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Donovan’s Luck
by F.A. Behrend

Disclaimer:  The characters of Frank Donovan, Jake Shaw, Alex Cross, Monica Davis, Cody and Paul Bloom were created by and are owned by Shane Salenrno and Don Wilson.  No infringements intended.  All other characters are owned by the author.

Rated:  PG-13

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            The Sergeant extended a beefy hand, “we did good work here tonight, Donovan, how about a beer?”

            Frank nodded, reluctantly.  All he wanted to do was go home and climb into bed.  He was soaked through from the rain and he was dog tired, but the brass were emphasizing good relations with the locals and so he accepted Greavy’s invitation.  They stopped at a little cop bar called Flynn’s and Frank thought, just a quick one for courtesy’s sake and then I’m gone. 

            The place was packed, even for a weeknight and they had to shoulder their way through the crowd, all cops.  The air inside was heavy and damp, with the smell of beer, packed bodies and frying grease.  Greavy pounded on the bar and made a big deal of introducing him around, and then their drinks arrived.  He reached for the glass and found a small slender hand resting on his arm.  He looked across the bar into a pair of sparkling hazel eyes. 

            “Are you hungry?” she said, practically shouting over the din, “can I get you something to go with that?”  She nodded at the beer.  Her voice had a lilt to it, and he felt the noise in the room recede into the distance.  In this crowded place, with her hand on his arm, he suddenly felt like they were completely alone. 

            His fatigue vanished, he smiled back at her and then he nodded his head, “oh...sure...what’s good?”  He hadn’t realized how hungry he was.

            “Stew,” she replied, “I made it myself.”

            “Then stew it is.”  She was slim, with an angular figure and short cropped brown hair.  There was an aura of energy around her, and he drank it in, his fatigue melting away.  She went to get his order and he followed her with his eyes, oblivious to the crowd and the noise.  Who is she, he wondered and then his thoughts were interrupted by a resounding thump on his back.

            It was Greavy.  “Now don’t you go mooning after the bartender’s daughter,” he said, “come meet some of the boys.”  The Sarge pulled him away, and he went, but reluctantly.

            “What’s her name?”  He had to shout directly into Greavy’s ear.

            “Erin.  And don’t be getting any ideas.  Her dad’s retired from the force now, but he can still whup the snot out of most men half his age.”  They circled the room together, shaking hands and swapping cop stories, but his eyes kept drifting back to the bar.  Several times he caught her eye and she smiled back at him, and then turned to other customers. 

            He never heard her approach.  Nothing could be heard over the din of raucous conversation, but he felt her at his side before she even touched him.  “Your dinner’s getting cold,” she said,   “I’ve cleared a booth for you.”  She took him by the hand and led him through the crowd.  There was a table, with a candle in a small pot, a basket of soda bread in thick slices and a steaming bowl of stew.  He sat and she slid in opposite to him.

            “Don’t you have other customers?” he asked.  Please don’t go, he thought as he looked into those sparkling eyes.

            “Not at the moment.  Do you mind some company?”

            “Not at all,” he said as he dug in.  The stew was thick, with plenty of carrots and potatoes and big chunks of tender beef in a rich gravy. 

            “You’re Donovan,” she said and he nodded between bites.  “What was it tonight?”

            “Kiddie porn.”

            “Oh,” she said, shuddering slightly, “please don’t talk about it, I wouldn’t want you to lose your appetite.” 

            “Fine by me, let’s talk about you.  You’re...Erin?”

            “Erin Flynn.  Dad owns the bar.  I help him out nights.”

            “And what do you do days?”

            “I paint.  I illustrate children’s books.”

            “Really?”  He stopped eating and looked at her.  The room seemed to have gotten very quiet.  The candle flame quivered and then stood still.  There seemed to be a curious energy between them.  Even though he had exchanged only a handful of words with her, he felt uncommonly comfortable, like he had known her forever.  “How did you get into something like  that?”

            She shrugged, and then smiled, eyes glowing in the soft light, “I’ve always had a talent for...seeing things.  Like when you came in tonight, I could see that you were hungry, and tired, and needed some space away from Greavy.”

            He laughed and speared another chunk of beef,  “Greavy can be a little overbearing.”

            “A little?”  She laughed, a lovely liquid sound that came all the way up from her toes.  “Let me tell you...”  and she leaned towards him and launched into a convoluted tale of Greavy’s wilder exploits.  Before he knew it, it was late, the bar was empty and Paddy Flynn was shooing him out the door.  He floated home and slept like a baby.            

            Alex and Jake looked out the window.  “Here he comes,” said Jake, “and it looks like he’s actually skipping.”

            “And whistling,”  Alex said, slightly amazed.

            “What do you want to bet he takes the steps two at a time?”

            Sure  enough, Frank approached the building from the street and bounded up the four steps in two leaps,  “Good morning,” he said as he came in, crisp spring air following him through the door.  His good cheer was plainly evident, his dark face wreathed in smiles.

            Alex shook her head, “Ah.  Love,”  she said softly under her breath as she went back to her desk.

            “You have a visitor,” Jake called out as Frank went up the stairs, two at a time, to his office.

            Frank stopped and turned, “who?”

            “Erin,” said Jake and Frank’s face lit up. He went up the rest of the way, again two steps at a time, and opened his office door.

            She was standing behind his desk with her arms crossed, looking over the plaques and citations that covered the walls.  She turned around and smiled when he came in and closed the door.  “Now don’t tell me,” he said with a mischievous grin, “your face is very familiar.  I’m sure we’ve met before.”

            “Perhaps this will jog your memory.”  She came around to the front of the desk, put her arms around his neck, and kissed him, deeply and passionately.

            “Oh yes,” he said, holding her loosely, “it’s coming back to me now.  Sometime this morning, about dawn, I think  it was.  And you were wearing...”  He snapped his fingers, as if he were having a difficult time remembering.

            “Absolutely nothing,” she reminded him, with an innocent look on her face, and then she kissed him again, “but it was still a disgustingly early hour to wake and ravage a poor helpless woman.”

            “As I recall, I wasn’t the ravager, I was the ravagee, but I think that’s a debate best left for later.  To what do I owe the very great pleasure of this early morning visit?”

            “Oh!” she said, and jumped slightly, “I almost forgot!”  She pulled a crumpled piece of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to him.  “Good news,” she said, “I checked my e-mail this morning and my agent sent me this.”  Her eyes were dancing, those sparkling hazel eyes set in a pixie face.

            He took the page she handed him, smoothed it out and read.  “Nominated for a Caldecott Award?”  She nodded, grinning broadly.  “That’s great!  OK, now remind me, what’s a Caldecott...”

            “Beast!” she said, pushing him away, “you know very well what it is and you know how hard I’ve worked for it.”

            “Yes, I know,” he said, laughing, “I just love to yank your chain.  Which book?”  The Caldecott Award was given each year for the best illustrations in children’s literature.  She had been considered a total of three times, but this would be her first actual nomination.  He could see the excitement in her eyes.

            “The Potter series,” she said

            “Harry?” he said, knowing it would infuriate her.

            “No, silly! Beatrice!”  She had spent months preparing a set of drawings for a new edition of the Peter Rabbit stories.  The editor was taking a huge risk in not using the classic illustrations, but he felt that it was time to give the old stories a new look and he had given her the assignment.  The results were beautiful, a set of paintings that captured all the charm and innocence of the originals, but with a modern twist, something that would spark the imagination of children raised on television and video games.  Now, finally, she was being recognized for her talent.

            She had been working on the series when he met her.  He found her technique fascinating, for she could convey the spirit and personality of the characters with just a few brush strokes.        

            He had watched her as she had completed the last of those paintings, worrying over every detail, taking trips to the zoo and even out into the countryside to observe the animals she was rendering.  He smiled at the memory of one of those trips.  They had known each other for only a short time when she had said, “I need to go do some sketches.  Would you like to come along?”  They had turned it into a picnic.  They left before it was light so that she could capture the small animals she was drawing as they were feeding in the early morning. 

            When she was finished and the creatures had all gone into hiding in their burrows,  they ate, and then they made love.  They lay on a blanket under a huge old oak tree, its giant gnarled arms reaching out and sheltering them from a sun that was now high in the sky.  Afterwards, passion spent, she slept, curled beside him, folded into intense concentrated sleep, like that of a child.  And he watched her, dappled shadows playing over her face.  A butterfly landed on her hair, and stayed there, gently fanning its wings, iridescent in the light.  It flew off and she stirred and turned to him, drowsy, warm and smiling, “good morning, again,” she said.  And then he asked her the question that he had been turning over in his mind practically since the moment he met her.  He took her hand, kissed her fingertips and said,  “Erin, will you marry me?”

            She sat up, fully awake, completely naked and utterly unselfconscious.  “Isn’t this a little sudden?”  she asked quietly.

            “I don’t think so.  What about it?”

            “We only just met, we barely know each other...”

            He sat up across from her and took her face in his hands.  “I feel like I’ve known you forever, and I want you to be a part of my life, a permanent part. Do I get an answer?”

            “Of course.  It’s a serious question and you get a serious answer.  The answer is...not yet.”

            “That sounds suspiciously like ‘no.’”

            She shook her head vigorously, soft cap of brown hair fluffing in the warm breeze, “it’s definitely not ‘no.’”

            “Then it’s a definite ‘maybe’?”  He was smiling.

            “Absolutely.  I just think we should take some time. We don’t really know each other all that well yet.  We’re two very different people, Frank Donovan, and my mother taught me that if it’s love, if it’s real, it will still be there tomorrow.”  She was holding his hands and looking deep into his eyes.

            He put his arms around her,  “I’ll settle for that,” he said, “for now.  But I will keep asking.  I can be annoyingly persistent.”

            He shook off the memory of that pleasant day, and said, “Congratulations!  I think I know how we can celebrate!”

             “Yes?”  She hopped up on the edge of his desk while he went round and sat in his chair. 

            “How about a wedding?”  He had not let a week go by in all the time he had known her without asking her again, and her reply had always been the same.

            She poked through the papers that lay there and said quietly, for the hundredth time, “not yet.”

            “I don’t understand,” he said, “I love you.  You love me.  We spend practically all our time together, why won’t you let me make an honest woman of you?”  He paused and asked quietly,  “does it have anything to do with me being a cop?”

            She looked at him in surprise, “Of course not!  Why on earth would you ask such a question?  Or did you forget, I’m a cop’s granddaughter, a cop’s daughter,  a cop’s sister and, at the moment, a cop’s lover.  I have no problem with your chosen profession, and I’m perfectly willing to accept all the risks that go with it.”

            “Then why not tie the knot?”

            “You don’t really know me,” she said quietly.

            “I know enough,” he said, “the rest will come with time.”

            “But what if...you find out...something...that makes you not love me anymore?”

            He came around to the front of the desk, put his arms around her and held her.  This was as close as she had ever come to opening up to him.  There had been times, especially over the last few weeks, when she had seemed to pull away from him, to close up and fold inward.  She seemed to be trying to tell him something, but couldn’t somehow find the words.  “What could possibly make me not love you?”  He asked quietly.  “Let’s see...have you killed anyone?”

            “Not lately,”  she smiled up at him.

            “Are you a terrorist?”

            “Only to my family,” her smile broadened.

            “Are you a despoiler of children?”

            “When I have my own I’ll surely spoil them rotten.”

            “Would you be a faithful wife?”

            “I’m a faithful lover, so that wouldn’t be a big leap.”

            “Would you let yourself get fat and ugly?”

            She reached up and pinched his nose, “would you!?”  Her eyes flashed and she started to laugh, the pensive mood gone.  “All right,” she said, “I’ll marry you.  But...” 

            He held her tighter and lifted her off her feet, sweeping her in a circle and laughing, “Yes!  Yes!  Yes!” he cried.

            “Now wait!” she said, “put me down!  You must answer one question first.”

            “Anything,” he said, setting her back on her feet, “ask away.”  His eyes were dancing and he felt like running outside and shouting in the streets.

            She looked up at him, the hazel eyes serious, and asked quietly, “do you believe in magic?”

            He sat straight down in the chair next to the desk, stunned.  He had expected questions about his past, other women perhaps, money, children, many things, but certainly not this, never this.  “Magic?”  he asked.  She nodded, her eyes watched him closely.  He blinked, “I guess I never thought about it.  You’re serious aren’t you?”  She nodded again and held her breath.  “Well, I don’t know.  I believe in what I can see, what I can touch...”

            “But you believe in love, don’t you, and you can’t touch that.”

            “That’s not exactly true.”  He took her hand, “I’m touching you right now, and I know there’s love, right here.”  He put his hand over her heart.

            “Good enough for me,” she said, and melted into his arms.

            It was a cold hard rain that fell.  Frank sat in the back of the big Mercedes while Jake sat in the driver’s seat and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel.  It was nearly midnight and they were waiting for a major drug dealer.  “Think he’ll show?”  Jake asked.

            “He’ll show.  There’s a half a million dollars worth of coke in the trunk.  He’ll show.  And once he does, he’s toast.  Either he cooperates or he’s dead.”  He paused.  “Ballentine’s no dummy.  There’s too much at stake.  He’ll show.”  The rain continued to pound out its rhythm on the roof and they were silent for a few minutes.  The other members of the team were staked out in the buildings up and down the deserted street.  As soon as the money changed hands they would move in and make the arrests.

            “So,” Jake said, “How are things with Erin?”

            Frank grinned, “she finally said ‘yes’.”

            “That’s great.  I’ll start to plan the bachelor party.”

            “Don’t get ahead of yourself.  We haven’t set a date yet.”

            “Problem?”

            “No,” Frank chuckled, “I don’t think so.  It’s just that she asked me the oddest question.”

            “What was that?”

            “She asked me if I believe in magic.”

            Jake laughed out loud, “you’re kidding!”

            “God’s own truth.  She wanted some kind of answer, she was looking for something.  I’m not sure what.  But somehow I must have said the right thing, because she said ‘yes’.”

            “Well, you’re a lucky son-of-a-gun, Frank Donovan.  She’s a wonderful girl.”  Jake paused.  “You know, they call her dad  ‘Lucky’ Flynn.”

            “Really?  Why?”

            “He was 25 years on the force, a beat cop, and he never used his gun.  Not once.  Everybody in the precinct thought he had some kind of lucky charm, something that kept him out of harm’s way.”

            “Well, maybe if I marry his daughter that’ll rub off on me.”

            “Maybe it already has.”  Jake said quietly.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Well,” he said, turning in the seat and looking at Frank, “how many close calls have you have in the last couple of months?”

            “Oh, I don’t know, a few.”

            “Exactly three.  Three times in the last few months, we have pulled back from operations that looked good only to find out later that things were about to go disastrously bad.  Each time we had no real solid information, just your say-so.  At the office they’re beginning to call you ‘Lucky’ Donovan.  They’re beginning to say the Flynn ‘charm’ has already rubbed off on you.”

            Frank thought back.  It was true.  Sometimes he just got the strangest feeling, and he was not normally one to rely on feelings.  He preferred cold, hard, tangible evidence.  But lately, there were times when he just couldn’t ignore something he had come to call intuition.  It started with a tightening deep in his gut and an uneasiness he just couldn’t shake.  And in the end, three times to be precise, he had canceled an operation.  The brass had squawked about cost overruns and operational budgets, but he had held firm, only to find out later that there had been bad intel or equipment malfunctions.   “Well I hope it continues,” he said.

            “Me too,” Jake grinned at him in the darkened car, “you’re getting to be my lucky charm.”  The rain continued to pour down, and they continued to wait.

            She paced the darkened kitchen and listened to the rain pound on the roof.  Thomas sat on the countertop, his yellow eyes wide and his tail slashing back and forth.  “I know,  I know, I know,” she said to the cat, “I don’t like it either.”  The cat growled  and she went over to him and stroked the sleek black fur.  They were both on edge and it wasn’t just the weather.  All day she had felt that something was “off.”  There was something not quite right in her world and she couldn’t put her finger on what it was.  It felt like a large dark cloud, looming, just out of sight, evil and malevolent, ready to roll over her, engulf her. She stood in front of the window, looking out at the rain, and rubbed her hands over her arms in a vain attempt to chase away the chill.  Thomas pushed his head into her chest and gave another low growl.  “I need to go,” she said, “I need to find out what’s happening to him.”  The cat growled again and she rubbed him behind the ears, “I’ll be fine,” she said.

            She went to the back door, took an old Macintosh off the peg hook and threw it over her shoulders.  It was heavy and warm and smelled vaguely of her father’s pipe tobacco.  She hugged the old coat around her and opened the door.  Lightening filled the sky and the gusting wind drove the rain down in hard wet sheets.  The sudden cold took her breath away, and she pulled the coat tighter around her. Thomas stood at her feet and let out a low growl.  “There’s no other way,” she said, and stepped out into the storm.

            She put the collar of the coat up around her head, but within minutes, cold rain was running down her back.  Before long she was soaked through.  She made her way over the grass to the end of the yard.  There, in a circle of lawn that was open to the sky, she spread out her arms and looked up into the heart of the storm.  She closed her eyes and began to turn in a slow circle, emptying her mind to everything except the power of the wind and rain that raged over her.  She continued her turning, faster and faster, until she felt herself lifted and carried upwards into the clouds. 

            She opened her eyes and looked down.  Part of her was still anchored to the earth, standing stock still in her own backyard with arms outstretched.  Thomas stood at her feet, and would remain there, keeping that part of her safe until she returned.  She allowed the rest of herself to drift, aware of the lightening and wind that surrounded her, but untouched by these forces.  She began her search, reaching out with her mind in every direction, until she knew where she needed to go.

            She could see a car, large and dark, and overshadowing the vehicle was a huge flower.  The flower looked like a chrysanthemum but it was not beautiful.  The dark red petals closed over the car, engulfing it and filling her heart with terror.  She reached for him in her mind, “go,” she said, “go.”  She new that the simplest messages were the ones best received and so she concentrated on this single word.

            Frank shifted uncomfortably in the back seat.  “What time is it?”

            “Almost midnight.”

            “He’s late.”  He paused.  “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

            “Like your other bad feelings?”  Jake asked.

            “Yes, only stronger.  Let’s get out of here.”

            Jake reached to turn the ignition, but Frank stopped him, “no!  Just get out and walk away.”  He reached for the door handle.

            “Christ,” said Jake, reaching for his door at the same time, “it’s pouring out there.”

            They walked away from the car, leaving the doors open, moving slowly at first, and then running.  The hadn’t gone 50 yards when the car exploded.  The blast knocked them both to the ground, and they lay there while metal fragments and flaming debris rained down around them.  Frank was first to his feet, pulling Jake up and asking him if he was OK.

            “Fine,”  said Jake, “just fine.  But next time, if you could tune into these ‘bad feelings’ a little sooner it would be nice.”

            In her mind, she saw the flames flower out around the car, but she could feel that he was safe.  Her concentration wavered then, and she slipped quickly back down into herself.  The next thing she knew, Thomas was licking her face.  The lightening had ceased and the rain had slowed.  She was lying on the grass and the cat was running a rough tongue over her cheeks.  She was soaked to the skin and shivering in the cold.  Slowly she got to her feet and went back to the house.  She put the coat back on its peg and immediately a puddle began to collect beneath it.  She staggered through the darkened house, stripped off her clothes and climbed into bed, pulling the thick quilt around her.  She was asleep immediately, wet hair plastered to her head and water drops trickling over her face.

            It took the bomb squad several hours to clean up the mess and determine what had happened.  It had been a small devise, attached to the gas tank and timed to go off at midnight.  The brass were already there, assessing the damage.  “Damn it, Donovan,” the captain said, “you are the luckiest son-of-a-pup I have ever met.  If you hadn’t left when you did you two would be nothing but grease spots on the pavement.”

            “Don’t I know it,” he said, pushing the EMT out of the way, “next step is to find the leak.  Obviously somebody tipped off Ballentine...”

            “That can wait until morning.  You two,” he nodded to include Jake, “go home, get some sleep.”  They went.

            He used his key and went in the back door.  It was late, but he knew he couldn’t be alone on this night.  He did not turn on any lights.  He knew his way around well enough that he didn’t need any.  Thomas greeted him with a low growl and began to strop himself against his legs as soon as he closed the door.  He reached down to scratch the cat behind the ears and was surprised to find wet fur. “What have you been doing out?”  he asked.  The cat looked at him, great gold eyes glowing in the dark.  He took off his coat and reached behind the door to put it on a peg when his hand brushed the old Macintosh.  It was still dripping.  He looked at the puddle on the floor and shook his head. “Where has she been?”  he wondered quietly.

            He went through to the bedroom and stopped in the doorway.  He didn’t want to startle her.  She lay bundled in the quilt, her face smooth and untroubled in the moonlight that now flooded the room.  He walked to the side of the bed, undressed, and quietly slipped into bed beside her.  She stirred slightly and he put his arms around her.  “Shh,” he murmured into her ear, “it’s just me.”  She settled again, back into that same concentrated sleep that he had seen before, when she finished a painting, or when they made love.  He was surprised to find that she was cold.  She had probably been asleep for hours, he thought, but her hands were like ice and her hair was wet.  He pulled her closer, into his warmth, “tomorrow,” he whispered, “we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”

            In the morning he found a note on the kitchen table.  It said, “you looked pooped so I let you sleep.  Help yourself, you know where everything is.  See you later, Love, Erin.”  She had signed it with a tiny sketch that looked suspiciously like Thomas.  He smiled and poured himself a cup of coffee.

            He worked through the day, only half concentrating on what was in front of him, called her and told her that he would see her for dinner at the bar.  When he walked in, she was waiting on a customer and she didn’t see him.  She looked radiant, and when she looked up and met his eyes, he felt his heart skip a beat.  She took off her apron and came around the bar, and then led him to a quiet table at the back.  They were seated before either of them spoke.

            “I’ve been wandering around in a fog all day,” he said, “I’ve been trying to answer your question.”

            “You’ve already answered it,” she said, “as completely as I think you can.  You told me that you believe in what you can see and touch.  But you also seem to be willing to accept some things that you can’t exactly explain.”

            “Like love.”

            “Yes, like love.”  She smiled mischievously and her eyes were bright with an inner glow.  “And maybe other things as well?” 

            He nodded, “well, maybe...”

            “So it seems you’re willing to accept that magic can happen.”

            “I’m willing to accept that there are lots of things I can’t explain.  If you want to call that magic, well, I suppose that’s as good a definition as any.”  He reached over and picked up a book of matches that was lying next to the candle on the table.  “Take this for example.”  He took out a match and struck it.  It flared between them and the glow in her eyes intensified.  “A thousand years ago, people would have taken that for magic, but now we know it’s just chemistry, the right combination of materials and the right amount of friction, and presto, you get fire.”  He lit the candle and then blew out the match.  “Now, we genetically engineer everything from tomatoes to cows, but that’s just biology, very few mysteries at all.  The atom bomb was just an interesting physics problem.  No magic there.”  He stopped and took her hand.  “But last night, something happened.  Something that I can’t explain,  something that saved my life.  And just like I can’t explain exactly what love is, all I can do is act on the way I feel.  I only know that when I’m with you, I feel...”  he searched for the right word, “complete.”

            She smiled and nodded at the candle and the matchbook, “so, it’s just chemistry is it?”  Her eyes took on a mischievous gleam.  She leaned over and blew out the candle.  “I can see I’ve got a bit more to teach you about chemistry.  Take another match out of that book, Frank Donovan,” she instructed him.

            “OK,” he laughed and tore the match loose and held it up for her inspection. “There,” he said.  “Just a plain little match.”

            “Just a plain little match is it?  Are you sure?  No magic here?”  She leaned over close to him and held his hand to steady the little paper strip.  Her eyes were bright and she took in a deep breath.  She closed her eyes and then blew softly across the tip of the match.  It glowed briefly and then took light.

            He stared at her across the flame, steady and straight, “well, it also appears,” he said, “that I’ve got quite a bit to learn about magic.”

The End