Free Wake to Darkness by MAGGIE SHAYNE

irritatingly perfect reflexes he caught them before they landed.
    “You can drive, okay? But we’re taking my car.”
    “That sounds fair.”
    “You can put your boat in the garage if you want.”
    “It’ll be fine outside.” He shut off the engine, dropped his own keys into the ashtray and got out. He had a dark green backpack on the backseat, and he grabbed that and was good to go.
    So I let him drive. And yeah, I stayed mad at him for the first hour, until we drove past the wetlands preserve, partially frozen over, and I saw a red-tailed hawk dive-bomb not twenty feet from the highway, then soar up again with something furry in its talons.
    “Ohmy God, did you see that? That hawk just nailed a freaking squirrel or something. Look, look at it go!” I was pointing and craning my neck. When I looked over at him, he managed to hold back for about three seconds and then he burst out laughing, and I did, too, in spite of myself.
    “All right,” I admitted, no longer angry. “I’ll have to try to stop doing that.”
    “Don’t ever stop doing that. That was amazing, and I never would have even noticed it if you hadn’t been with me.”
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah.” He shrugged. “Just...try not to do it when you’re driving.”
    I rolled my eyes and returned to watching the passing scenery.
    * * *
    At Strong Memorial Hospital’s Financial Services Center, Mason made the impossible as easy as 1, 2, 3. He got in to see a patient accounts manager, claiming to be an insurance adjuster and saying he needed to verify some information about the patient who received the kidney on August 17 of this year. Then he shuffled papers looking for the patient’s name while the woman at the desk clicked her keys, bringing up the info. I waited in the hallway outside the office door, and when he sneezed, I walked up the hall a few steps, made sure no one was looking and, with a tissue covering my fingers, pulled the fire alarm.
    People poured out of offices left and right, including Mason and the accounts person. I joined the throng moving forward, exclaimed, “My purse!” in case anyone was listening, and ducked into the same office he’d just left. I hurried around the desk, took a quick look at the computer and there it was. The patient’s name and address. Three patients had kidney transplants that day. But only one of them received a left kidney. I scribbled the info on a notepad, jammed it into my pocket, zipped out again with my heart in my throat and caught up with the throng heading for the stairwells. By then someone in charge was telling everyone to stay calm, it was probably a false alarm. Maybe even a prank.
    “Fucking kids,” someone muttered.
    I saw Mason talking to the woman whose office I’d just left and looking at his watch, making excuses to leave and follow up with her later. Then he entered the stairwell. I passed her in the hall as I went to join him, but there were lots of people heading down and I had to wait until we were outside. He was ahead of me, and he got into my car and started the engine. I hurried the last few steps and hopped in on the passenger side.
    “You get it?” he asked.
    “Henry C. Powell of Sodus Point, New York. You know where that is?”
    “No, but your nav system does.” He poked buttons. “Street?”
    “Twenty-five Lake Street.”
    He punched a button, then another, and the nav system plotted a route and said it would take less than an hour to reach our destination. “We’re in business. You want to grab a bite first?” It was close to four-thirty, after the two-and-a-half-hour drive out here, and the time we’d spent executing our plan. Flawlessly, I might add. Neither of us had eaten lunch.
    “Yeah, but only if it’s a drive-through. I’m kind of eager to check on Mr. Powell.”
    “Me, too.”
    So we grabbed some fast food and ate while he drove.
    An hour later we were cruising slowly along the southern shore of Lake Ontario, which looked more like an ocean than