The Postcard

It’s a dreary Monday morning when you walk down the driveway to fetch the mail. You sigh since there are a million things you’d rather be doing. You could be going to the mall. You could be down at the FBI building. You could be reading a book. You could be watching a movie, but you’re stuck at home, taking care of your mom because your stupid brother forgot to inform you that he had “other plans”. 

Well, it isn’t all bad. It’s been a while since you’ve seen her anyway. 

Sighing, you reach into the mailbox and pull out the papers, beginning to leaf through them. One, in particular, catches your eyes, and your stomach drops when you see who it’s from. 

“No, it can’t be,” you whisper and run into the house, dropping the rest of the mail on the table as you race to your room. 

"Woah, slow down,” your mother calls, but you hardly hear her over the roaring in your ears. It’s not possible, you think as you come to your room. You close the door, hoping and praying that your mother doesn’t decide to drop in. With shaking hands, you pick up the postcard, and a beautiful painting of the Empire State Building catching your eye. That’s not far from here, you think as your heart sinks. You’ve seen that card on stands when you walk to work, to the FBI building. He could have seen you, but you try not to dwell on that. You take a breath and try to clear your mind. 

He can’t hurt me, you tell yourself. You flip the card over and read the simple words written there. 

Did you miss me? 

You gasp, dread flooding your veins. Flipping the card back over, you try to steady yourself, but all you can see if the name written on the card: Heiden von Brandt. It couldn’t be. The man belonging to that name shouldn’t be sending letters. Your heart pounds in your chest. A knock at your door startles you. 

“Are you okay, dear,” your mother asks. 

“I’m fine,” you lie. She can’t know. If she did, she would freak out. No, you have to handle this by yourself. 

You hear the squeak of your mother’s wheelchair as she leaves. Von Brandt was the one who put her in that chair, and you wouldn’t let him hurt anyone else that you love. One carefully aimed strike, and your mother was eternally bound to that chair. 

You take another breath and examine the postcard again. Heiden is smart, but you are smarter. He wouldn’t leave fingerprints, you know that, but surely he wouldn’t just send a card. He’s always wanted what you have; he must want to meet. 

Your eyes catch a slight inconsistency on the picture, and you reach for your magnifying glass on your nightstand. Your brother always teased you for being a detective, but at least your skills come in handy. 

Holding the glass to the card, you see a box drawn around a window. Then, from that window, there’s an arrow pointing to the floor about it. That must be where that monster wants to meet, the 8^th floor. As you look closer, you see a “J” written on the window with a box and an “S” written on the one above it. 

Still, you run the magnifying glass over the picture once again. It’s barely visible, but you can make out a set of numbers in the corner. 720 and 1800. July 20^th at 6 pm. You check the clock and see that it’s just 10 in the morning. You sigh, debating whether or not to call the captain. No, you decide. This is something you need to do by yourself. This encounter was always inevitable; you knew you would always have to face him.             

You flop down on your small bed and try to come up with a game plan. If you go now, you could scope the place out, but you risk scaring Heiden away. You can’t let him get away again, so that’s not an option. If you arrive with any detectives, even if they’re in plain clothes, Heiden will spot them. You won’t risk your colleagues’ lives. They’ve done enough for you, and you wouldn’t ask this of them. 

You grumble, realizing that you’ll have to go alone at the appointed time. Heiden will have the upper hand. His laugh echoes in your head, and you can’t help but remember his face. His raised cheekbones, his blond hair, his crystal blue eyes, and his smug smile. Ugh, and you fell for it all. He played you like a cheap kazoo. You still can’t believe it happened. He drew you into his web, and you got tangled in it. He hurt your mother and would have hurt your brother too if you hadn’t run away. 

Now, you had a job at the FBI, your brother had his own life, and your mother had finally settled down. After five years, Heiden finally found the family you had sworn to protect. You almost can’t believe you lasted this long. It was only a matter of time before Heiden used his vast network to track you down. You had been living on borrowed time. Now, your only option is to confront Von Brandt and end the whole this once and for all. 

You open your drawer to make sure both your issued gun and spare are loaded. They are, and there’s enough ammo to do what needs to be done. 

You leap from your bed and head to the other end of the house to the garage. Luckily, with your mom in a wheelchair and your vehicle in the driveway, there isn’t a car there. Just your equipment. 

“Lyra, what are you doing,” your mother asks from the garage doorway. You almost jump, not realizing she was there.

“Nothing, mom. Just training,” you reply and throw punches at the bag. Your mother sighs and propels her chair forward. 

“I was hoping we could bake together like the old times,” she says, and you stop. With the looming dread of the coming events, you can’t help but agree. You unwrap your hands and go into the kitchen to help your mom make cupcakes from scratch. 

“You sift the flour, and I’ll get the wet ingredients,” she suggests. 

“Of course, mom,” you say and wrap your arms around her. 

She laughs. “What is this about?”

“I just wanted to hug you. Is that so wrong?”

“No, Lyra. Of course not.” With that, you go to sifting the flour with a smile. For a moment, your fears melt away like butter on a hot pan. It wasn’t until you turned back to your mom that they returned. 

“Hmm, something smells good,” your brother, Finn, declares when he finally comes home around twelve. It’s late, but to make up for it, he brings lunch. 

“Not as good as that pizza,” you sigh as he sets it on the table. 

“You’re quite welcome, Ly,” he replies and takes his place as the short table. “Let’s eat.” You and your mother laugh and dig in. You feel lighter somehow, but it doesn’t last long. As you grab a slice of cheese pizza, your eyes wander to the stack of mail at the other end of the table. You can’t help but picture the postcard shoved into your drawer. You can’t help but remember who you’ll see that night. You can’t help but feel the dread coursing through your veins.

“You good, Ly,” Finn asks. “You’re a bit pale.”

“Is something the matter, Lyra,” Mom asks, putting a wrinkling hand on yours. You try to steady yourself and push down the anxieties bubbling in your chest. 

“I’m fine, guys. I’m just waiting for Finn to tell us where he has been,” you answer, the lie flowing off your tongue. 

Your brother just laughs. “You’re the detective. You figure it out.”

“Now, Finn—,” Mother starts, but you oblige your brother. 

“You went to Central Park with flowers for your girlfriend, but she broke up with you. Then, you started to walk home, passed the pizza place, and got our food. You took a cab.”

He’s taken aback, as he always is when you use your little parlor tricks. “How did you—”

“It’s obvious. My car’s in the driveway, and you didn’t say anything about it,” I replied and took a breath. “I’m sorry about Lavender.” 

“So am I, Finn,” Mother says and turns to your brother. You can’t help but look beyond him to the painting mounted on the wall, a Raphael. It’s a souvenir, you tell anyone who asks. Your phone buzzes, and when you reach to pick it up, you see it’s an unknown number, 720-1800. Those are the same numbers from the card, you realize as you read the message. 

Bring the painting. 

You look back to the Raphael. The message had to be from Heiden, and it could only be referring to that painting. That painting was part of your history. Of course, he’d want you to bring the painting. 

You get a bad feeling in the pit of your stomach, stronger than before. The meeting could all be a trap. Everything you worked so hard to build would be destroyed. Everything you worked for would go up in smoke. You swear you would never let that happen. 

The timer on your cupcakes dings and you hurry to the oven before your family can see your eyes. Finn especially would see right through you. You don’t know if you’ll be able to keep lying under their scrutinizing glare. 

You take a toothpick and stick it through the treats, and it comes out clean. 

“They’re done,” you declare, “and I think I’ll go work out in the garage.” Not waiting for their answer, you hurry away. You wrap your hands and take your stance. Soon, your mind begins to wander even as you beat up the bag. What did Heiden want? 

What he’s always wanted, you tell yourself. The painting. 

As your mind runs free, you can’t help but remember the first time you met the Von Brandt. 

You were wandering the streets just outside the Louvre, wandering the streets. That’s when a man approached you. Instantly, you felt a spark. Perhaps it was his eyes or the way he walked or how his voice was like honey. Perhaps it was the question he asked you: do you like art? 

“Of course. Who doesn’t,” you laughed. The man smiled. You remember thinking what was he doing. Who was this strange man who seemed so interested in you?

“My name is Heiden von Brandt Jr.,” he said and held out his hand. You give him an alias. Don’t ever give your real name to strangers, you thought. 

“Raz Michaels.” 

He invited you into the Louvre with him. You hesitated, tempted to run in the other direction, or scream for help. Now, as you look back, you should have. You should have gotten as far away from that man as possible. You were alone, fresh out of Quantico and looking for something to do. You loved art, and you still do, and you were itching to get into the museum.

Sighing, you direct your attention back to the punching bag, imagining that it’s Heiden. He threatened you. He threatened Finn. He hurt your mother. You’d love to sock him. Or better yet, fire a bullet in his shoulder. The thought gives you strength, and you slam your fist into the bag. 

“You seem more fired up than usual,” Finn remarks, and you turn mid-strike. 

“So? Is that wrong,” you snap before regretting it. He is your older brother, after all; you shouldn’t be snapping at him. He just laughs. 

“No, I’m just saying,” he says and walks closer. “I’ve known you your whole life, Ly. I can tell when something is wrong.”

“I’m fine. There’s just a case that’s reopened, and I’m just frustrated,” you lie. Well, not a total lie. The best lies have a kernel of truth embedded in them, and you’ve mastered that art. 

“Which case? Maybe I read about it.”

“It’s a private case. There’s nothing in the papers.” Again, you don’t lie. Bits and pieces of the truth are all he needs to know. 

“Well, I’m proud of you, Ly. Have fun beating your bag,” he says and stands. You sigh and look at the time. Just 12:30. You still have five and a half antagonizing hours. You can’t stand it, so you think about what you’re doing tonight, to the painting. 

You have a capsule in your room that should hold the Raphael. There’s a bus to the Empire State Building around 5:30. You’ll need to take that. You don’t know how you’ll get to the specific floor of the building, but you assume that Heiden has that taken care of. If not, you’ll figure something out. The elevators should have panels that you can hack by crossing a few wires. That should get you to the designated floor. You already have loaded guns in case things go south, but you won’t let that happen. You must protect your mother and Finn. You won’t let them get hurt again. 

Your mind wanders to the postcard. What did the letters mean? And the box? 

As you think more about it, it seems to click. Of course, why didn’t you think of it earlier?

Sighing, you make a phone call. It’s short and to the point, but a burden is released from your shoulders when you hang up. 

Finally, the time comes, and you leave for the bus. Luckily, Finn will be there to keep your mother company. She has a nurse, but she prefers the two of you. You don’t blame her. 

Before you leave, you hug your family for good measure. With the Raphael slung across your shoulder, you hop on the bus. The ride isn’t far, but it’s quiet, and you find yourself thinking about the last time you and Heiden spoke. 

You were still in Paris, but it had been two weeks since that day at the Louvre. You and Heiden met on a quiet street a few blocks from the museum. Well, it would be quiet if the two of you didn’t keep shouting. 

“You crippled my mother,” you cried. You got the call that morning and Heiden’s came soon after. 

“I did what I had to do,” he snarled and held out his hand. “Now, give me the painting.”

“It’s a souvenir.” The capsule was slung over your shoulder as it is as you sit on the New York bus. 

“You’re lying.” You reached into your jacket for your pistol. It’s an empty street, you reasoned. There are no people. No witnesses. In one fluid motion, you shot Heiden von Brandt in the knee and ran as fast as you can. You had a late flight back home. Everything you need was with you. The Raphael was secure. It still is.

Now, as you take a bus to the Empire State Building, you can’t help but feel like this was all a trap. You consider turning back, but you need to end this. You need to get rid of Heiden once and for all. 

Sure enough, the desk clerk is expecting you and gives you a card. 

“For the 7^th floor, miss,” he says with a glint in his eye. You nod, the image of the box and windows coming back to mind. You know what to do. 

Butterflies fill your stomach as the elevator climbs. You double-check your pistol, the same one that shot Heiden so long ago, just in case things go south. 

The doors open to reveal an empty floor save for a man standing in the center. The lights are dim, but you can make out his blond hair. 

“Heiden,” you call, and he raises his head. 

“Raz,” he replies and turns. “Or, should I call you Lyra?”

“Call me what you wish. Here’s your stupid painting.” You throw the capsule into his hand. He chuckles and waves his hand. Instantly, the room swarms with FBI agents, most of whom you recognize. 

“You fell for it. You have always fallen for it,” he declares. You laugh when he realizes the guns are pointed at him. 

“No, Heiden, you fell for it,” you cry. “You don’t honestly think I came here without a back-up plan.” You can’t help but feel the satisfaction as your colleagues place him in cuffs. You can’t help but remember that short phone call you made a few hours ago.

Your captain knew the story. At least, she thought she knew. A wide-eyed agent unwittingly helps thief steal a painting. When you threatened to turn Heiden in, he had already hurt your mother. Now, you hurt him. 

For five years, you have been the proud owner of both the Raphael souvenir and the original, one hidden behind the other. For five years, you have kept it as bait under the orders of the FBI until now. 

After a while, when most everyone has left, you slip away to one of the elevators. Luckily, it’s empty, and when you unscrew one of the panels, a rolled piece of canvas is still there. 

Elevator dings, signifying the 8^th floor. Another blond man greets you. 

“Heiden von Brandt Sr., I presume,” you say, remembering the letters written on the windows as you hand him the painting. 

It was so obvious. You remember the mysterious phone call all those years ago with careful instructions on double-crossing the thief. You’d get to keep the Raphael, frame the real thief, and get a nice sum of money for your troubles. 

Now, the Raphael and Heiden von Brandt Jr. would go back where they belong, and you’re a hundred thousand dollars richer. 

Not bad for a wide-eyed FBI agent.