CHAPTER 8

PAM’S PLAN

Anguish ripped through Pam. Caspian gone! Arminger had stolen the one bird that he knew was most special to her.

Inhuman, said a voice inside her head, echoing Mr. Bagley’s pronouncement about the Germans in Belgium. This proved Arminger was German, if anything did. The word formed itself on her lips and escaped as a rasping whisper. “Inhuman.”

“Huh?” said Henry. “What do you mean, ‘inhuman’?” His eyes held a spark of interest.

Numbness was closing in on Pam. She shook her head. She tried to push her voice from her throat. It came out husky. “A pigeon’s missing. My best one.”

“Is that all?” The spark in his eyes died. “It’s one stupid bird. You’ve got a whole shed full. What are you worried about?”

Pam’s anger came alive. “Caspian ain’t just any pigeon,” she snapped. “Breeding and training first-rate homers takes years.” A fire had ignited inside her, and she couldn’t stop herself from going on. “That bird”—she mocked Henry’s tone—“is worth a hundred dollars. That’s what the German was going to give me for him.” She couldn’t bring herself to say Arminger’s name.

Henry stared at Pam with disbelief. “You’re lying,” he said. “If the spy offered you that much money, as poor as your family is, you’d have took it. Your ma would’ve made you.”

The fire in Pam’s belly blazed higher. “These birds are mine, Henry Bagley, and I do with ’em whatever I want.” Pam held her voice low to avoid scaring the birds, but she let her eyes spit out the fury she felt. She wanted Henry out of her sight before she lost control. She planted her hands on her hips and spoke, emphasizing each word. “Get out of my loft and off our land. Before I sic my dog on you.” Her expression dared Henry to do anything else.

For endless seconds Henry stood his ground, glaring at her. The pigeons felt the tension and set up a fretful chatter. Outwardly Pam didn’t move; inwardly her mind raced. What would she do if Henry called her bluff? Bos would answer her call in a flash, but if she sicced him on Henry, Mama would be fit to be tied. No telling what fate would then be ordered for her dog. Pam berated herself for tacking the threat onto her demand. She glared back at Henry, furious that he had backed her into this corner.

Finally Henry spoke. “Like I said, this place smells. But it’s not the birds.” He turned and stomped out of the loft.

Pam held her breath until the sound of his footsteps died. Then she slowly released the air from her lungs. With it, every ounce of strength seemed to drain from her body. She slumped to the floor and let the birds hop into her lap and perch on her head. Their cooing was rich and throaty, a pigeon melody. It reminded Pam of the spirituals Mama used to sing to put her to sleep: “Way Down upon the Swanee River” and “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” A deep sadness yawned inside her. If only she could stay here in the loft forever and never have to move ….

Caspian’s little hen Odessa flew from her nest box and lighted on the floor beside Pam. Pam lifted a finger and stroked the bird’s fluffy crown. Odessa puffed her neck feathers and scolded loudly, as if she blamed Pam for the disappearance of her mate.

That broke Pam’s heart. She couldn’t bear to stay in the loft and listen to Odessa accuse her. The pigeons fluttered off her as she rose heavily from the floor. Her body felt like a millstone. Mechanically she walked to the door, opened it, and went outside. It was still raining.

She headed to the barn. Across the cow lot, she saw Bosporus standing under a magnolia tree, watching her. He seemed to know he was no longer welcome on the farm. His huge, brindled head was bent against the rain, and his tail hung low.

Pam’s emotions went out to him. She whistled.

Bosporus’ head snapped up. He bounded toward her through the swampy cow lot and leaped over the barbwire fence, landing in a puddle the size of the Atlantic Ocean. He struggled in the quagmire for a minute before pulling himself out and shaking his coat, in the process spraying Pam with big globs of mud. Then he planted his muddy, oversized paws on her chest and yipped happily.

Pam couldn’t help laughing, even though her insides ached. She was losing everything she cared about. First Papa, then her favorite pigeons, soon Bosporus. What next, she wondered, what next?

She wrapped her arms around her dog’s neck. “I can’t send you away now,” she said. “Not this evening. I need a friend. You can stay inside the barn just this once, huh? Mama won’t know. I’ll get you out in the morning before she sees you.”

It wasn’t easy coaxing Bos into the barn; he knew he wasn’t supposed to go through those doors. Pam finally had to drag him in, while her conscience screamed at her. Not only was she defying Mama’s orders, she was betraying the careful training she had given her dog. How could he be anything but confused once she had forced him to disobey the very rule she had taught him?

She could hear Papa lecturing her about consistency with her animals. A well-trained animal, Papa had drilled into her, would give one hundred percent as long as he knew what was expected of him. “Howsomever,” Papa would say, “once them expectations get fuzzy in a critter’s head, he turns to being unpredictable, and he’s ruint for further useful purpose.” Then he would look at her sternly and say, “Don’t you ever forget that, Pammie.”

She never had forgotten it, until now But you didn’t really forget, her conscience told her. You just chose to ignore what your papa said.

The accusation stung her, but she knew it was true. Her world seemed to be falling apart, and it was all because Papa had left them, gone to fight in some crazy, faraway war that wouldn’t change a thing in Currituck, win or lose. If Papa had been here, Arminger wouldn’t have dared to steal her pigeons. That she knew.

But facts were facts. Papa wasn’t here, and Arminger had stolen her pigeons. Now she had to figure out what to do about it. She sighed heavily and sank to the floor of the empty stall. Bosporus sprawled beside her.

Mama had made it clear that she wouldn’t call the law on Arminger unless Pam had some proof that he was guilty. What Pam needed was evidence, evidence that pointed to Arminger.

She wracked her brain, going over and over every detail of every conversation she had had with him. But she couldn’t find a single action or word that positively incriminated him. There was only the way she had felt about him, uncomfortable, like he wasn’t quite leveling with her. There were the little things that didn’t add up in his story. A fisherman who knew more about pigeons than about fishing. A truck full of grain for a “few birds.” An obsession with getting her pigeons at any price.

Arminger was a sly one, all right. He threw money around town to foster Currituck’s goodwill, but no one really knew anything about him. He acted suspiciously, but he never lied outright, at least not a lie that anyone had caught him in. He took her pigeons and slipped away without a trace, knowing full well that a little girl could never prove he was the thief.

The more Pam thought about it, the madder she got. She would prove it! See if she wouldn’t!

A plan began to take shape in her mind. So Arminger was fitting out Sanders’ old cabin to set up housekeeping with his sons. Why had he chosen such a desolate piece of land to buy, in the middle of a cypress swamp? A mighty strange place for a herring fisherman to live. It seemed peculiar to Pam that none of the grown-ups had asked themselves that question. Pam figured they were too busy counting Arminger’s money to mind about such a little detail.

Then suddenly the perfect nature of Arminger’s setup hit her. Yessirree, a cypress swamp was a strange place to fish for herring. But it was a mighty fine place to hide stolen pigeons. And if everyone thought the place was haunted, no one would ever come to visit and find the pigeons, or anything else he had hidden there, would they?

Pam clucked. Arminger must be feeling right cocky about pulling everything off as pretty as you please. Not for long, she thought. A plan had laid itself out in her mind like a map. “I’m going out there,” she told Bosporus. “Tomorrow. I’ll go into town with Mama, like I’m bound for school. I’ll tell her not to wait for me after, ’cause I’m going to Nina’s and her father’ll tote me home. After I drop Mama off, I’ll hightail it back here and get the canoe me and Papa made. Then I’ll paddle out to Sanders’ place and find my pigeons. It’s that simple.”

Bosporus looked at her with bright eyes and lolled his tongue out of his mouth. I have complete confidence in you, he seemed to be saying.

“Thanks, boy,” she said, scratching behind his ear. If only she had so much confidence in herself.