Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

A Crime Poetic

6:54 PM, 169 miles from Paris

Amalia lands with a hard thud on the dry earth.

Her uncle's office window wasn't that high up, maybe three stories, but the impact still sends a shockwave through her body.

She immediately picks herself up and start sprinting west, into the sun.

When she is about 300 feet from the building, it suddenly bursts into flames.

Explosions ricochet of of one another.

The building topples.

Amalia stands still for one second.

"Omlouvam se," she whispers.

She takes one last look at the building, now reduced to a flaming pile of debris, and takes off, continuing west.

After a mile or so, she sits down in the dry grass.

She takes out her iPhone and dials a number.

"Caine, I'm ready for transport as soon as possible."

"Right on, killer."

She can hear the smirk in his voice.

She shoves the lighter roughly back in her concealed pocket.

About ten minutes later, a cream Rolls-Royce pulls up on the rough dirt road.

The window rolls down.

"Man, if I'd known how dusty it was going to be down here, I would have brought the Toyota."

Amalia opens the door of the car.

Gracefully slides in and slams it behind her.

The boy turns around.

"Where to, milady?" He asks without even a trace of sarcasm in his voice.

The boy is about twenty, with chestnut hair falling into his eyes.

When he smiles, his dimples show.

Some might mistake him for an Abercrombie model or a diplomat's son.

Their guesses don't come close to the truth.

"Anywhere but here, Caine," She sighed. "Let's go back to Paris."

"Sounds great. I'm craving some Courvoisier."

She rolls her eyes.

"You can't even legally drink."

"Since when does 'legally' apply to me?" He laughs, and presses down hard on the gas.

*****

"He was my uncle, Caine."

Amalia and Caine were at a small café near their hotel in Paris.

Caine (after flashing a fake ID to the pretty waitress) had gotten his Courvoisier after all, and Amalia was holding tight to a steaming mug of coffee.

Now she was giving him a recap of the mission.

"They didn't tell me. The men from the yakuza, they didn't tell me anything about this mission. There was no briefing for the target. I mean, nothing, Caine. They simply told me to go in there and take out this guy."

"And you said yes because..."

"Caine, you know as much as I do that getting out of this business is a hell of a lot harder than getting in."

He pondered that for a moment, his chin in his hands.

"Anyway, look at this."

She pulled out a thin stack of papers she had stolen from her uncle's desk and laid them on the table.

The top page read:

"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I've heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

"Emily Dickinson," Caine said thoughtfully.

"What?"

"I recognized it from a frame my parents have in their living room. It's titled 'Hope is the thing with feathers'. One of her earlier poems."

"Sometimes I forget how smart you are, Caine."

"Thanks very much."

"But then always go and do something stupid again to remind me."

He shoved her arm playfully.

"The thing is," Amalia whispered between bites of croissant, "some of these lines look familiar. I'm almost positive the target said the--" she peered over the sheet "--first, seventh, tenth and twelfth lines in this poem while he was making a speech to the workers in the warehouse."

"Wha--why?" Caine raised his eyebrows.

"I don't know, but I have the recording, I can show--"

Just then, the waitress appeared beside them.

"Would you like more coffee, mademoiselle?" She asked with a kind voice.

"Thanks, but no thanks, ma'am," Amalia said with a subtle southern accent. "We're ready for the bill."

The co-conspirators looked at each other, but they dared not resume their work with the waitress fluttering around.

She returned moments later with a thin black book.

After Caine slipped a few euros into the pocket of the bill, the assassin and the getaway man grabbed the papers.

And they left the tiny street café, swinging their entwined hands joyfully to cover their worry and confusion.

It's easy to forget your cares on an autumn night in Paris.

Easy for everyone except criminals.