Natural Born Angel

by Speer, Scott

  “S-sure,” he said, his lips translating more than he would have liked the colliding emotions inside him. The girl flashed a bright smile and skipped over to Maddy, who was signing an autograph for another girl.

  “Um, she wants a picture with you,” Jacks said flatly.

  “Oh, OK,” Maddy said, distracted by the pen and paper still in her hand. “Just give me a second.” She finished signing another autograph, then stood with her arm around the girl, and Jacks took the picture.

  “Thankyousomuch!” the teenager sputtered. She and her friend started walking away down the pavement, then shrieked in glee together as they realized what had just happened. Their voices were clearly audible to both Jacks and Maddy.

  “Oh-my-God-I-just-got-Maddy-Montgomery’s-autograph!”

  Jacks turned to Maddy abruptly. “Are you ready?”

  “Oh yeah, sure, let’s go in.”

  The café was filled with Angels, Protections, and all their hangers-on. All eyes turned to Maddy and Jacks as they entered the outdoor seating area. A low buzz started as people began talking excitedly. The whole energy in the space changed as soon as they came in.

  Jacks and Maddy sat down at a table near the corner. All of a sudden there was the screech of chairs being pushed back, as two people got up across the outdoor seating area. In an instant, Jackson recognized Vivian Holycross, along with Emily Brightchurch. He stiffened, hoping they’d just leave without making a scene.

  “What are they doing together?” Maddy said, preparing for the worst.

  But the gorgeous Angel girls made their way out without approaching Maddy and Jacks, though they did whisper together and laugh while looking in Maddy’s direction.

  “Well, I guess that wasn’t too bad. Emily at least didn’t stab me or anything,” Maddy said, laughing a little bit. “Although I bet she and Viv have a lot to talk about.” Maddy was in good spirits after the TV taping. She looked at Jacks, who was silent, seemingly staring off into space. “Jacks? Are you OK? I mean, I know my joke wasn’t that funny, but. . .”

  Jacks looked around the café at the other Angels sipping their lattes, eating their salads, chatting, flirting, laughing. He’d been at that café more times than he could count. He knew so many of the people sitting just a little way away, Angels he’d come of age with, and he was here with Maddy. But right then he just felt . . . empty. Alone. He couldn’t explain it. It was like how he had felt when he had gone on stage at the taping. It just happened upon him. And he felt afraid.

  Jackson Godspeed wasn’t used to feeling afraid. He began to really, truly think about the possibility his wings might never be fixed. A cold hole opened in his stomach.

  “Jacks?” Maddy leaned forward across the table and took his hand in hers.

  “I’m fine,” Jacks said, snapping out of his reverie.

  Maddy looked at him with concern, squeezing his hand. “Are you sure? You seemed a little off this morning, too. Is there anything I can do?”

  “It’s nothing!” Jacks said, his voice rising. A few customers at the other tables turned their heads towards their table, noticing, and began whispering under their breaths.

  Maddy looked at him in shock – Jacks never raised his voice at her. Ever.

  He glanced back and forth, realizing he was drawing attention.

  “It’s nothing,” he said, more quietly this time. He pulled his hand back from Maddy’s.

  A look of pain and confusion crossed Maddy’s face. Suddenly Jacks’s phone buzzed with a text. A strange look crossed his face as he read the text and then put the phone down.

  “What was it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Jacks,” Maddy said. “No secrets. Remember?”

  He sighed. “It was from Emily.”

  Anger flooded through Maddy’s veins. “Why is she texting you? How’d she even get your number?”

  “I don’t know. It’s stupid. You know how girls like Vivian and Emily can get. Vivian probably gave it to her. I deleted it. I’m not writing back. They’re just trying to get at you. They knew you’d be sitting right here when I got it.”

  Maddy seemed to realize her raised voice had drawn the attention of the tables of Angels and Protections around them. “She never stops.”

  Jacks scanned around the courtyard of the café. He suddenly had the impulse to get away from all those eyes, the Angels watching. Even Maddy herself.

  “Are you OK, Jacks?” Maddy asked.

  “Sure, I’m fine,” he lied, trying to keep his voice light. She seemed to believe him.

  Maddy glanced over at her phone on the table and suddenly realized what time it was. “I’m going to be late! I almost forgot – I have my first flight lesson with that pilot. Professor Archson thinks it’s going to help.”

  Maddy stood up and kissed Jacks on the cheek. “I’ll talk to you after, ’K?”

  “Sure,” Jacks said, his mind swirling with the day’s events. He managed a weak smile at her. “Have fun.”

  Maddy slipped between the tables of beautiful Angels, towards the street. Jackson watched her go.

  He let out a long sigh and looked at the menu in front of him. Although he’d been hungry just a little bit ago, now he had no appetite. A waitress showed up, eyeing the solo Jackson Godspeed.

  “Just coffee for me,” he said, handing the menu to the waitress.

  CHAPTER 15

  The small airstrip was on the far edge of Burbank, on the other side of the freeway from the glitzy Angel facilities. Maddy pulled in next to a guard shack, and the guard waved her through, barely looking up from his phone as he opened the gate.

  Dust swirled on the old runway as she parked her Audi between an ’87 Dodge pickup and a Toyota Corolla with peeling white paint. A small hangar lay off the side of the airfield. Stepping out of her car, she realized how much hotter it was over here than in Angel City. A blazing wind rolled over the mountains that loomed behind her.

  Walking towards the hangar, Maddy noticed a young man in a khaki naval-service dress uniform step out from the hangar, wearing aviator sunglasses and a stony expression. He had a striking jawline and chiselled cheekbones. He was tall and his shoulders were broad, his glossy hair dark though not as close-cropped as she thought it would be for someone in the military. The pilot was also younger than she thought he’d be – maybe just twenty-one. Maddy smiled in a friendly manner as she approached him, her heels clacking on the asphalt. His face remained unchanged. She guessed he must be her instructor.

  Maddy was here on this dusty airstrip because of Susan Archson’s suggestion that she might need to learn to think like a human pilot. Maddy wasn’t entirely sure, though, how aeroplane training was going to help. She wasn’t going to be flying a plane; she was flying herself. But Susan had prevailed and said the young pilot was the best around and would be happy to work with Maddy.

  Now, on the tarmac, she was meeting him for the first time. Reaching the boy in uniform, she put out her hand.

  “Hi, you must be Tom, er, Lieutenant Cooper. I’m Maddy Mo—”

  “You’re late,” the pilot said, looking down at his watch. His voice was deep and direct. Almost cold. He examined her outfit incredulously: heels and a skirt and a flirty top she’d had her stylist pick out for her since she had an appearance later.

  “I, uh,” Maddy floundered. She checked her phone; she hadn’t realized she’d been running so late. There had been so much to take care of before this appearance later tonight that she’d let the time get away from her. . .

  “I’m sorry, I had to meet with Darcy before, and she was stuck at an event with another client, and— ”

  “Darcy?” The pilot raised an eyebrow above his aviator shades. “Who the hell is Darcy, and what does she have to do with your flight training?”

  Maddy looked at him, speechless.

  Tom examined the express
ion on Maddy’s face. “Yes?”

  “Nothing. I just expected someone a little more . . . courteous,” Maddy said, standing taller, looking directly into the glinting mirrored glass of the pilot’s shades.

  A tight smile spread across his face. “You’re the one who’s late and you’re talking to me about courtesy?” Tom said, shaking his head. “Angels,” he said, as if to himself, in disbelief. He turned to the hangar. “Now come on, we can stand out here in the sun all day or get to work. You’ve wasted enough of our time.”

  “Bu— ” The pilot had already turned and was walking back into the hangar. Flustered, Maddy called to him: “You’ll get paid the same no matter how late I am.”

  He spun on his heels, an insulted look crossing his face. “Paid? Ms Montgomery, this isn’t for money.”

  The pilot led her to a chipped metal table off to the side of the hangar. An old chalkboard was set up next to it on a rolling stand. The old desk chair squeaked when Maddy sat in it. The young man sat down opposite her at the desk and took his sunglasses off. Maddy was immediately struck by his eyes – they were a deep green. He didn’t blink.

  Maddy glanced over at the single-engine Cessna next to them just inside the hangar.

  “Is this your plane?” she asked.

  “I’m allowed to use it, yes. My normal aircraft is a little . . . faster.”

  “So when do I fly?” Maddy smiled, trying to start their relationship over on the right foot.

  “You don’t.”

  Maddy froze for a moment.

  “Not yet,” the pilot continued. “Not until I say so. If I say so.”

  Maddy’s eyes blazed rebelliously. Something about this pilot made her flare up inside. “And this is supposed to help me? I’m not sure I need help, anyway. I’ve just got a slow start flying is all.”

  “Not from what I’ve heard.”

  “Professor Archson said you were good, but I still don’t see how this is going to help me,” Maddy responded after collecting herself.

  The pilot rapped his fingers lightly on the metal top of the desk. “I was one of the youngest ever to graduate the Naval Academy, got top marks across the board in all aviation categories, and finished head of my group at the elite U.S. Navy Strike Fighters Instruction Programme. I’ve flown over thirty-two F-18 missions from my aircraft carrier, which is now positioned in Angel City Bay.” His voice was calm and his gaze unwavering as he spoke. Maddy thought she remembered from a Military Channel show her uncle was watching that an F-18 was one of the military fighter jets. The most expensive and prestigious aeroplanes in the fleet.

  Tom continued, “Susan apparently thinks you need to learn how a pilot sees, feels and thinks, and she believes I can help. Although, to be honest, that might be pretty hard for somebody like you.”

  “You don’t know anything about me, lieutenant,” she said quietly.

  The pilot was silent.

  “What did I ever do to you?” Maddy said after a moment.

  “Do?” Tom asked, his green eyes flecking with grey. “Do you think I want to spend my time teaching some prima donna Angel how to fly when I could be helping someone who actually appreciated it, needed some help? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have a tutor on how to spend money and pose for photographers?”

  Maddy eyed him. “Well then, why are you doing it?” she asked.

  “Because I have to. Susan asked me. And it looks like you have to as well.”

  “You have to? Why?”

  “That’s strictly none of your business,” the pilot said.

  Maddy crossed her arms. Silence hung heavy in the air between them. A fly buzzed, lazily circling up towards the ceiling.

  Tom stood up and walked over to the chalkboard. He flipped it over with a squeak, revealing a side already marked up with chalk. It was covered with diagrams and equations covering aerodynamics, velocity, yaw, trim.

  Maddy’s eyes narrowed at the board, her arms still crossed. “I’ve already learned this stuff.”

  “Not my way, you haven’t,” Tom said, turning back to the chalkboard. “If you learn this, I can help you wrap your head around how to manoeuvre your body in the air. But if you’re going to be stubborn, you’ll always stay where you started. Which, from what I understand, isn’t the most graceful place.”

  Maddy opened her mouth to come back with a snappy reply. But she stopped short as she looked into Lieutenant Cooper’s serious eyes and thought about her struggles on the training course. Maybe he was right. Maybe he could help her manoeuvre her body in the air.

  “All right,” Maddy got out, fighting her rebellious streak.

  “Good,” the pilot said, turning back to the chalkboard with the slightest smirk on his face. “Let’s start.”

  CHAPTER 16

  The buzzer panel for the building was faded and covered in filth, the names and unit numbers barely readable. Sylvester’s eyes ran up and down the list, trying to discern one name from the other. Some of the names were written in Russian letters, and the detective tried to piece together what they might mean. Others were written sloppily in black marker.

  Sylvester’s investigation into the grisly Angel bombing had taken him through all the official ACPD reports that had been filed, all the traditional HDF informants and their statements. He’d uncovered nothing new. But Sylvester had other resources. He pressured an HDF operative who was close to the group’s leader, William Beaubourg himself. Sylvester had used her as an informant for years, off the books and out of the ACPD database. And the detective had got one word out of her: Minx. That’s all she’d say about the bombing. But maybe it was enough.

  Garcia had radioed in the name “Minx”. There were maybe two dozen Minxes in the Angel City database, but only one that seemed right to Detective Sylvester. It was on a dingy industrial block on the outskirts of abandoned downtown.

  Minx Watch and Clock Repair.

  Now Sylvester stood outside the address. Could be another dead end. Afternoon sun beat down on the cracked pavement. The rumble of steady traffic on the freeway just a couple of blocks away created a dull white noise. A homeless man pushed a shopping trolley towards the detective, one of the wheels squeaking terribly. The man saw Sylvester, instantly – and correctly – took him for police, and crossed the street. Sylvester looked towards the north and figured most of the homeless disappearances he’d been following had happened only twelve blocks north of here.

  Since he’d been pulled off that non-Angel case, at least ten more destitute men and women had disappeared mysteriously off the streets or out of fleabag residential hotels. Yet the ACPD hadn’t even detailed anyone else on the case since Sylvester had been reassigned. The detective got an ache in his kidneys just thinking about it. He wasn’t going to let that case just die now that he was on the Angel bombing, so he’d dropped Sergeant Garcia near Skid Row and asked him to question anybody who might have seen anything involving the disappearances. It was risky having Bill work on that off-limits case, but Sylvester wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he didn’t.

  But today he had to investigate the bombing. Leaning further in, Sylvester peered through his glasses at the numbers and found the one he was looking for: 1C. There was no name next to the buzzer number, just a description: WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR.

  Sylvester pressed the button. Only a few seconds later, the door buzzed, unlocking.

  The detective entered a large, dingy hallway. Sylvester easily found the door inside: 1C. The words WATCH AND CLOCK REPAIR were etched on the dirty frosted glass of the door. The detective entered.

  He was met with a terrible mess. Stacks of old clocks sat atop each other on the scratched glass countertops, more stacks of old plastic clocks were propped against the wall, and various clock parts were scattered around. The storefront was lit dimly, and old-fashioned jazz was playing on a radio in a backroom somewhere. He noticed a brass
bell in front of him. He pressed down, and the ring carried loudly through the store.

  After a few moments, a man emerged from what was probably the back office. He pushed aside a tattered old green curtain with gold trim and began lumbering up to the desk, breathing heavily through his nose. He was short and wore a stained brown apron over a white button-up shirt. The apron bulged over his belly. His thinning, wispy hair was matted to his scalp with sweat. The most remarkable feature about the man was his elaborate pair of eyeglasses, which were more like a visor attached to his head with a black rubber strap; a number of moveable magnifying lenses and loupes were attached to the front of the glasses, able to swing back and forth to provide the right enlargement of detail for the eye.

  The man wiped his fingers on the apron and looked at Detective Sylvester as he approached the counter. His brown eyes were exaggerated and bulbous through his thick glasses. As he smiled, his yellowed teeth shone out at Sylvester.

  “Can I help you?” the man asked.

  “Mr Minx?” Sylvester said.

  “Yes?” he said.

  Sylvester reached into his pocket. “I’d like to have a watch fixed,” he said, pulling out a wristwatch. Its glass face was beautiful, trimmed with gold, and the numbers inside were almost art deco in a 1930s kind of way, harking back to the heyday of Angel City.

  The man took the watch in his hands and inspected it through his glasses, holding it up to the light. The light danced and refracted in his glasses.

  “This is a beautiful piece, yes, yes. The inner workings are quite complex, but durable. A different era, a different era. I haven’t seen one like this for quite some time, Mr. . . ?” He dropped his gaze back to the detective.

  “Sylvester. Detective Sylvester, ACPD.” He reached into his other pocket and produced his badge.

  “Oh?” Minx attempted to hide his surprise, continuing to innocently look at the watch. He glanced into the backroom, just for a moment, and then his attention was back on the watch. Sylvester studied the man in front of him. “And is there something else, Mr Sylvester? I have the feeling your visit might not just be about this timekeeping piece.”