by Cat Connor
“I want to go home,” I said. “Today.”
Sean nodded. “I’ll get you on a flight.”
I was done with New Zealand and over having my chain jerked by Hawk.
No one commented. They exited the car in an uncharacteristically sullen silence. Sam opened the front passenger door for me.
“Thanks.” He nodded.
Sean opted to come with us. On the way up to my room, I asked the concierge to have breakfast brought up. I eased my body onto one of the couches, mindful that my head wasn’t keen on me dropping like a stone. My eyes wanted to close but I knew that’d open a whole can of worms. A spinning can, at that.
Sam and Lee slid into the armchairs. Doc sat next to me. Sean called Air New Zealand from the room phone and booked us a flight home. We were leaving Christchurch in five hours.
“We need to pack,” I said.
No one replied.
My cell phone rang. I checked the display, saw Rowan’s name and let it go to voicemail. My phone rang again as room service set out our breakfast on the small table by the window. Again, I let it go to voicemail.
A few forkfuls of scrambled eggs and half a warm coffee later there was a knock at the door. Sam opened it. This time there was no flurry, no fanfare, no grinned greeting.
“Is she here?” Rowan asked, his manner unusually subdued.
“Yeah,” Sam replied. “Come in.”
I stood, let my brain catch up, then walked over to Rowan. Sam excused himself and went back to his breakfast.
“We’re leaving today,” I said.
“So are we,” he replied. “We’re not doing another gig here, not after what happened.”
“Fair enough.”
There was an opportunity to discuss chat rooms and I grabbed it.
Work mode was more comfortable for me anyway. “Do you have an official chat room attached to your fan club website?”
“Yes. You want me to show you?”
“Please.” I pointed to the couch. “Over there.” My laptop sat on the coffee table.
He showed me the website, which was comprehensive. There were videos, photographs, forums, merchandise, ticket sales and a chat room. Rowan emailed someone. While he waited for a reply, we watched the conversation in the chat room.
“I found this …” Rowan said when he heard an email alert. He clicked on a tab and opened the email page, then opened a chat site. Rowan logged in. There were thirty-five screen names in the room. Conversation was flying. I noted Rowan used a girl’s name, not his own. He flicked back to the official chat. His name came up as Admin007.
A smile ventured across my lips. Double-oh-seven. Grange, Rowan Grange.
I leaned over and opened both screens at once.
“Hey, Lee.”
“Chicky Babe, how can I help?”
“Any way we can download these conversations as they happen?”
He had a look at the screen, let out a low whistle, twisted his face, ran his hands through his hair and then reached for the laptop. “I think so.”
Sam came over for a look. They conversed in short choppy sentences full of technical-sounding jargon but seemed to successfully finish each other’s thoughts.
Rowan and I watched. I slid my hand through the air above my head, indicating the conversation was way above my head. He grinned and agreed.
Ten minutes later Lee and Sam announced they had achieved the goal and both chat rooms would spill their guts to a secure server under FBI control.
I pulled an FBI form from a manila folder on the coffee table then hunted for a pen. Mine was nowhere to be seen. Rowan pulled one from his pocket. I smiled at him, wrote quickly then handed it back.
“You can keep it,” he said. “They’re new and I was given two of them.”
“Thanks. I need you to read and sign this.” I passed him the paper, which said that he authorized the activity in the chat room and had full knowledge of the investigation. It was easier than getting a warrant.
It was better at this stage to keep this between Rowan, my team and me. Limit the sharing of knowledge.
Rowan gave me the pen and then stood up. “We’re leaving in an hour. I’ll call you when we’re all home.”
“Yeah, do that,” I replied, walking him to the door.
Rowan gave me a hug. I hugged him back because it seemed like I should.
“I’ll call you,” he whispered and then he was gone. I didn’t know if he would or wouldn’t. If I were him, I’d run. I’d run and never look back. I was fairly certain I’d be on his management’s black list – and his publicist’s hit list – and they’d be working overtime to prevent me contacting him.
When the door shut, I leaned on it and looked at my team, hunched over laptops. “Hawk’s hunting in the Grange chat room but I don’t think it’s the official one.” My words floated across the room, carried by the music I heard in my head. Before I pushed the pen into my pocket, I had a proper look at it. Emblazoned on the side of the black, enameled barrel was the band’s name and logo. Fancy.
Detective Jones called me as I finished my coffee. I walked quite steadily across the room with the phone. The new day sparkled beyond the window.
My words seemed cold as I launched into my leaving speech, “We’re leaving New Zealand. It’s been fun an’ all but Hawk’s gone. This was not as successful as I’d hoped. I’m sorry he managed to take two kids with him. We will carry on trying to find them from back home.”
“That’s partly why I’m calling,” Jones said interrupting me. “Melanie Talbot never made it to Christchurch. We recovered her body three hours ago from Wellington harbor.”
My heart sank, my fears confirmed. “Poor kid.”
“Preliminary findings indicate she hit her head and toppled into the water right in front of the Interisland Ferry terminal.”
“Trying to escape?”
“I’d say so. We’ll have to wait for the autopsy. I have a suspicion that she was already dead when they tried to snatch Emma. She was …”
“The replacement,” I added.
“It’s pointing that way.”
“That does explain the out-of-character attempt to take two kids known to each other.”
“We confirmed the passport is a fake. It’s expertly done but still a forgery.”
“Excellent. Keep in touch, Faye. You have my email and contact numbers? I’ll pass you over to Sean; he’s going to carry on here.”
“Let me know if you make any progress. Best of luck, Ellie.”
“Thanks for all you did,” I said. “Here’s Sean.”
I passed the phone to Sean. He’d agreed to continue working with her on any leads uncovered in New Zealand, as part of my team. I didn’t voice my feeling that there wouldn’t be any. Hawk didn’t leave anything usable behind and I was damn sure he was gone with the two kids we didn’t find, as the picture suggested. Tasha Cravino and Samantha Rowe would haunt me. They’d haunt me as much as Detective Faye Jones saying she knew Mac. One day when I felt stronger and the timing was right, I’d ask her about Mac. Wondering if that day would ever come could drive a person mad.
Packing took longer than I thought. Maybe it would’ve been quicker if I hadn’t made such a god-awful mess since we’d arrived. My energy was lacking. Doc and I packed in silence. We moved around each other gathering clothing and checking drawers.
I managed a quiet word with Sean.
“I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Someone working for Delta has compromised our investigation. I knew it from the minute we found the dead cop, though I suspected it before we left Virginia.”
“Want me to look into anyone in particular? Or Everyone?”
“Everyone.” I didn’t want to cast my shadow on his investigation.
“Might take awhile.”
“I know.”
“I’ll call you with my findings.”
No little girls squealed at Lee while we waited at the airport. That was a r
elief. We were in for a long flight, had short fuses and were all armed.
Once safely on board, I tried to decide the best way to pass the time. Lee and Sam talked in hushed tones in the middle section of the row. Doc sat next to me. There was nothing much to see out the window. Stretching out my legs, I closed my eyes hoping tiredness would bring sleep before the spinning and the nausea overtook me. I couldn’t avoid it any more than I could avoid seeing a red mist and smelling blood every time my eyes closed. It felt like I hadn’t slept in months. Before long images of our time in New Zealand danced through my tired mind. Drifting deeper into sleep, they persisted, twisting into movie scenes, slinging distant memories of explosions and horror into the mix until Doc woke me.
“Conway, hey, you’re dreaming,” he said, shaking my arm gently. “Who is Saleh?”
“A ghost,” I replied drowsily. “I see dead people.”
“From Wellington?”
“Another life.” The secrets of the past are buried under tons of concrete.
“You really all right?” Doc whispered.
“Yep.”
“I’ve read your medical records. You can talk to me. I know what happened before.”
“Not necessary. It was just a dream.”
“What are the chances of being in two explosions in the same foreign country?” Doc asked.
I closed my eyes. “Probably a lot higher in Afghanistan or Iraq than New Zealand.”
The compartment spun wildly. I grabbed the armrests to steady myself.
“Conway?”
“Spinning,” I said, as the movement slowed and a wave of nausea crashed over me.
“You don’t look so good.”
“Thanks.”
He dropped a paper bag on my knee. “Something you should have mentioned earlier?”
“Nope.”
“Why are you so damn contrary?”
“I’m not contrary.”
“No?” He wasn’t convinced. “Black.”
“Yellow.”
He smiled. “You’re feeling better.”
“I am. It doesn’t last long.” I breathed deeply, feeling much better. “I’m fine Doc.”
“Gloria exploded: you were right there. I took bone fragments and a tooth from your scalp. You were completely covered in blood and debris.”
I looked out the window but all I could see was Doc’s reflection as he leaned toward me. I sighed. “I’m tired. And I want to go home.”
Sleep beckoned. I heard Lee’s voice talking to Sam. All at once, Lee was part of my dream …
… Music hung from the ceiling in higgledy-piggledy clumps. One by one, notes fell screeching harshly before splashing into a huge pot below. Sixteenths and quarter notes landed on top of each other. Sharps, flats and treble clefs rose in the bubbling stew. Some notes rearranged, floating up into the air in recognizable pieces. Other notes gathered Mac’s words, ‘It’s all about the music’ and infused them with energy.
Beyond the window, a hawk swooped from the sky and plucked a small bird from the beach.
Hudson Hawk and John McClane were one and the same person. His real identity eluded me.
Another Hawk swooped from the clear blue sky and snatched a small rodent from the grass; as soon as it was out of sight, another one appeared and snatched another rodent.
Music meandered along the water’s edge, passing people, swirling around couples and families out for evening strolls. Trapped in a twisted mind game, where all the players bore the names of Bruce Willis characters and the ringleader went by the name Hudson Hawk. Nothing was what it seemed.
With Lee by my side I turned toward a grassed area on the left of the marina, small hills, that appeared landscaped. Manmade hilly bumps, scattered with small trees and shrubs but mostly vast grassed areas.
Over a hillock or maybe it was a grassy knoll, I found myself looking down on a sandy bunker, such as you’d find on a golf course but on a huge scale. This wasn’t a golf course and on the far side was a storage shed of some sort.
Chickens pecked and scratched in the gravelly sand outside the sheds. Bales of hay were stacked in small groups. Cows, sheep and lambs milled about, some chewing on hay, some eating the few tufts of green grass poking through the gravel.
“I see chickens,” I said and lay down on my stomach at the top of the sandy cliff to watch them. Gazing at chickens soothes my soul.
We lay there on our stomachs, peering over the edge of the cliff enjoying the view. A troll-like creature appeared below us and dragged a lamb underground. Fresh grass distracted a ewe that tried to follow. Within minutes the lamb’s place was lost as the animals milled about eating. What was gone, was now forgotten.
Was that why Hawk choose the children he took, because no one would look for long? And no would remember them once they were gone?
Chickens scratched and pecked.
Five men wearing jungle-green camouflage and carrying rifles rushed from the shed, one sighted his weapon in our direction.
Lee and I crawled backward fast, then jumped to our feet and took off running.
Gunfire erupted behind us. Chickens flapped and squawked. The other animals seemed oblivious to the disruption.
I was close to Lee as we crossed the grassed area and hit the graveled driveway that lead to the main hotel entrance. We passed two people carrying weapons. They watched us pass but made no move to shoot. We headed through the lobby only to watch a scene unfold that was straight from a movie. Pick a Bruce Willis movie and go with it like everyone else.
Die Hard sprung to mind.
Armed men and women took control of the lobby and its occupants. My mother argued with a bartender in the bar. Her voice rose in a crescendo of irritation over the lack of olives in her martini. She looked at me and shook her head her in utter disappointment.
She stabbed a bony finger in the air, punctuating her words as she fired them at me, “What have you done this time, Gabrielle?”
“Not the bartender, like you,” I retorted.
Lee grabbed my hand and pulled me behind a large leather sofa.
“Your mother off her meds again?” he hissed in my ear.
“I think so.”
The soldiers looked straight through us, as if we were transparent. A swirl of multi-colored musical notes twisted around them.
“Are you armed?” he whispered.
“Nope,” I replied.
Nothing made any sense …
… My eyes opened. The dream contorted in my mind. Its inconsistencies caused ripples of discontent. We’re FBI. We are always armed was the rational thought which, for an instant, overrode my dream. My mind jumped back to the stadium, I should’ve known something was up. Who’d have thought a woman would explode? Me, I should have. What’s the point of knowing what others don’t and having psycho-prophetic ability if I can’t save a young life? Where was the song to warn me of that?
The airplane cabin stretched before me. I scanned quickly for sightings of my mother. I recalled my last visit to her graveside, just a few weeks before we left the country. The visits did not stem from a misplaced daughterly duty to the dead. I liked to make damn sure she stayed in the ground. Satisfied there was no sign of my mother on the plane, my fitful musical sleep resumed, bringing the dream back with it …
… From behind the sofa, I watched a man walk past carrying an M16. He stopped and turned toward us.
Mac.
Mac?
A warning siren sounded in my mind. He stood his ground. A smile drifted across his lips.
“Lee, can you see him?” I tugged on Lee’s shirtsleeve.
“You mean Mac? Yeah, I can.”
Mac lifted his weapon, pointing the muzzle skyward as his finger slid onto the trigger. He fired. A short burst of music flew into the air chased by the muzzle flash. He saluted and moved away.
“What the fuck is going on here? What’s with the dead people? How does his gun fire music?”
“I don’t think this is real, Ellie,�
�� Lee replied. Several musical notes fell from his mouth. He coughed and out tumbled more.
My booted foot tapped the floor. I wanted out and I wanted out now. I started to speak but choked. Something was stuck in my throat. I reached into my mouth and pulled out pictures. I handed them to Lee, one by one. The last picture was Carla tied to a gravestone with a man crouched in front of her. A scream grew and wiped out the last remnants of music.
It made no sense but I had to get home …
“Conway!” Doc shook my arm. “Conway, do you want a drink of water?”
I opened my eyes slowly. In front of me was the back of an aircraft seat. I turned my head left: out the small window I saw nothing but sky and below us cloud. To the right, I saw Doc then Lee, with Sam leaning around him, all looking at me. I was sure there had been a person sitting on the other side of Doc, not an empty seat for them to lean all over.
“Chicky Babe, you with us?” Sam asked.
I nodded and said, “She would’ve died anyway. We weren’t meant to save her and the bomb wasn’t meant to kill me. I was supposed to find her.”
“I thought you were asleep,” Doc said.
“Me too,” I replied. “We were pawns, marionettes; we were played like complete fuc’n morons.”
Twenty-Six
Motherless Child
Home felt great. It was hard not picking up the phone and calling Dad as soon as I walked in. But I resisted. It was the middle of the night. I forced myself to sleep for a few hours and woke on my second consecutive Friday morning. The International Date Line is a freaky thing.
At seven in the morning, I grabbed the phone and called my dad. I knew he’d be up.
“I’m back. I need an adoption lawyer.”
“Welcome home. I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
“Good, sorry. I need an adoption lawyer,” I said, dropping my bag in the laundry and shoving my clothes into the washing machine.
“This about Carla?”
