She listened carefully to the sound of her own respirator.
Whooosh . . .
Whooosh . . .
And then the pitch dropped slightly.
The whooooosh . . . lengthening. Just a little bit.
Adlans’ Aviary
Franklin and Victoria took an off-ramp on the southwest side of Pittsburgh and parked in front of a sprawling warehouse-like building situated in a valley between two tree-covered hills; the building not so much narrow, but made to seem so by its height and stupendous length. It looked like four stories tall, built on two commercial lots back-to-back.
In front, a long-tailed exotic blue bird of some kind was clinging perched along a sign’s right side.
It took a moment to realize the bird was paint.
“I guess they do pretty well selling rare birds to zoos and pet stores and private collections,” Franklin said.
His phone call to Erie Pets had revealed Adlans’ reputation as growing over the years to where it became widely known as a place injured birds were repaired and nurtured back to health. Dean and Sally Adlan were thought to be two of the most highly respected ornithologists in the country.
Inside the front office, directly across from the door, was wallpapered a wide photo of a beautiful bald eagle in flight against a pale blue sky. Pictures of exotic birds — condors, falcons, parrots — graced the other walls. Before a corner couch, a granite coffee table lay covered with bird books and bird magazines.
Across the room, an attractive blonde woman sat typing at a keyboard. On her desk stood a four-by-twelve-inch plastic sign that read:
“Hello. I’m —”
“Reverend Reveal!” said the woman with a surprised look for both Franklin and Harry. “Quite a picture,” she said sliding a copy of TIME magazine across her desk.
“Not another one,” Franklin muttered.
Victoria’s eyebrows rose, smiling at the photo. It had the same picture as Marjorie’s People magazine but the big headline in white read: THE FACE OF HOPE.
“I’m Sally, Dean’s wife.”
“Please call me Franklin,” he sighed, trying not to look at the image on the cover. “This is Victoria Hill.”
Sally smiled and the two women shook hands.
Franklin lifted the old brass cage with Harry inside. “Dean Adlan’s expecting this fellow here.”
“Yes, Dean’s quite excited.” But Sally frowned at Harry. The ride down had not diminished the owl’s shakiness.
“He’s out back working on a special project. There’s no problem with you going back on your own,” she said with a smile, eyebrows rising toward the cage. She pressed a button on her desk. “He’s very excited to meet you and your friend there. Go straight through these doors,” she pointed around her left side. Just follow the main trail all the way back.”
“Trail?”
“You’ll see.”
Through the double doors, Franklin and Victoria entered a shallow space, an air chamber with another set of screen doors on the other side, apparently to keep whatever was on the other side from escaping. Franklin’s ears perked with the wilderness sounds of forest and jungle. Deep booming bass calls, high-pitched screeches — long oooh — oo — OOOHs.
They pushed through the second pair of doors.
King palms fifteen feet tall were interlaced by traveler’s palms — huge oval leaves on stalks fanning outward in straight lines. Orange and blue flowering birds-of-paradise flared between the reeds and water plants that grew along what Franklin was sure must be an artificial stream.
Victoria laughed at a large black mynah bird turning its curved, yellow-and-red-tipped beak toward Franklin, sizing him up with pointed eyes.
Franklin unzipped his jacket. “I wonder if I look as odd to it?” he muttered.
“It’s like we’re not indoors anymore,” Victoria exclaimed.
High above their heads, Franklin saw a curved sky-blue ceiling. Birds sat in eucalyptus trees or flew freely across open jungle. The world was filled with the echoes of birds hidden away.
They followed a dirt path that wound its way deeper into the jungle. There was a slight vinegary odor to the moist, warm air. Birds crossed back and forth above their heads. Occasionally there was a large spotlessly clean wire cube sequestered among the bush, containing one, sometimes two birds.
The trees puzzled him. Eucalyptus taproots at Del’s go down to the aquifer, don’t they? He studied one of the taller trees that disappeared way up to the — sky? Painted? How’ve they been able to do all this?
“Look at that!” Victoria cried.
In a grassy paddock roamed a long flowing crystal-white bird, what could only be an albino peacock.
Dean Adlan
At what felt like the halfway point they crossed a small bridge over a vigorous flowing stream between two lakes inhabited by all kinds of shore birds — a group of seagulls, several pelicans. They emerged from the end of the winding jungle trail and pushed through a single screen door to find a man in a Hawaiian shirt, as colorful as many of his birds.
He was feeding a small fish to a slender tan and black hawklike bird with a short, curved, sharply pointed beak. Its talons were tethered atop a perch. A long dark puddle-shaped mark sloped down around each eye — a peregrine falcon, Franklin recognized, from his days in the Nevada desert.
The man in the Hawaiian shirt grinned.
He looks like an owl himself in those wire-rim glasses, Franklin smiled back. An owl with short reddish-brown hair.
As Franklin brought Harry closer, the falcon and Harry began reacting angrily to each other.
“Stay there a moment, while I put this guy away,” the man said.
He carefully put the raptor into a cage. Draped a beige cloth over its top. An even larger cage nearby held what Franklin thought must be a golden eagle.
“Dean Adlan,” the man introduced. But when Franklin gave his and Victoria’s names, Dean gave the barest of civil acknowledgments, his attention already focused on the cage Franklin held.
“Shocking!” Dean exclaimed. “I’ve never actually seen one before, other than in a book. What a beautifully brindled avian!”
“Brindled? What?” Victoria asked.
“Ahhh — his colorings,” Dean muttered absently, completely engrossed. “The brown and black brushstrokes down his wings and back. Avian’s just a fancy word for flying creature, birds usually, though technically bats and flying foxes could be included.” He frowned darkly behind his glasses. “Those shakes look none too healthy though.”
Dean opened the cage door, pushed a stick gently under the owl’s talons and brought him out. He bobbed Harry to catch air under his wings. Harry stretched automatically. A bit feebly, Franklin thought.
“He’s missing . . . one, two, three major feathers,” Dean said. “Hmm . . . and this blood along his beak . . .”
“We named him Harry,” Victoria said, “because of the close calls we went through when Franklin rescued his niece.”
It didn’t seem like Dean was even aware of them, stroking the owl’s back feathers. Franklin set the cage down, saying nothing.
“The way you found your niece!” Sally Adlan said as she came through the jungle door. “Amazing! A crying baby might sound something like an owl’s mother.”
“That’s true,” Dean agreed thoughtfully. “They’re quite hearing oriented. Not like hawks or falcons.” Dean lifted Harry higher, moved him again up and down, causing the owl to extend his wings once more. They examined Harry’s beautiful markings underneath.
Is he young or old? Dean wondered. Looks pretty mature. Nice feathery — almost whiskers — sticking up above the ears. Gappy wings though.
“Yes,” Dean said, “I’m quite certain. A Ketupa zeylonensis. South Asia brown fish owl. Still — hmmmm. I’d like to send his picture to a colleague in London. And you found him in New York City? Astonishing! I can’t imagine who owned him before. There’s no tag on his foot. If he was owned by
a pet shop he’d be tagged. Owls have been used to hunt, kept as symbols of virility, even as religious totems of power. Ideally we ought to determine the sex. One can’t tell just by looking, you know. We could have a DNA test done, if you don’t mind if I take one, that is.”
“Not if Harry doesn’t,” Franklin answered.
“It won’t hurt him, will it?” asked Victoria.
“Not a bit. Not a bit. A few drops of blood around a toe. Pack the claw with flour. Stops the bleeding in a jiffy.”
“I think I’ll leave that decision to you,” Franklin said finally. “As far as I’m concerned Harry is yours now.”
Dean’s eyes widened with pleasure.
Franklin added, “As far as my brother Everon and I know, Cynthia and Steve didn’t have any pets. Why did you doubt he’s a — Ketupa zeylonensis?” Franklin asked, feeling comfortable with the Latin name.
“That’s an odd thing. Brown fish owls are very rare in this part of the world. Probably not any privately held in the United States or anywhere in North, or South, America for that matter. Turkey . . . Iran have some. Thailand, India — Sri Lanka has the largest population but —”
Dean finally looked at them, an odd expression in his face. “The species is illegal to export. From every single country where they live naturally.
“Everywhere in the world.”
Dying Alone
Upstairs in the ICU’s darkness, Enya’s respirator was definitely slowing down.
She remembered the way the old man had looked when his accordion stopped. The way he’d struggled. She refused to wait until it was too late. There had to be something she could do now.
She turned her chin as far as it would go. She couldn’t get the damn tube out of her mouth.
Enya lay alone, sucking in each breath, random noises out in the hall.
Slower and slower, up and down, the accordion stretching and collapsing until — whoooosh . . . It stopped. The air caught in her lungs. Pain shot across her chest.
She was dying.
Suddenly her eyes clamped shut. Brilliant light filled the room.
The ventilator restarted, returned to normal. Air filled her chest! Her heartbeat steadied. Her chest relaxed.
On her lips, three silent words formed around the breathing tube: “Scrounge found fuel.”
Enya relaxed as the machine forced her to take a long generous breath. And as the drugs took hold again, dropping her back to sleep, she wondered.
How long will the fuel last?
“Turban? How’s it going?”
From Everon’s altitude, a thousand feet up in the MD-900, he knew the radio could reach all the way to Mercer. If Turban was listening. He checked his watch and the number in his head clicked down: 2500 gallons.
“Soon, Mr. E, soon,” the engineer’s voice came back.
“Make it sooner, okay?”
“I will try.”
As they descended into Nicola-Juniata, Everon could see the Thomas line was nearly complete. Metalhead and Ortega’s team had to bolt up cable on only four more towers. Another hour. And the Thomas transformer should be done too. Nick was draining mineral oil out of Scrounge’s last big spare in N-J’s equipment building. He would truck 500 gallons of it over to fill Thomas Transformer Number Two. There wasn’t any time left to purify the old oil. Woodie had seen to that.
“Deters?” he called using Right’s last name. “I’m on my way in now. How much longer on Nicola?”
“We’re almost there, E. I make it half an hour max.”
Enya —
Nicola’s switchyard. The Thomas transformer. The lines to Thomas. Everything would be ready at the same time.
Dammit, Turban, I need Big Mombo now!
Lunch
After saying goodbye to the Adlans’, Franklin took the jeep along rolling streets into a parking lot between two warehouses. A few cars were scattered around, a couple of 18-wheeler cabs without trailers.
“What is this place?” Victoria asked.
“It’s called the Strip District.”
“Why are we stopping here?”
“Lunchtime. Not hungry?” He went around to her door and opened it.
She didn’t get out immediately. “We’re eating in a warehouse?”
“Give it a try. What have you got to lose?”
The sign on the building said Primanti Brothers.
Victoria let him help her. “Do you mind if I hold onto you? The crutch is kind of uncomfortable.” She draped an arm around his shoulders. He felt tightly muscular — like a greyhound.
Inside, the entire place was one long red counter; a row of stools down at the end. Bottles of icy beer lined up across a rear countertop, adjacent to a wide grill.
“They don’t look terribly busy,” she said.
“Best cheese steak sandwich in the world though.”
The beefy counterman spun around. “I’m Jimmy. What’ll you have — Reverend?” Jimmy laughed. “Recognize you from the TV.” He pointed overhead at the set. “Great thing you did!”
Things seem so normal here, Franklin thought. Too normal after the death and destruction in New York and Virginia, the power outages Everon’s dealing with on the east side of Pennsylvania. But he felt an undercurrent of fear running through the room too.
“Thanks,” he sighed. “Two cheese steaks, Jimmy.”
“Onions?”
Franklin turned to Victoria, raising his eyebrows.
She shook her head. “No thanks.”
“To drink?”
Franklin looked to her again, “I recommend one of the local Pennsylvania favorites.”
She shrugged. “Why not?”
“One Yuengling and one Pale Steel Ale,” Franklin ordered.
Jimmy handed Franklin two icy bottles — one brown, one green, and glanced at Victoria’s knee. “Grab a seat. I’ll bring your food over when it’s ready.”
“Thanks,” Franklin responded.
“That shot of you and your niece and Harry has been all over the news,” she said as they made their way over. “CNN’s been running it non-stop. Didn’t know if you’d want to talk about it.”
“It’s ridiculous. We only brought out eight people! What about the thousands still dying in New York?”
“I’m pretty glad I was one of those eight. And let’s not forget the bridge. You can add another two hundred thousand to that tally,” she laughed lightly.
“Would have been impossible if you didn’t convince the other people in the helicopter to let us give it a try,” he said. “Especially Kone.”
“Yeah, Kone,” she laughed. “He was a special case.”
They took one of the tables along the back. Franklin put their bottles on the table. “I’ll take whichever one you don’t want. They’re both good.”
“Quite a place. Smells great in here,” she said lowering herself into a chair. She sampled the taller green bottle with the gray and white label. “Not bad.” She took a sip off the fancier-labeled brown one. “Mmm, Yuengling,” she nodded. “I’ll take this one if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. I prefer the Pale Steel. Pittsburgh’s finest! Nice bit of orange to it.”
“America’s Oldest Brewery,” she read off the Yuengling label.
“When I first came here,” Franklin said, looking around, “Primanti’s wasn’t open this time of day.”
“They didn’t serve lunch?”
“Nope. The place was originally created to feed people who worked traveling through — mostly truckers and the people who ran the meat and fish markets. Something like the restaurants down by the New York docks.” His face darkened. He took a deep breath, pausing until the darkness cleared. “Originally they opened at one a.m., closed at one or two in the afternoon.”
“They didn’t serve dinner either?” She tilted back her bottle and let a splash pour down her throat. “Mmmm.”
“They set their hours around the trucking industry. If you got here around three-in-t
he-morning you could barely get a sandwich. I imagine it’s still that way — lined up five deep to the bar.”
“Really!” she took another pull on the Yuengling. Held it up to look at the label. “I like this.”
“This area was originally a big produce terminal. Now the Strip District has dance clubs and all kinds of things. And Primanti’s is open twenty-four hours. They have a bunch more of them scattered around town. But I only come to this one. Tastes better somehow.”
“I’ve heard you can hardly get a deli sandwich over in Philadelphia right now,” she said. “People are hoarding food . . .”
For a moment Franklin worried over Everon. “We’re pretty lucky, I guess. So far the west part of Pennsylvania is okay.”
When the white-paper-wrapped sandwiches arrived, she laughed at hers. “This is ridiculous! It must be five inches thick!”
He waited while she peeled back the paper. The scent of fresh Italian bread wafted up. A slice of tomato peeked out one side, and —
“French fries and coleslaw inside the sandwich?”
“Try it.”
She had a good-sized mouth. She licked her full, moist lips. He watched her try to wedge her white teeth around it to get the bite. Her eyes went big. As she chewed, the fragrant scent of the slaw’s sweet vinegar and oil dressing expanded into the air above the table.
When she could finally speak again she pronounced, “Delicious! This coleslaw, the whole thing is fabulous.”
They ate in silence but for the quiet sounds of smacking lips, the gurgle of a beer.
“French fry for your thoughts,” Victoria said, holding up one that had dropped from her sandwich.
He shook his head. “I was just thinking about what Dean said. Primitive fantasies. People using owls for religious totems. The strange beliefs people’ve held through the centuries.”
“I guess it’s natural to be critical of someone else’s religion, isn’t it?” she agreed, taking another bite.
Search For Reason (State Of Reason Mystery, Book 2) Page 30
