On Unfaithful Wings

by Bruce Blake

  “Shit.”

  The car horn chirrped with the impact of my palms slamming against the steering wheel in frustration. I felt seconds ticking by in my head, each one bringing the demonic priest closer to my son. I grabbed the wheel, squeezed until my knuckles went white, and closed my eyes, focusing my thoughts on the current problem.

  How do I start the car? What do I do to get it running?

  The engine coughed and started.

  My eyes snapped open and I glanced around thinking someone played a trick on me with one of those remote starters. Still alone. The engine sputtered and the rpm dipped, so I toed the accelerator and made the little car roar. Apparently, I’d thought the car to life.

  Maybe this job held more benefits than I realized.

  Knowing what abilities I possessed would have been helpful; I’d confront Gabe and Mike about it later. I slammed the Honda into gear and popped the clutch, chirping the tires on the smooth concrete the way Nic Cage or Vin Diesel would have done.

  The tires squealed as the car banked through the long curve leading toward the pay booth at the parkade exit. Stop and pay or crash the barrier? In for a penny, in for a pound as the British say. Besides, the latter sounded more fun.

  I gunned the engine and crashed through the black and yellow blockade, glancing at the stunned, acne-covered face of a kid not much older than Trevor as I careened past. The car skidded sideways turning onto the street and I worked the steering wheel madly to avoid hitting anything.

  Adrenaline pulsed in my veins as I guided the car through traffic, narrowly missing a late model BMW rounding a sharp corner. My head buzzed with excitement; I’d never been a thrill seeker--at least not this kind of thrill. I’d used questionable needles, hung out with questionable people, slept in questionable places but never wanted to race cars or jump out of perfectly good airplanes. Exactly what constitutes thrill-seeking is a matter of point of view.

  The Civic whooshed through a yellow light which, truthfully, turned red a few seconds before the car and I arrived. Horns blared, pedestrians jumped back shaking their fists. One guy flipped me an enthusiastic bird.

  “Sorry,” I muttered.

  I didn’t want to hurt anyone, but the red lights reflecting in the rear-view mirror drove remorse from my mind. My heartbeat sped up and my eyes darted between rear view and side mirrors, seeing the police cruise from multiple points-of-view and assessing the situation: dead guy, stolen car, blown stop light. Didn’t look good.

  I didn’t have time for this.

  The cop whooped his siren once to make sure he got my attention and my mind once more flashed through options: pull over like a good citizen or run for it. I decided doing the right thing would give me a better chance of reaching my goal. The cop stayed right on my tail as I pulled onto a side street with cars parallel parked on both sides. It took a minute to find a place to pull over, the cop blaring his siren every few seconds. I even used my turn indicator, hoping a few brownie points might hurry things along. Rather than block the street, he pulled in behind me, a move I thought might turn out to my benefit. The Civic’s window creaked as I rolled it down and awaited the police officer’s arrival at the side of my stolen car. He didn’t disappoint.

  “Good afternoon, officer,” I said cheerily. “What seems to be the matter?”

  “That was a red light you went through.” Mirrored sunglasses and a hat hid his age, leaving his demeanor and a few gray hairs in his mustache to hint he’d been doing the job for a few years. “License and registration, please.”

  I pulled my driver’s license out of my wallet and fumbled it through the window. It was an automatic response, but the wallet shouldn’t have been there. I half-smiled as I realized Poe must have retrieved it for me when we were at the police station. It’s the little things that made a good guardian angel.

  The cop glanced at my license and offered the kind of reaction I’d become used to.

  “Icarus Fell? What kind of name is that?”

  “It’s a Greek myth. My friends call me Ric.”

  “I’m not your friend, Mr. Mythology,” he said with no hint of humor. “Registration.” No please this time.

  “Uh, yeah.” I leaned across to open the glove box. “It’s my sister’s car.”

  A guess and a lie rolled into one statement to save time. Given how close to the steering wheel the driver’s seat had been, it seemed a reasonable assumption the driver was female, or possibly a dwarf, but there were no blocks on the pedals. Nothing happened when I pulled the glove box’s release. I yanked it again. Locked. How did one explain a running car with no key present? Grand theft auto, that’s how.

  “Sir?”

  “It’s stuck.” Making a run for it suddenly sounded like it might have been a better choice. “Happens all the time.”

  One more jerk broke the lock. The door flew open spilling a soft pack of Kleenex and a few CD’s to the floor. I smiled over my shoulder at the cop; he rested his hand on the butt of his pistol. I fished around for a couple of seconds before finding the registration and stole a look at the name before passing it through the window.

  Neil Halverson.

  Shit.

  “Your sister’s name is Neil?” Likely intended as a rhetorical question, I chose to answer anyway.

  “Neil’s her boyfriend.”

  The mirrored sunglasses stretched my face, curving and elongating it into a caricature. Behind the lenses, the cop stared, reading my face. I smiled, my reflection morphing into a perverted version of Stan Laurel. As I looked at him, a half-crazy thought entered my mind:

  These aren’t the droids you’re looking for.

  I was no Obi Wan Kenobi, but it was worth a try. I concentrated, imagining him apologizing for the inconvenience and letting me go. He glared at me fifteen seconds more then pivoted on the heel of his polished black shoe and strode back to his patrol car. A little tension drained from my shoulders.

  Did it work?

  In all likelihood, no one would have noticed the car missing yet, so I’d probably be okay on the car theft charge, but the fact I’d died some time ago might prove an issue. And the small matter of my escape from the city jail where I’d been held under suspicion of multiple homicides. And the dead cop left behind.

  Why did I decide it wasn’t a good idea to run? Incredible what guilt can make one do.

  I shifted to see him in the rearview mirror; a tiny version of the cop sat in his car, typing my name and license number on a lap top. In front of me, the street stretched empty, beckoning. It would take me to Rae’s while avoiding the main thoroughfares and the possibility of more cops.

  Decision made.

  The transmission groaned as it thumped into reverse. Seeing the back-up lights come on, the cop threw his door open intending to deter me but the ass end of the Civic slamming into his car proved more effective at deterring him. I accelerated away, concentrating on leaving his car undrivable, hoping to have the same kind of influence in stopping his cruiser as I’d had starting the Honda. The police car shrank in the mirror and the reflection of the cop slammed his hands against the steering wheel before grabbing the mouthpiece of his radio.

  “Yes.”

  I patted the Civic’s dashboard then turned my attention back to the task at hand: saving Trevor. The speedometer needle trembled as it approached seventy. I dodged a slow-moving van, scraping the Honda along the side of a parked Buick something-or-other in a shower of sparks. Tires screeched around corners as latent knowledge of the city streets took over, guiding me along the quickest route to Rae’s. I glanced in the rearview mirror every few seconds, expecting the cherries of a police car to pick up the chase, but the world behind me remained free of flashing lights.

  Rounding the final corner onto Rae’s street, I slowed the Honda to a reasonable pace and drove by the anemic-looking trees shivering over the desiccated leaves they’d shed for the coming of winter. I guided the stolen car into a parking spot directly across the street and climbed out, le
aving the engine running; I didn’t know how the thing started so I didn’t want to chance it not starting again when the time came.

  Rae appeared at the front door as my foot touched pavement. She strode onto the porch smiling, looking more like the Rae I’d married than she had in years, and my belly tingled, excited and nervous. Maybe this would be easier than expected. I stepped away from the car preparing my own smile because you catch more flies with honey than you do with shit. My plan seemed sound until Ashton stepped through the doorway behind her looking every bit the bastard he’d turned out to be. My honey evaporated as he shut the door behind them, locking it.

  No Trevor.

  Rage knotted my guts into a Celtic pattern not easily untied, a condition difficult to ignore, but I did my best. Getting angry wouldn’t help me find Trev. I trotted across the street waving my hand, trying to look more like an old friend saying hello than a man coming with a warning.

  “Rae.” She either didn’t hear or ignored me. “Rae!”

  They paused at the bottom of the steps and she looked my way, her smile faltering. For a split second, I thought she’d recognize me and my stomach jumped into my throat.

  “Hi,” she called back, hesitantly. She grabbed Ashton’s arm and pulled him closer.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  Her head tilted, eyes narrowed. “Do I know you?”

  The streak continues.

  “Yeah, you know me. Don’t you remember?”

  “No.”

  “It’s me, Icarus. I know it’s sounds crazy--”

  “That’s not funny. Ric’s dead.”

  I opened my mouth to say more but Ashton decided to assert his gallantry. He stood a couple inches shorter than me, but with a solid, play-hockey-in-a-beer-league-on-the-weekend kind of build. I’d always thought he’d be able to take me if it came to it, but standing in front of him, I wondered how much hockey he played versus how much beer he drank.

  “I don’t know who you are, mister, but you better leave us alone.”

  I ignored him.

  “It’s me, Rae. I can prove it.” I moved a step toward her; Ashton put his hand on my chest, stopping me. I didn’t look at him. “Remember when we met? At the park. You were having a picnic with your sister. I--.”

  Her eyes widened. Ashton shoved me, sending me back a couple of steps, and stepped between me and Rae, blocking my view of her.

  “Call the cops,” he growled over his shoulder without taking his eyes off me. “It’s the guy from the news last night.”

  With him blocking my line of sight, I couldn’t see Rae but heard her dig in her purse, either for keys or a cell phone. The cops would be waiting for a call like hers after my recent poor decision making. Not much time to state my case.

  “Wait, Rae, listen to me. Trevor’s in danger. You have to--”

  Ashton hit me in the chest with his shoulder, wrapped his arms around my waist as he took me to the ground. Did I have a bull’s-eye on my chest saying ‘land here’? He pinned my arms at my side, his face a few inches from mine.

  “You’re not going anywhere.”

  I kneed him in the balls. He reacted both instantly and predictably by letting go. With no breath in my lungs, it seemed a great deal of work to extricate myself, but I managed to lever out and climb to my feet, struggling to draw air. Rae stood by the front door speaking frantically into the cell phone pressed to her ear, concern on her face. The rush of blood in my head prevented me hearing what she said in the same way Ashton’s hand grabbing my ankle prevented me getting closer. I attempted to yank myself away, but his grip threatened my balance. The thought of putting my foot solidly in his ear crossed my mind but, in spite of my hatred at him for fucking my former wife, I didn’t want to hurt him seriously and make more problems for myself.

  My second poor decision of the day.

  Ashton’s free hand arced toward my leg, the steel of a switchblade flashing before the knife plunged into my thigh. Air returned to my lungs in a hurry: a chest-full of breath is necessary in order to scream. The pain became agony as he used the knife as a climbing peg to drag himself to his feet before pulling it out of my leg.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, so stay still.”

  Bad move: I’d gotten a little too intimate with a knife once before to let it happen again. I snatched his wrist and twisted hard, sending the knife tumbling out of his hand. His tibia or fibula or whatever-the-hell bone is in a forearm pop-gunned, setting my teeth on edge, but I wrenched it further. He crumpled to his knees, screaming like a girl scout whose cookies had been stolen. I heard Rae shouting over Ashton’s pained mewling, and another noise, another scream adding to the raucous din. I kicked Ashton in the chest so he’d know what it felt like to have your breath knocked from you--and because it felt good to do it--and turned my attention to Rae.

  “Get away,” she screamed. No tears like women in the movies; Rae wasn’t one for crying. “Leave me alone.”

  “I won’t hurt you.” I held my hands out in a gesture of surrender. “Tell me where Trevor is.”

  “No. Leave him alone.”

  “Rae--”

  I reached for her, intending to calm her, when the other screaming rectified itself into the wailing siren of a police car. The addition of squealing tires made me turn my head to see the police cruiser round the corner. I glanced at the Honda and determined it would be impossible to reach it before the cop’s arrival.

  At the same time, Rae introduced her cell phone to the side of my head with enough force you could have read the numbers from the indentation left on my cheek. I stumbled away, sidestepping to avoid the wheezing heap of Ashton.

  I’d hoped this meeting would have gone more smoothly.

  “Don’t let Trevor out of your sight.” I called over my shoulder as I stumbled down the street.

  The cop car skidded to a stop in the middle of the street, both doors flying open before it halted completely. I assumed they’d jump out, pistols drawn, but didn’t wait to find out, instead vaulting the gate at the side of Rae’s house and taking off through the backyard. One of the cops shouted, but stopping to see what he wanted seemed a bad idea.

  A rose bush scratched a bloody track across my arm as I pounded through their garden, over the rear fence and into the neighbor’s yard, my punctured thigh throbbing with every step. For forty-five minutes, I found out what a rabbit must feel like chased by a fox. Through yards and gardens, across lane ways and traffic-clogged streets, I finally gained enough lead to duck unseen into a deserted building. Back pressed against the wall, chest heaving with exertion and nervous excitement, I peered through a gap in the boards nailed across the window. The knife wound hurt, and the scratches left by the thorns. Blood hammered at my temples, but under the pain, the panic hid an unexpected exhilaration as the sound of shoes slapping pavement grew closer. The feeling grew to a head until, after a minute, a shadow passed by the window: one of the cops. I waited for his partner’s silhouette to go by, too, but he didn’t come. They must have spilt up. The exhilaration--a feeling like being a child on the verge of being caught during a rousing game of hide-and-seek--passed with the cop.

  I lurched away from the window and headed into the heart of the decaying building. Decision time again: stay and hide or run for it. Given the outcome the last time the option for flight presented itself and I didn’t snatch it, common sense screamed to choose that alternative this time. When the cops didn’t catch up to me soon, they’d likely be back to search hiding places along my route, so cowering here didn’t seem the best option.

  Congratulations, common sense. You win for a change.

  I went through a splintered door hanging on one rusted hinge and into a dim corridor smelling of mould and urine. An uncomfortable familiarity struck me about the place; I wrote it off to the atmosphere possessed by all abandoned buildings--the closed-in quality of the air, the feel of death, the wondering what may lie through the next door.

  I refused to recognize it as the
same building that made a guest appearance in my Hell.

  As I blundered down the hall lined with doorless doorways, I glanced into each room, searching for an exit onto a back alley. No luck. The corridor ended at the one door still left intact in the entire place. In fact, it looked new: the hinges gleamed, brassy and rust-free. Unsurprisingly, a cautious twist of the door knob proved the door locked.

  Shit.

  Locked doors in abandoned buildings mean one thing: trouble. And the people behind such locked doors are more dangerous than cops. I backed down the hall, hoping anyone behind the new-looking door didn’t notice my attempt to gain entry and come out guns-a-blazing. A few doors beyond where my foray began I found stairs to the second floor and loped up them as quickly and quietly as my bleeding leg would take me.

  In the first room on the second floor, my experienced window-smashing elbow made short work of a blacked-out pane. I stepped out onto the tiny metal balcony of a fire escape. The rusted landing wobbled and creaked giving the impression that the decomposed bolts affixing it to the wall would let go, spilling me to the ground. They held. I crouched in place a minute, back pressed against the brick wall catching my breath and listening for footsteps. The knife wound in my thigh made the descent hard, but my shoes touched pavement without incident. I hobbled away down the alley, the distant wail of sirens hurrying my step.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Ashton mentioned seeing my picture on the news, so returning to my room seemed a foolhardy choice. By now, a bookie would have given even odds the inn’s proprietor had seen the news, recognized the man suspected of being the psycho-killer stalking the city, and called the police. No matter, I had to take the chance. The blood stiffening one leg of my trousers made me stand out like a jockey on a basketball team. Nothing in the room mattered but I needed to change my pants.