CHAPTER EIGHT

A Bird in Hand

Running his finger around his collar, Joseph was glad he wasn't that weirdo, Ratcatcher or the new guy, Darius. Becoming distracted he watched a couple at the nickel machines. He grinned when they obviously lost. Sorry about their luck. It was another c-note in his pocket.

Observing them leave from the protection of his window, Joseph returned to his thoughts. The Boss was almost certain that the other brat had been found in the river and the natives were keeping it under wraps. While interviewing the two hapless men who dumped the body, the Phantom had systematically torn the casino's basement to pieces.

Always on the prowl for information he could use, Joseph had overheard Kahn, and the Shade speculating: the body could account for the changes that had occurred over-night. The first thing that happened, Doctor Chaney had left town, leaving his clinic to a temporary physician.

Bored, Joseph Bouquet scratched behind his ear, it seemed strange, even to him, that the good doctor would leave without that Daae woman. It was obvious that he was in a hard-way-for her.

One of the men who had stumbled upon Darius, and the Rat-catcher, was missing; a brave by the name of, Michael Hawke. The other man, Leon Two Panthers, had not gone to work, staying home with his wife and daughters. The family had handed out flyers stating that the kid, Brian Deer Tracker, was missing. Could it be a ploy? Even so, Two Panthers had over a dozen well muscled kin staying with him.

The old medicine man, Robert Man Bear, could be heard chanting steadily. For over twelve hours now, he sat enclosed in an old stick hut. Those people that Shade and himself had questioned stated that the old man was grieving for his grandson, Jackson.

Relying on surprise, they used the same excuse he had given to that old crone in the truck. He and the Shade, under duress he might add, had barged in. The Shade preferred subterfuge, but had given in. Feeling professional in his uniform, Joseph had proceeded to question the old man.

Joseph angrily rubbed the stubble on top of his head. A funerary urn resided in the place of honor by the medicine fire. In answer to one of the Shade's questions the elderly man took a leisurely drag on his pipe. Then pretty-as-you-please, the stupid old fart had thrown something into the fire, and thereby singed what was left of Joseph's hair completely off.

Of course, when they returned, the Boss, didn't buy the idea. Too convenient, he said. The urn more than likely did not hold the youngster. Unfortunately, he had disposed of the only person sure about the cremated individual's identity.

The Old Man Upstairs must have had it in for the Boss that night. Joseph snickered. Feeling vindicated, he thought Murphy's Law had been the order of the day.

He had taken most of the disappearances well, for the boss, that is. What really had the masked creep in an unholy uproar was that nurse Daae, the one the Cherokee called Angel, had disappeared. She evidently didn't go home that night and hadn't been seen since.

The Phantom himself searched her house, finding nothing amiss, slow-cooker still on, food scorched, fixings for tea ready on the counter, and a wad of money in an envelope hid in her sock drawer. Wonder what happened to that cash? Yeah. He could have distributed those bills to the men. Selfish bugger.

Picking his teeth with a knife, Bouquet wondered why the Boss wanted this woman so badly. That Persian, Kahn, probably knew. If he didn't know better, he would think those two men had a ..what did his niece call it? A bromance going on. Nah. Joseph shuddered. The boss was too cold and narcissistic to care for anyone, not to mention downright scary-looking. Even Kahn wasn't that hard-up.

Complacency over Deer Tracker's body staying undiscovered might have allowed the Daae woman over a twenty hour head start. If Man Bear was alive he probably warned her late Wednesday afternoon. Were the Indians smart enough to pull a switcheroo on the Boss? Joseph made a moue with his mouth. Could be.

Trying to get in good with the boss, he had contacted an old crony. Gordy had taken a bribe, dodged his parole officer, and surveyed the airport. He reported that the doctor had boarded by himself and headed north-east to Vermont. The nurse's name hadn't shown up on an airline ticket yet. That meant they needed to find that Hawke fella and Man Bear. Good chance they knew where Christine Daae was.

He couldn't win, though. The Boss was still a nasty cuss over what Joseph had considered a nice gesture. He threw a tantrum over a newcomer becoming exposed to their work. He felt sorry for old Gordon, he had a sneaking suspicion his old jail-mate was about to receive an unwanted last visit. Wiping his brow Joseph sighed, at least it wasn't his own neck in a noose.


In the basement a black suited lone figure, sat at his piano. Long fingers idly caressed the ivory keys while his nimble mind sharply dissected the past several hours. Not trusting Bouquet, he had just directed Nadir, to check out the clinic once again.

Angular shoulders shrugged. Things were salvageable. Rumors were that a Cherokee man had purchased a brand new Bronco the next county over. Where did one of the people here get the money to pay cash for a vehicle?

The Shade had promptly checked the new owner's address out. A dead-end. So far, no new trucks arrived in town. Hmmm, no new truck, and no Michael Hawke. Coincidence? He pressed a lone key, the note reverberating across the concrete walls. His instinct said ...not.

Unfolding his tall body he effortlessly moved the piano and pulled a manilla file off the underside. Removing his leather gloves, he proceeded to untie the string. Turning it over he spilled the contents on the piano's gleaming top.

Mismatched eyes scanned the numerous faded headlines. Newspaper clippings memorized long ago. 'Woman cured of stage-four cancer'. 'Child lived after being backed over by a car'. 'Ebola virus stopped'. 'No deaths reported in tsunami', 'causalities light in earthquake'; the clippings went on and on.

'Israel's prime minister denies existence of super-humans'. 'Does Britain have their own Clark Kent'? 'Hidden compound houses victims'. 'The United States participates in genetic weapons testing on live human subjects'.

Picking up a faded letter he reread the foreign language scrawled in a spidery script, "I'm sorry to report, your wife committed suicide after delivering your son. His birth defects were too much for her unstable mental condition to cope with. The St. Helena home for children will be glad…"

Eyes accidently coming to rest on a color photograph, the Phantom allowed the note to slide from his fingers. Gazing at the familiar picture he noted the smiling subject staring back at him. A tiny, young brunette held a baby in a sling. An older man with the same curly hair stood behind her carrying a violin case. He had noted jungle plants in the back-ground, and a shiny-faced, ebony native shaking hands with the girl.

He had this picture in his possession for over twenty years, and the girl was embedded in his mind. Pulling a wallet out of his pants pocket he pulled out a laminated picture. The same girl smiled back at him. This time, she was with a young red-head in a soldier's uniform. He compared the two pictures. He had taken the other one from a target, twenty-two years ago. The boy should have died immediately from the wound he received, but lived long enough to whisper, "Picture. tell...love her."

He didn't know why he kept the first picture to begin with. Maybe it was the question of how did the soldier live despite his fatal wounds? Was it to allow his young wife the comfort of knowing he loved her? To cherish that his last thoughts were of her?

Tapping the picture on his palm, the Phantom, sneered. How would the young man have felt, if he knew that his pretty love was the reason for his demise? She had allowed powerful people to learn of her 'gift'. A soldier-husband was one less person to count her as missing.

The boy's eyes had plead with him before his lungs took their last breath. No remorse felt, his job was complete. As an afterthought he had taken the photograph with him, and escaped detection by the guards.

A familiar feeling, like an old enemy, twisted deep in his core. He wanted what that fresh-faced boy had. When this was over with, he would finally be free to try and obtain what he so desperately yearned for. A wife to take out strolling on Sundays, and a child to put to bed at night. Someone's name to whisper with his last breath. A normal life.

A small voice murmured in the back of his mind, 'even at her expense?' Gripping the photograph between his fingers the man stood up. Perusing the small upturned nose and crooked smile he shook his head to the affirmative, yes, even at her expense.

Carefully replacing the picture back in his wallet, the Phantom reached for another paper. As was his habit, beginning to pace, he read, "In a drug-raid this past Thursday, a man was heard screaming he'd make a deal: he knew where the healer was! This so called, medicine woman, had helped during the earthquake. Healer? This writer asks, what will convicts say next to avoid arrest?"

Picking up another picture, the Phantom rolled his eyes at the pretty girl holding a microphone on stage: she was the baby in the picture-all grown up. An almost complete replica of her mother. Except her eyes were a deep blue. Another, was an old photo of Miss Universe: Meghan Giry, the Angel's, childhood friend.

The next one was of Dr. Chaney. An unfamiliar knife twisted in his stomach. Dread? From what he heard lately, this man was the Angel's amour. The Phantom curled his lip. The good doc could have her as soon as he was done with her. If the man could find her.

The last one was of the late, Special Services Agent, General Gustave Daae. Shame about Daae, he had a rare gift for playing the violin. The Phantom had refused to take on that target. Superb music was a rarity, and music was akin to his god. He would not be the one to end the man's life, thus snuffing out the music. Someone else did, anyway. What a waste.

Running a thin finger over the girl's visage, narrowed eyes soaked up the sparkle in hers. Gingerly, he placed the photograph back in the envelope. Leaning a thin hip on the piano, he flipped open his phone. Absently, he pushed a speed-dial button. "I will have her before a week is out. Be waiting with the money. No, I will contact you."