Phoenix Reborn (Woodland Creek)(21)

And at 3:45, stepping back into a world of the normal and the mundane, she found herself heading towards the creek to meet the location scout. As she walked, her stomach braided itself into nervous knots of anticipation. Something about the meeting was making her anxious. It occurred to her that this was likely a result of the fact that Wayne knew Hawke well. And after all, she still wanted to make a good impression on him.

But maybe the location scout wanted to scrutinize her, to work out if she and Hawke were an item. If she was worthy of their movie star friend. It had made her a little uncomfortable; for a self-conscious person, probing eyes were an invasion, a violation of personal space.

Her phone rang as she came close to the stream; it was the same number as before. She answered it.

“Hello?”

“Ashling,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m running a little late. Maybe while I’m making my way towards you, you could answer a few questions for me.”

“Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. Why did he have to be late? She just wanted to get this whole thing over with.

And then he began a barrage of queries, starting with simple questions: what was Woodland Creek like? How about its inhabitants?

“It’s homey and quiet, I suppose,” she answered, careful not to reveal her newly discovered secrets. “The people are friendly. You know, normal.”

And the questions proceeded in an unrelenting stream:

“Have you lived here all your life?” “Who were your parents?” “Has anything really unusual ever happened here?”

All innocent questions, but all deeply personal, as well. Ashling felt as though he were slowly peeling away layers leading towards well-hidden secrets.

As she walked in shallow circles on the grass, answering as well as she could, Ashling found her eyes searching the sky once again. For the eagle, or the vulture, or any creature who was lucky enough to be free in that moment.

“And the setting where we’re meeting,” said Wayne. “Tell me about it.”

“It’s pretty. Calm, peaceful. Tall trees cast shade over the stream, reflecting in its water.”

“This is great,” said the man as Ashling looked out at the spot that she was describing. “Just what I’d hoped for.”

“What scene is this place for?” asked Ashling.

“This is where they’ll make love for the first time.”

“Make love?”

“Hawke and the main female character. On the grass, by the creek. It’s idyllic, don’t you think? Magical, even.”

Ashling looked around for a moment. It was almost as though the man were standing, looking at the same site as she was. But she saw no one.

Her phone beeped and she looked at it. A text from Hawke.

“One second, Wayne,” she said.

Where are you, my eagle-watcher?

Showing your location scout a stream — except he’s not here yet, she typed back.

No, of course he’s not. He’s in New York. Took off this morning. Family emergency.

Wait, What?

But there was no response.

An onslaught of adrenaline coursed through her system. If Wayne was in New York, who the hell had she been speaking to? It sounded just like the man she’d met the previous night — even his accent matched.

She tried to calm her heart enough to speak again.

“Wayne?” she said. “Sorry about that…I’m back.”

“I can see that,” said the voice, its timbre changed.

Ashling turned around just in time to see a man walking towards her, out of the woods. He was tucking a cell phone into the back pocket of his dirty jeans. She recognized him immediately: it was the man from outside the bar the previous night. The one who’d referred to her as Fire Girl.

“Wha — what are you doing here?” she asked, backing towards the stream.

“Tell me about Woodland Creek, this place. Tell me about your powers. About the fire.”

Just like that she was ripped out of all thoughts of anything else. Hawke, the stream, the film.

“What?” she said. “How did you—?”

“Oh, right. You want to know how I sounded so much like your new friend Wayne. I can mimic voices. Pretty impressive, isn’t it? You see, I heard your little conversation last night. I heard you give him your number. And it wasn’t hard to get his — those film types are always schmoozing, handing out their numbers to pretty young women. And so, earlier today, a very nice doctor with a gentle voice called to inform him that his mother had been injured in a car accident. That he should return home immediately. He’s far away now. And I’m here. So tell me what you are.”

“You can do that? You can imitate people?” she asked, attempting to stall, to calm her raging heart, to stall for time as she sized up the situation. This man was trouble; every instinct in her told her to run, to fly. But she couldn’t. All she could do was cower and hope that he wouldn’t hurt her.

“Stop delaying the inevitable,” said the man, growing irritated, his eyes displaying his building rage. Overhead, a bird of prey cried out, and the man’s eyes shot to the sky, as did Ashling’s. It was the Golden Eagle, high overhead once again as though surveying its territory.

“Look,” said the man. “I know about the fire; others have told me about your skill. I know what you’re capable of. Let’s keep this easy, shall we? I don’t want to have to beat it out of you.”