Hawk

by Abigail Graham

  "Go back," he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine. His soft rasping voice is the only thing in the world. "Go back and tell them you couldn't find me. Make it look real."

  That won't be too hard.

  "Come back to me."

  "I will."

  "Promise."

  "I promise," he says, and kisses me again.

  I let him go.

  I can't watch. He has to be okay. He has to make it. I run back up the stairs. I'm heading for the ICU but I stop, run through some other places first, let the guards catch me. The words are lies but the emotions are real, I don't have to make myself cry until I can't breathe and Charity has to stop them from dragging me off and sedating me or something. She takes me back to Mom's room. They've moved her now. I can't tell either of them.

  Eventually there are no more tears left to shed. I stare at the wall.

  Charity falls asleep. Chunks of time bite themselves out of my memory. The next five days are a blur. On the sixth day Mom wakes up, on the seventh she's eating Jell-O and orders me to go home and sleep in a real bed. Charity spends that night with me, and a few more off and on until we bring my mother home.

  She makes me fill out my responses to my acceptance letters.

  She never says one word about Apollo.

  In July I receive my confirmation package, invitation to orientation, tour dates, the works. I'm going to college.

  About a week after that, I realize that it's been way too long since I had a period.

  Chapter 15: Apollo

  I fly coach to Zurich.

  It took me three weeks to recover. I'm probably going to be walking with a cane longer than that. The pain in my leg is nothing. It feels like my heart has been ripped out and every time I breathe I can feel the air sucking through the hole it left, ripping me up even more. I can't go back yet, I can't.

  God damn, this is a long flight. My leg is driving me insane. It's like there's a knot in it that will never go away, and I can't put any weight on it yet. I think my sword fighting days are over. I'm almost thankful for the distraction. It's like I live in a bland world of paper, all the color drained out of everything. I don't bother with the in-flight movie or the stupid pretzels, I just sit there until finally the plane begins to descend and my leg starts screaming.

  With my luck, it was all a lie. Dad told me what to do if something ever happened to him. He made me memorize the account number and access code. There's no other way to get into the account, no name, nothing like that. A death certificate or probate court order won't get me in here, not into this bank. I booked a hotel to rest up before going but I end up heading straight to the bank anyway. In the lobby I'm greeted by a narrow faced man who looks like a butler and speaks perfect English without the slightest hint of the stereotypical German accent. He isn't wearing a monocle but he looks like he should be. I tersely give him the account number and write down the code for him, and mill around in the lobby until he walks out and matter-of-factly instructs me to follow him into an elevator.

  It goes up to the second floor and he is noticeably annoyed when I hobble out after him, slowing his pace. Two more bank employees join us and walk into one of the vaults. Plural.

  A distant part of me wonders how hard it would be to steal something from this place. The rest of me wants to throw up because I still think like that.

  Inside there's a work table, heavily built. One at a time, they lay out ten safe deposit boxes on the table and unlock them. I move to open one and the Swiss Bank Butler lightly grasps my wrist.

  "After we leave," he says, calmly. "Before we do, is there anything I can assist you with?"

  "I need something to carry stuff out of here."

  He nods, and they bring me a big canvas bag, like a gym bag. I'm not sure how I'm going to carry that, until they roll in a cart. It looks like the big flat shopping cart you'd use at a hardware store to move an air conditioner.

  Then they finally leave, and lock me in. It's weirdly cold in here, the air dry enough to irritate my nostrils when I breathe. There's no security cameras in here. None of the employees know what's in the boxes, and I don't think they care. I'm not completely sure what to expect either.

  There is nothing left of me. I don't know what to make of my father. What was a lie, and what wasn't? Were there any terrorists at all? Was the whole thing made up to string me along?

  Why do I have a feeling that there would have been another job, and another and another until he died and left me a bitter shell?

  Not that I'm much more than a bitter shell now. Without Diana I'm a dead man walking.

  Let's open these fuckers.

  The first one is full of bearer bonds. Funny thing about those, they don't make them anymore. It must be from an old score. I don't remember it. My heart races as I look them over. If they're genuine, there's over fifteen million dollars in this box alone. This is a lot of bearer bonds, but then again, I'm in a bank. I can make it work.

  The next box is full of diamonds. Just diamonds, no jewelry, no settings, just the rocks. The box after that, actual jewelry. Gold and emeralds, rubies and star sapphires. It looks like a treasure chest in a movie. I sigh as I realized it's going to take several days to move all this, even with the free duffel bag. That's how you know you've arrived: Your bank account includes free luggage. I open more boxes, find more treasures. Nothing identifiable, nothing that I could return after tracking down the owner. In the next to last box, I find much less, at least by volume. There's a stack of passports, all kinds of identity papers and notebooks.

  I flip through them, finding the ones with my picture, until I spot one I like. Then I make up my mind.

  Apollo Temple is dead. He bled to death in a hospital in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. I'm David McCay now. I slip the papers in my pockets, and fill the bag with the bearer bonds. After I close the boxes and knock on the door, the bank men come back and put it all away, under my supervision.

  Dealing with the bonds takes the rest of the day and I spend it on edge, my heart racing as I think about what could happen to me if they decide they were stolen. At the end of it, I use the money to open a new account. I would say in my own name but no, it's just another number.

  After a fitful sleep in the hotel fighting my achy leg, I make another trip to the bank. I spend the next day making three trips back and forth, and then the next, and then the next, until I'm sitting in the hotel room with about fifty million dollars worth of stolen goods and a thousand dollars worth of packing supplies. The diamonds and such I'll move myself. The identifiable items, ranging from watches to necklaces to what I'm pretty sure is something that's supposed to go in a girl's belly button.

  Tempted to keep that one.

  I take every precaution. I'm going to ship from the bank, I'm handling everything with gloves, and I bought everything I'm using from the computer I will type the letters on to the printer to the paper and envelopes with cold hard cash, using every trick I know to avoid being noticed. The damn boxes are heavy, the shipping is going to be expensive, but I don't care.

  The diamonds might have come from someone shady. The rest… I don't know if the police will be able to identify the owners of all these things. Hopefully if they can't they'll auction them off and put the money to good use.

  On my last day at the bank I ship boxes full of treasure to various police agencies. Interpol, the FBI. I'm tempted to send one to the FDA in Diana's honor but I don't think they'd get the joke. I drain all of my father's accounts and wire the money to a list of charities. The bank employees carry out these requests with all the interest they might show filling out a crossword puzzle. I keep expecting to be jumped by a SWAT team any minute, but I walk out of the bank with a slightly clearer conscience a free man named David.

  Everything after that is a blur, a warped mixture of apprehension and impatience. I tap my good foot in the airport as if I could will the plane to pull into the gate faster, hobble down the jetway with my cane with a purpose and settle into my co
ach seat and try to sleep, but end up giving up after an hour with my eyes closed. By the time I land in Baltimore, I'm exhausted. I feel like I've spent the last twelve hours lying in a cold bath.

  From there, a Holiday Inn. I lay on the bed and stare at the ceiling.

  I spend another month doing the same, just to be sure. Each hotel I book is a few miles closer to… I was going to say home but I don't know if it's home yet. I don't know where Diana has gone. Every day I pick another charity, send them some money.

  After a quick stop in Philadelphia, I drive to the museum.

  The gates are open. I'm taking a risk, here. I shouldn't allow myself to be seen anywhere near this place.

  I ring the doorbell twice before Carol answers.

  Somehow she does not seem at all surprised to see me.

  "Whatever you've been doing, I hope it was important."

  "I-"

  "Shut up, I don't want to hear your voice. My daughter-"

  "Mom? Who-"

  Diana descends the stairs, and that shredded hollow feeling in my chest goes away all at once. I'd grown so used to hurting all the time I'd forgotten what it was like not too. She just stares at me as she steps to the bottom of the stairs. I stare back. I left here three months ago.

  When I left she wasn't pregnant. She instinctively touches her stomach. She's not huge yet but that belly bump can't be anything else. I squeeze my hands into fists, try to say something but all at once my throat is packed with sand and I can't push any words through it. Her mother sighs deeply and steps out of the way, and I brush past her, into the house. I walk to Diana.

  "You son of a bitch," she snaps, and slaps me. Hard. So hard I stumble and almost go down.

  "Oh my God, I'm sorry," she cries out, grabbing my arm. "Your leg, I forgot-"

  "I'm fine, I-"

  "Good," she cuts me off before she hauls off and slaps me again with the other hand, and then once more for good measure. I catch the next one, grasping her wrist.

  "I had to-"

  "I know," she chokes out.

  "You're-"

  "Yeah."

  "Is it mine-"

  She slaps me.

  I rub my cheek. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm just… I… with you… I'm going to be a…"

  "Right," she says, wryly. "Yeah, they're yours. Dad."

  I… I feel funny. I feel like I did when I was bleeding out. I have to lean on something. I hear a grunt from Diana's mother when I lean on some old table, pull my hand off and lean on the wall. She's giving me a death stare.

  I swallow, hard. "They?"

  "Yeah. Congratulations. We're having twins."

  "What about… are you still going to college?"

  "Next year. I'm talking a year off. Because you got me pregnant."

  I swallow, hard.

  Diana cracks a smile.

  We're going to be okay. Sure, I gave away about ninety percent of the money. Rob from the rich, give to the poor. I figure the ten million or so I kept should set us up for a while.

  Ten million minus the engagement ring in my pocket, I mean.

  Funny how that works. David McCay has only been around for three months, and now he's getting married.

  I do the whole thing. I kneel. I present her the ring. Her mother groans.

  Diana says yes.

  After she slaps me again.

  Thank you for reading Mockingbird. I hope you enjoyed it!

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  Copyright 2014 © Abigail Graham

  Cover design by Mayhem Cover Designs http://mayhemcovercreations.com/

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

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  The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Paradise Falls

  1.

  Jennifer packed her messenger bag. In went her laptop, her binder full of lesson plans, and her battered, dog-eared copy of the twelfth grade English textbook. After she snapped the flap down and tightened the bag up on her back, she stopped and sighed. It was the first day of school. First day number four. She hoped she’d pull off her first day this year without tearing up.

  This was the third year Jennifer faced life alone. She shifted on her feet, wriggling her toes in her sneakers and flexing her riding gloves, working up the will to open the front door. Her husband Franklin did the honors for her four years ago. Her departure on the very first day of her teaching career was domestic bliss in its purest form. He woke up early and roused her from sleep with blueberry pancakes. He kissed her on the cheek and soothed her frayed nerves by reassuring her that she’d do a fine job and be a good teacher. The kids would love her.

  Now she was alone with mounting dread and memories, a screeching alarm clock woke her for an oatmeal bar and orange juice chugged straight from the carton, a quick shower and a coordinated selection from her predominantly neutral wardrobe.

  A favorite picture of Franklin by the door was the only thing left to say goodbye on her way to work. Niagara Falls served as the background to their honeymoon photo, and the way the sun caught the water made everything glow like a cheesy painter’s view of heaven. Big dark sunglasses hid Jennifer’s eyes, and unusually unkempt hair framed her grin. Her husband had a silly, boyish smile that infected everybody around him.

  The picture filled her with joy when Franklin was alive. Looking at it now brought lingering doubt and guilt. Why am I alive, and you’re not?

  Jennifer took a deep breath. I can do this. I have a job to do.

  Franklin’s voice drifted from the back of her mind. You can do it, kiddo. She was almost two years older than her husband. That was their little joke. She tightened her pads and riding gloves and strapped down her helmet.

  She scrubbed at her eyes, sucked in another breath, and yanked the door open.

  Humid August air and a wet smell hinting at a coming thunderstorm greeted Jennifer on the front porch. She shrugged to shift the bag’s weight before locking the door, and then lifted her trusty three-speed from the front porch to the sidewalk. As soon as she stepped off the old warped wood, it hit her. Did you leave the stove on? Is the door locked? Did you turn the bathroom fan off? Did you leave a lesson plan on the table?

  Jennifer shook her head. Every single time she left the house, she had to do this. Sighing with resignation, she checked the door again and went through a mental checklist. She had not cooked on the stove in a week, the door was clearly locked, the bathroom fan had a fuse if it overheated, and she never put the lesson plans on the table. They were in her bag. Rolling her shoulders with a renewed confidence, she stumbled as she turned and almost bolted back to the house.

  A black Dodge rolled down the street and stopped in front of the neighbors’ mailbox. The illegal blacked out windows hid its interior, but she knew who was driving. She froze, then moved deliberately slow and ignored the threat the way she’d ignore a wa
sp buzzing about her head. You leave me, I leave you be.

  Her trembling hands choked the handlebars as she pedaled. Jennifer could ride for an hour ninety-degree heat without breaking a sweat, but perspiration beaded between her shoulder blades. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed the Dodge followed behind. She leaned into the bike and pumped harder on the pedals to increase her speed. The car kept pace.

  The driver shadowed her as she stopped at the first intersection and pedaled across Commerce Street, the main drag. No one was out this early in the morning, at least not in this part of town. Thick silence was broken only by the thick rumble from the car, rolling along behind her.

  Shimmering beyond rising waves of heat was the high school. She would be safe once she made it to work.

  After she reached the top of the hill, she sat up on the seat and eased up on the pedals to coast downhill. She was almost there. The school meant people: other teachers, students, and most important, a burly state policeman who served as the school’s resource officer. She would be safe at the school.

  Exhaust roared out of the Dodge as it launched past her left elbow by maybe a foot. Her heart jumped into her throat. The car swerved left and then right before coming to a lurching stop that blocked the road. Panicking, Jennifer choked on the brake as hard as she could. The font wheel locked and the handlebars jerked in her hand. The handlebars came alive in her hands. The bike went down and she went with it. She put her feet down to catch herself, and a shock of white hot pain shot up her leg as her bad ankle folded inwards and she went down. Her arm landed on the pavement and the loose gravel tore open her skin as she rolled onto her back.

  The car doors simultaneously swung open and the car rocked on its springs as Grayson Carlyle stepped out from the driver’s side. His passenger stood up and slipped on a pair of wraparound sunglasses. Elliot Katzenberg, her brother-in-law, nudged her bicycle with his foot. Jennifer shifted into a sitting position and looked up at him while ice spread through her veins.