between your legs," he said. "And take slow breaths."

  She did as he said and the dizziness eased up. But when she sat back up she still felt sick. Hank gave her knee a squeeze and rose to his feet.

  "Wait," she said, trying to get up as well as he moved toward the hall leading to her bedroom and office.

  He waved her back and walked cautiously through the clutter. Lily started to protest, then realized what he was doing. Whoever had done this might still be in here. She pulled her legs up onto the chair and hugged her knees, staring down the hall as he checked the rooms.

  It only took him a few moments, but it seemed like forever before he returned to where she was waiting.

  "It's okay," he said. "Whoever did this is long gone. But they really tore the place apart."

  "Why? Who could've done a thing like this?"

  Hank shrugged. "Could've been anybody, but considering what happened to you in Tucson, I'd guess we're looking at one or more of the Couteaus."

  "I don't understand."

  Lily could feel the panic welling up inside her. Getting beaten up last week had been horrible, but for some reason this new violation felt even more personal. It was as though someone was trying to tell her that no place was safe for her. Not anymore.

  "Maybe you'd better call the cops," Hank said.

  Lily shot him a surprised look.

  "What about you?" she asked, remembering his reaction a few days ago to her suggestion that they bring in the police.

  "This is different," he said. "We're not reporting a murder now. It's not like they're going to pull us in when it's your own place that got trashed."

  Lily lowered her legs to the floor and started to look around for the phone. She still felt shaky, but having something to do helped to ease the feeling of helplessness that had pretty much knocked her off her feet when she first saw what had been done to her apartment.

  "You're sure?" she asked when she finally found the phone under another one of the chairs. It had been pulled from the wall, but the jack was still intact. When she stuck it back into the outlet and picked up the receiver, she got a dial tone. She looked at him before she started to dial. "Do you want to go before they get here?"

  He shook his head. "I'm not leaving you alone unless you tell me that's what you want."

  "I want you to stay," she told him.

  "Okay." He nodded to the phone. "Give them a call and then let's see if you can figure out what's missing."

  The police answered her call far more quickly than she'd expected. They were knocking on her door only a few minutes after she dialed 9-1-1 and proved to be sympathetic to her plight, but apologetic when they told her there wasn't much they could do. They simply didn't have much manpower for cases such as this, where vandalism appeared to be the primary motive. So far as Lily could tell, nothing had been taken. All her camera equipment, lights and the like were still here. As was her computer. Her darkroom had been trashed, but the enlarger hadn't been taken.

  One of the police officers took her statement and asked her to drop by the precinct tomorrow with a list of whatever had been stolen. While he was with them, his partner looked around outside with a flashlight, and then they were gone, answering another call from their dispatcher. Lily slowly closed the door behind them.

  "Well, that makes me feel like my tax dollars are being put to good use," she said.

  "Don't blame them," Hank told her. "Unless they catch somebody in the act of creeping a place, it's pretty hard for them to do much more than take a statement these days. You ever seen the stats on this sort of thing?" She shook her head.

  "There's been an epidemic this past year and it's only getting worse." "Now I feel really safe." She hesitated before adding, "Maybe we should've told them about the cuckoos."

  "And told them what?"

  Lily knew he was right. They'd been through this before the police came. What were they supposed to say? That a few nights ago they'd been rescued by two bird girls from a guy who'd shot Hank and beaten her so badly she should be in the hospital, except they had no bruises or wounds to show for it, because the same girls had magically healed them, and oh yes, the corpse seemed to have disappeared as well. And earlier tonight the same man, or some guy that looked exactly like him, had been following her around the Tucson airport, but suddenly vanished into thin air.

  "Let's see if we can get this place cleaned up a little," Hank said. She nodded, grateful again that he was here. She didn't know what she'd do if she'd had to deal with all of this on her own.

  "You know," Hank said later after they'd finished straightening out the living room and had moved to the kitchen, "it's not you they're after. It's something you've got—or they think you've got."

  She glumly surveyed her usually tidy kitchen. Cans and boxed foods had been pulled from all the cupboards. There were dry goods tossed everywhere, their packaging torn, the contents strewn about the floor and counters and table like the debris from some sudden summer storm. Flour and sugar and loose tea. Rice, coffee, pasta, cornstarch. It would all have to be thrown out. It stank in here, too, even with the windows open. Meat from the freezer was thrown onto the floor on top of the rest of the mess, rotting where it lay. The chicken was the worst. Pools of melted ice cream, once-frozen spaghetti sauce, milk from the fridge. Rancid butter, jam and condiment jars opened, their contents dumped out.

  The vandals had obviously struck only hours after she'd left for the airport, so this mess had been stewing for days. The smell was enough to make her sick all over again.

  "What could they possibly think I have?" Lily asked.

  Hank had found her garbage bags and was beginning to fill one with the spoiled food.

  "If we knew that," he said, "we'd probably be a long way toward figuring out just what the hell this is all about."


  2.

  Cody was still lying low so it took Ray a while to track him down once he'd parted company with Jack in Lower Crowsea earlier that day.

  It was almost noon before he finally spied the long white Lincoln Continental parked out front of Cecil's All-Nite on Williamson north of the Tombs, a twenty-four-hour diner that used to be on the highway before the strip malls caught up with it and made it part of the city. He pulled his rented Ford Escort in beside Cody's long white car and killed the engine. From where he sat, he could see Cody sitting in a booth with his back to the door, his bristly hair pulled back into a dark gray braid, skin so dark it looked like he spent his days sleeping in the hot summer sun.

  If it hadn't taken Ray so long to find Cody, things might have worked out differently. Maybe they could have talked things out. Maybe Ray would just have yelled at him. But by now he'd had too much time to brood and the immediacy of his anger had banked into hot coals sitting deep in his chest. The heat wouldn't let him think straight. Jack had been wrong. Even hearing the whole story, he only had one message for Cody.

  He slid his lanky frame out of the car and walked into the diner. The woman at the cash register looked up as he came in and started to speak. Her voice died in her throat at the look in his dark eyes. He moved down the aisle between the booths and tables, not trying to hide his approach, but already in hunter's mode, leather boots not even raising a whisper from the linoleum underfoot.

  When he reached Cody's table, he grabbed Cody's hair and slammed his face down onto the table. A half cup of coffee and the remains of Cody's late breakfast went skidding across the table, some of it falling on the floor, some on the opposite seat. The customers at the nearest table scrambled away. Ray jerked Cody's head back, fist cocked, but then he froze. The long barrel of a pearl-handled .45 was pointing at his stomach.

  Ray released his grip on Cody's hair and stepped back.

  Cody's nose was broken, blood running in small rivulets from his nostrils, down his chin, dropping onto the tabletop, his lap, the front of his white shirt. There was no expression in his eyes, but he was smiling. The .45 never wavered as his free hand found a napkin and wiped the blood from his face.