Flight of the Hawk

Andy was about to rap on the window when he saw the door burst open. The two men jumped into the room and grabbed the old man.

It startled Andy, and he jerked his arms, which made him move away from the window.
Wrong way
, he thought.
You’re going the wrong way!
He flapped his arms to bring himself back, but in his panic he overreacted. Before he could stop he slammed through the window and onto the floor of the laboratory.

“What the—?” One of the men holding his grandfather turned. “It’s a kid. A flying kid!”

Andy stood. “Let go of my grandfather!”

“Your grandfather? Is that right, old man? Is this your grandson? So if we take him and bend him a little you’ll tell us what we want to know—is that right?”

“Run, Andy! Get away!” Andrew Hawkes shouted.

The backseat of the limousine was covered in soft brown leather. There was a telephone within easy reach, a television, and a snack bar stocked with sodas, peanuts, and candy. The chauffeur checked the rearview mirror every few seconds to see if his fourteen-year-old passenger needed anything else.

Andrew Carson Hawkes III, or Andy, as his parents had always called him, sat like a statue in the middle of the luxurious seat. Nothing about the car or the trip interested him.

He hadn’t said a word since they’d left the airport. His eyelids were half closed and he just sat, emotionless.

His mother and father had been killed while they were out jogging. A hit-and-run driver had swerved onto the sidewalk, taken both their lives, and sped away. It had only been twenty-four hours since the funeral.

Andy was going to live with his grandfather, the first Andrew Carson Hawkes, a frail, eccentric invalid whom he barely knew. Andy had met him for the first time at the service. His grandfather had mysteriously slipped out of the service early. And he had arranged for a neighbor to close up his son’s house in California, pack his grandson’s belongings, and put him on a flight for Colorado.

Henry, the chauffeur, watched Andy in the mirror for a long moment. The boy was definitely a Hawkes. He had the same dark brooding eyes and strong chin as his grandfather. His hair was a little lighter, but the prominent cheekbones and square shoulders told of his heritage.

Not far from the city of Brookvale, the car rolled to a stop in front of a large black wrought-iron gate with the initial
H
welded into each side. A guard standing in a small brick building waved to them through a plate glass window as the gates swung open.

Henry waved back. Andy stared out the car window at the estate.

The grounds were beautiful and spacious, covering more than two hundred grassy, wooded acres. The car traveled for some time on a newly paved road through a grove of trees and then into a bright green meadow. Now the road was lined with immaculately pruned rosebushes of various colors, which led all the way to the house.

Henry pulled the car into the circular driveway in front of the mansion and turned off the engine. He hopped out and opened the door for his young charge.

Andy stepped slowly from the car, scratching his head and looking up. The mansion was four stories high. Small round terraces jutted out in front of every window and marble figures adorned the facade.

“Whew! I knew my grandfather was rich, but I didn’t expect this.”

Henry stifled a laugh with a cough. “Yes, well, would you like me to show you to your room, Master Hawkes?”

Andy sighed. “I guess I don’t have a lot of choice, do I?”

Henry took a large leather bag out of the trunk and walked toward the front of the house. “Come with me, sir.”

They walked up the wide steps and through the solid oak front doors. The inside of the mansion was just as impressive as the outside. The entry floor was marble. An enormous chandelier hung from the ceiling and lush oriental carpets covered the massive stairs leading to the second floor.

“Would you like to use the elevator, sir, or do you prefer the stairs?”

“What? Oh, the stairs are fine.” Andy was staring at a row of paintings. They were oil portraits of men and women from past generations. They all had something in common—a small red mark that resembled a pair of tiny wings on the left side of the face near the ear.

Andy’s hand went to his own face.

Henry cleared his throat. “Those are your ancestors, sir. I see you’ve inherited the Hawkes family birthmark. Your grandfather has it too.”