Flight of the Scarlet Tanager

by Bevill, C. L.

  Abruptly, he scuttled back out into the large room while Teddy hissed at him, “What are you doing, Fitch? They’re coming in and it’s going to be...” Teddy cradled Bob in her arms and watched through the hole as Fitch dug through her father’s desk for something. In his haste, he forgot about the Glock in Gower’s limp hand. After he found what he was looking for, he rushed to complete his task. When he was done, the chainsaw was rattling to a stop and someone was prying at the sides of the door.

  Fitch got inside the cabinet, pulled it shut behind him, adjusted the coats, and went through the hole that Teddy had spent months of her young life making. He put the back of the cabinet in place and Teddy cautioned him to be silent. “Did you do what I think you did?”

  “Yep. I did. Hope you weren’t sentimental about those birdcages.”

  “Well, no, not really.”

  “They’re going to search the house,” said Fitch quietly. He adjusted Bob on the floor of the darkened pantry, trying to make him more comfortable. “And I really think this isn’t a place that they’ll skip.”

  “So run now,” Teddy told him. “You can get away. Get to the pirogue. Get into the bayou. The alligators are small, really. They like smaller things than you. You can go straight out this door and out the back, before they’re aware of it.”

  “What and leave you to have all the fun?” Fitch asked seriously. “When Bob wakes up he’s going to be very pissed off that he didn’t get to have the big Hercule Poirot scene in the library with all the primary suspects. Oh, hey, listen.”

  •

  Lapeaux entered the library first. He looked left and right and decided that somehow or another, the pair of industrious children had given them all the slip, not to mention the older man who looked like an older Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider. The little girl, mais oui, lived in this house for years. She knows this place up one side and down the other. Ça va mal. Very, very mal. There was the insensible Gower, lying on the floor, blood smeared over his hair, scratches down the front of his face, his flesh raw at his neck. There was a large pool of blood nearer to the pair of ruined oak doors.

  The chainsaw sputtered to a protesting halt and the man put the tool down beside the door, saying, “They must have forced a window. We should go outside.”

  Theron snarled, “Idiots. Call the monitoring room! Check all the monitors to see where they are!”

  “M’su forgets he disconnected the interior security cameras himself,” said Lapeaux facetiously.

  Theron barked, “Then have someone get them back on line, and start searching!”

  Lapeaux took another hesitant step inside the room. The previous owner’s desk was large enough to land a jumbo jet upon it and he thought that perhaps the three of them could fit underneath it. He was about to pass Gower’s inert body when he noticed that the man still held the Glock clasped in his hand. Wherever the three had gone to, they hadn’t taken the weapon, which pleased the Cajun to no end. They couldn’t very well kill the security force by throwing books and pieces of bric-a-brac at them.

  Behind him Theron hesitated at the door. The man who had wielded the chainsaw went down the left side of the room, checking the cabinets. Another man was looking up at the large birdcages intently.

  Lapeaux took another step and felt something across his shin. It pulled tightly for a solitary second and then gave, making a snapping noise that echoed in the cavernous room. He looked down with curiosity and saw a filament of white substance springing away from where it had been broken. His eyes followed it across to the wall and toward the mechanism that raised and lowered the hanging birdcages. There was a slight noise as a plain wooden ruler rattled to the floor. It had been connected to the filament, which looked like... “Dental floss?” And the dental floss had been connected to the ruler, which had been propped against...

  As he tried to comprehend what it meant, there was an abrupt noise as the handle to the pulley system began to move by itself. It started slowly and then gained momentum so quickly it was blinding. “Oh, merde!” yelled Lapeaux and looked up.

  •

  There was a tremendous crash on the other side of the wall and Fitch smiled in satisfaction. He whispered to Teddy, “It’s amazing what you can do with the things you can find in someone’s desk.” His voice imitated that of an actor from a television commercial, “Dental floss, for getting rid of that pesky plaque.”

  •

  Theron didn’t know if all three men were dead. Lapeaux’s legs stuck out from under one of the huge cages, a travesty of gilded artwork, smashed into the floor at a deadly speed. A dozen and more of the things had plummeted from the ceiling, like deadly bombs, some of which weighed over a hundred pounds and more. One of the others was unconscious, if not dead, and the third had been knocked into a wall by one of the cages. And Gower had narrowly missed being crushed by any of the cages, as he lay unconscious on the library floor.

  Theron didn’t really care. If Lapeaux had made the call to the helicopter company, then the chopper would be coming shortly. It was possible that he would have time to get out. He crossed the library, threading through the ruined works of metal art and akimbo limbs, and grabbed the papers he had foolishly left on Thomas Howe’s desk. He would forge the girl’s signature and someone else who could be bought would guarantee it. The entirety of the Howe billions would be in his offshore account by dusk the following day and he’d be spending an inordinate amount of time on a Brazilian beach or on some South American mountainside, enjoying a bevy of dark beauties from the lower continent.

  But first, he thought. I’m going to burn this house to the ground. And if Theodora is still inside, then all the better.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  August 18th

  Native North American legends say that the Thunderbird is a most powerful spirit, who chooses the shape of a great bird. This immense and mighty bird has a huge, crooked beak, which is as black and hard as the stone from the all-powerful mountains, and eyes that glow like the fire of a thousand camps. When lightning is sighted it is said that these flashes are the result of the Thunderbird’s gleaming eyes and thunder is the sound of his beating, mammoth wings. And when the skies darken with blackness and the winds are as turbulent as a river cascading over a cliff and a great fire lights the horizon, it is said that the Thunderbird has passed this way, and that he angrily hunts those who have wronged him...

  Bishop felt like he was thirty years old again as he scaled the wall and made his way toward the Howe mansion. He’d spent most of his career in a leadership position; he’d seen action in Grenada, Panama, and both Gulf Wars. He also had earned a purple heart, a bronze star with a ‘V’ device for valor in combat, and a future claim for disability due to the bullet that was still lodged in his clavicle. All these years later, he was at the pinnacle of his career, enjoying the challenge of the National Security Agency, certain that he was going to retire the military with honor and the sense that he would move into the private sector where he would keep going until he was ready to completely retire. And if he didn’t like the private sector then he could use his degrees to teach at some university.

  All of which had abruptly become tenable at best. But Bishop wasn’t regretting his choice, because adrenaline was flowing through his veins like rich, turbulent blood. He loved his son. Perhaps in the past he had a difficult time conveying that knowledge to Fitch, but it wasn’t going to stop his father from doing whatever he could to save the young man’s life. Bishop acknowledged that he had made a grievous error in judgment and he was intent on making amends, anyway he could.

  Corporal Hannah Rose tapped him on his shoulder and silently indicated a security camera by the winding road that led up to the mansion itself. Beyond the camera was a man standing under an oak tree with binoculars hanging around his neck. He was trying to dial a number in the cell phone he held in his hands, while he sporadically glanced up at the pair approaching him.

  “Hey,” called Bishop. Rose pulled her weapon out, and poi
nted it at the ground in a gesture that the man mashing buttons on the cell phone couldn’t mistake.

  The man dropped the phone on the ground and turned around and ran up the hill. The binoculars bounced up and down as he went, until the man yanked them off his neck and threw them to the ground.

  Rose glanced at Bishop curiously. “Maybe he doesn’t like generals, sir.”

  “Maybe he thinks the invasion has begun,” suggested Bishop. He began to hurry, following the man’s path up the hill, running roughly parallel to the winding road that led to the same location, the Howe mansion.

  After they crested a low-slung hill, Bishop and Rose could see the mansion in the distance. They could also see the man who had tossed the binoculars running headlong in a direction that led directly away from the house. He glanced over his shoulder, sighting them again, and paused, mid-flight, yelling, “I didn’t have anything to do with bringing that boy and that girl here. Honest, I didn’t. We were supposed to guard the freaking gates! That’s all! Fuck this shit!” He turned and hauled his butt toward the other side of the estate, bound for parts unknown.

  Bishop couldn’t help the dread that snaked through his system, an unwanted wave of apprehension that threatened to overwhelm him. His logic told him that a man like that wouldn’t run unless something had happened that had frightened him, something that happened that he did not want to be blamed for. Bishop said, “Forget him. The house.”

  •

  F-Bob woke up in extreme pain. His shoulder was hurting. As a matter of fact, his chest was hurting. To be precise, every part of his body was hurting. Even a little part of his head was hurting, as if someone had bumped him there, and that made his head ache even more as he tried to think about it. His own breathing sounded funny to him, as if he were wheezing. He had bronchitis one year so badly it had turned into pneumonia and that was how he had sounded, but he knew that he didn’t have it now. Not only that but he was in a dark place, and it occurred to him that he must have taken a tab of LSD instead of sticking to pot, which was always a mistake for him.

  “God damn,” he swore virulently. “What did I do last night?”

  “Shut up, Bob,” said Fitch softly.

  “Fitchie,” Bob whined with a little relief tingeing his voice. “Man, when I said we should do something wild for a change, you have got to try harder to change my mind. ‘Cause this time, I really, really hurt myself.” Try as he might Bob couldn’t exactly figure out what he’d done. His head was foggy as if he had drunk too much and he was also cold.

  Then Fitch said, “Little late for that, Bob. You’ve got to be quiet. We don’t know how many of them are out there.”

  There was a click and a sudden bright light overhead. Bob blinked and saw a cute, redheaded girl standing above him. Not regular red hair, but bright, flaming red hair, the color of a fire engine. She seemed a little worse for wear. Bruised face. An angry red, half-healed cut above one of her eyebrows. Clear gray eyes with circles underneath them that studied him as though she was the scientist and he was the bug beneath her microscope. Her clothing was dirty as if she had been wading through a swamp. She seemed strangely familiar to him and he twisted his face trying to remember why.

  Behind the girl were walls and walls of canned goods. There were plastic bins that were labeled dry goods. There were shelves in the middle of the floor, and all in a room that was perhaps fifteen feet long by twenty feet wide.

  Bob swiveled his head back and saw that Fitch was kneeling behind him, staring down at him with his typically droll expression and his mouth was primed to say something scintillating. But his former student didn’t say anything, and Bob noted that the young man seemed rumpled and dirty as well, as if he had been wading through the same swamp as the young woman, and a little light on sleep of late. They looked as if they had been rode hard and put up wet.

  The girl with the scarlet hair gazed down at him compassionately, and he said, “Hey baby-doll, do I...” then comprehension set in, as he suddenly started to remember where he was, and what the three of them had done, and specifically what he and Fitch had done. He couldn’t help the grumble that emitted from his mouth, “This is probably one of my worse ideas.”

  “You’ve been shot,” Teddy said mildly. Bob knew her pretty well. He’d read The Flight of the Scarlet Tanager twice, albeit once when he was high on some Mexican pot that got him so toasted that sometimes he thought he saw angels with sparkly wings singing songs from ACDC.

  “Yeah,” Bob almost snarled it out. “That prick uncle of yours didn’t even give me a chance to grovel.” Then he thought of a quote from one of his favorite movies, done in a tawdry English accent, “But I got better.”

  “You take his shoulders and I’ll take his feet,” said Teddy. “Unless you think you can walk, Bob?”

  Bob tried to sit up and found that he couldn’t. Only a few days before this he’d been sure that his life was beginning to lose reason, but now he was positive that if he were given another chance, that book that he was writing might flow as easily as heated syrup. However, there was a big hole in him that might prevent that, and his legs felt like overcooked spaghetti. “Sorry, kids. Obviously getting shot in the chest doesn’t help a man get perkier.”

  “I don’t know how many people are in the house,” Teddy muttered. “Could be five. Could be ten. Not all of them would be willing to kill for my uncle, obviously. But Gower is. So is the one from Southern Louisiana, Lapeaux. Maybe a few others. And, of course, my uncle. So if we can get out of the kitchen, and out the back door, maybe we can make it to the pirogue.”

  “The pirogue isn’t going to support all three of us,” snapped Fitch.

  “Fine. I’ll wade in the bayou. Hell, I’ll swim. Alligators are better than Gower and my uncle. They won’t shoot you in the back and then giggle about it.”

  “We’ve got to call the police,” said Fitch. “There’s got to be a phone around here someplace that works.”

  “Look,” said Teddy. “You’re stronger. You have to carry F-Bob out of here. It’s a given. Get him out to the gazebo or something. I’ll find a phone. There’s one in each of the guest bedrooms, and in the office. And in the maids’ rooms. That’s closest.” She turned swiftly and went to the pantry door. She opened the door a crack and peeked out. “I don’t see anyone.”

  “I think I can get him.” Fitch levered his friend up into his arms, and Bob groaned audibly. Then he lifted him partway up and put his shoulder under the older man’s stomach, saying, “Sorry about this, Bob, but I think they want to kill us. You know with guns. So we don’t have a lot of choices here.”

  “Forget it,” grunted Bob, almost a gasp. “My wife is going to kill me anyway. So I might as well die here.”

  Teddy gingerly opened the door to the large kitchen. It seemed quiet to her as if everyone had simply stepped away from his or her duties. She hadn’t seen any of the regular staff in the house. There was only her uncle and her uncle’s hired lackeys. No maids, housekeepers, or other staff, which were required to run a mansion of this size. She wondered if they had been dismissed rather than being present to witness something that they shouldn’t.

  Holding the pantry door open she allowed Fitch to pass, holding F-Bob over his shoulder in a half of a fireman’s carry. She saw that Bob’s face was pale with blood loss and pain, and knew that it was more urgent that ever that she summon some kind of aid for the older man. He could die if she didn’t. And Teddy didn’t want anyone else’s death on her hands. She pointed through the considerable kitchen toward the back doors. It was a double kitchen, designed for chefs to cook meals for twenty plus people, as her mother had intended to entertain frequently. The ‘L’ shape curved to the back of the house so that both sides would be accessible to the dining rooms and the ball room, as well to the grand hall that led down the length of the mansion.

  Passing a rack of large copper bottomed pots, Fitch adjusted Bob on his shoulder and said, “Just hold on, Prof. We’ll be out of here in no time.�
� Then he turned halfway, cumbersome with his human load. “Teddy, don’t go far. We’ve got to stick together here.”

  “The door is down there.” She pointed and ignored what he was saying. “I’m going to go down to the maid’s room and use a phone.” She pivoted and slid away in the dim light.

  The young man watched her for a long moment and then began to carry Bob through the rest of the kitchen. Gliding by racks of cookware from cutlery to mixing bowls stacked neatly on counters, he looked around him cautiously but the place seemed to be as empty as a tomb. Then he silently chastised himself for thinking of that particular word. Quiet as a church. Yeah, that’s better. Quiet as a graveyard. Nope. Quiet as a library. Yep. That’s the one. When he was at a door, inset with tinted glass, he saw that it that led to a mudroom, and then to the outside. He hesitated and said, “Bob?”

  Bob had lost consciousness again, because Fitch could still feel the hitch of his chest as one lung struggled to maintain the flow of oxygen. But there was the itch on the back of Fitch’s neck that told him something else was wrong, just before someone said softly, “Hey, stop right there.”

  Fitch turned his head and saw a man he hadn’t seen before. A man holding a shotgun cradled in his arms. He was a medium-sized man in his forties with graying hair and a thick mustache who stared curiously at Fitch with Bob propped across his shoulder. “You’re that kid,” said the man. “Mr. Theron ain’t gonna want you to leave.”

  “This man is dying,” said Fitch. “If you don’t let me go you’ll be a party to murder. And I think Louisiana has the death penalty. Even if it doesn’t, I’ve heard that Angola isn’t the place to go for a good, old boy.”

  The man wavered for a moment. “No, I don’t think so. I ain’t gonna let you go. If he bleeds to death, well, then that’s just his bad luck.”