Adam sat behind his desk, coffee in one hand, a contract in the other. Roland lounged in a big leather armchair, scrolling through the news. There was a soft knock on the door. Darcy entered, green-eyed and black-haired, her perfect body clad in leggings, sandals, and a tank top. “Morning!” she said, and waved a manila envelope. Roland nodded, and returned to the news.
“How’d you do?” asked Adam.
“Those wildlife people are a tough bunch!” she said. “I waited until Kelly McPhee left, then I went in and said I was Luna’s cousin. I said I couldn’t reach her, and they said they didn’t know where she was. I even started crying, and they didn’t care! But then I met up with another one in the parking lot, and evidently she wasn’t in the loop. She said the last time she saw Luna, there was a new volunteer. Long hair, glasses, mid to late twenties, drove an old blue Cadillac. She figured he was fairly local, because he signed up for once a week.”
She handed him the manila envelope. “It’s a start. I can widen the search.”
“Thanks, Darcy. Good job.”
“Anytime. Can I do anything else for you?”
“Nope. That’ll do it.”
“You sure?” she asked. She raised an eyebrow and gave him an inviting smile, but he smiled back and nodded toward the door. Darcy sighed, shrugged, and closed it behind her.
Adam opened the envelope and pulled out photographs of three young men, each stapled to copies of their driver’s licenses and registrations. Thomas J. Tyler, age 29, wore wire-rimmed glasses, his hair pulled back, and owned a blue 1963 Cadillac Coupe De Ville. Ronald P. Smythe, age 35, wore rimless glasses, had a balding mullet, and owned a blue 1959 Cadillac Sedan De Ville. Edward K. Harrelson, age 26, wore horn-rimmed glasses, his shoulder-length hair in unruly waves, and owned a blue 1968 convertible Cadillac De Ville.
“Look at this,” said Adam, exasperated.
Roland rose and surveyed the photographs. “I’ve got that conference call,” said Adam, gathering the paperwork and returning it to the manila envelope. “Do me a favor and give this to Lloyd. Tell him to call Nichols and read him the three plate numbers, and I want to file a Missing Person Report.”
Roland raised an eyebrow. “What the hell is she doing?” asked Adam.
“You know what she’s doing.”
“No, I don’t!”
“She doesn’t want to be here.”
For a moment Adam met his gaze, then he lifted his suit jacket from the back of his chair and pulled it on.
“Then we’ll just have to find her,” he said, “so I can change her mind.”
• • •
Ned cruised along Interstate 75, heading north, listening as Luna crooned to her eagle in a husky half-whisper. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’ll be all right.”
Ned’s neighbor walked her Chihuahuas by his window each morning, spouting such high-pitched, rapid-fire baby talk that he was regularly tempted to race from his apartment and bludgeon her to death with his oversized coffee cup. Luna, on the other hand, spoke in a voice so soft and warm that he felt a foreign, wistful pang in his heart. He wondered how he could get her to keep it up.
Luna glanced at Ned. He piloted the enormous blue car unhurriedly, one arm resting on the window, the tendrils of hair which had escaped his ponytail blowing in the breeze. What luck, she thought, that his company’s nerd squad had sent him to Starfish Key. She leaned her head back, and curled a leg beneath her.
“So, um…I meant to tell you,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Yesterday I gave your former phone to a friend heading for Miami.”
“Why?”
“When he got to his hotel, he used it to call a few airlines. This morning he dropped it off at my company’s Miami office, and today one of my co-workers will put it in the mail being overnighted to our office in Denver. Tomorrow a co-worker in Denver will use it to call a few airlines, then he’ll put it in the mail being overnighted to our office in Portland. So according to anyone who’s hacking your phone, for the next several days you’re on your way out west.”
“What!” she gasped, and punched him on the arm. “That’s brilliant!”
“Ow,” said Ned, pleased.
“Didn’t your co-workers want to know why?”
“I said it was part of a Treasure Hunt.”
“But I didn’t see you give the phone to anyone!”
“You were out like a light.”
“Thank you,” she grinned, then looked down at her pinging phone. “It’s from Harper,” she said, and read it aloud.
689-333-2150 Your cousin stopped by Starfish Key with a lot of questions and somebody told her about the new volunteer with the Cadillac. Since I know you don’t have a cousin you better ditch the car
“What do you mean, ‘ditch the car?’” said Ned, alarmed.
Luna bit her lip. “Did you give Kelly your real name?”
“Uh…yeah?”
“Adam’s looking for me. He must have had somebody go to Starfish Key and pretend to be my cousin, to see who I could have left with. Let me thank Harper and ask Warren.” She typed, then read the response aloud.
PRIVATE CALLER A DMV check will get his plates. Cops will be out. Don’t go through any tollbooths, they have cameras.
Ned snorted. “You can’t just call the DMV and get somebody’s license plate number!”
Luna regarded him sympathetically, as if he’d said something stupid but wasn’t fully to blame. The phone pinged again.
PRIVATE CALLER Maybe they think you’re still in the area. How far are you from Tallahassee?
“About an hour,” said Ned.
“We need to pull over,” she said, after she read the reply. “Someplace inconspicuous, with dirt.”
Twenty minutes later they were back on the highway, Ned’s face set in a scowl, the car filled with strained silence. Her phone pinged.
wildatheart@outlook.com I had everyone check in with me after they deleted your old contact info. Have 112 so far, will run the others down. Be careful!
suwanneeangler@msn.net You need fish?
meadowlark@outlook.com Can’t wait to see you!
chiroptera@gmail.com Oh damn, Luna! I’m sorry I insulted you!
shelley@eastshorerescue.org Forget about it, Esther!
carnivorous@gmail.com Esther, get back to work! We need you!
rackocoons@hotmail.com So does Jim Beam!
dorsalfin28@att.net Shut up, Bob! Ignore him, Esther!
Luna laughed. “It’s from the rehabbers,” she said. “Esther’s sorry she called me a bitch who does jack shit for wildlife! Didn’t I tell you she’d be sorry? You want me to read them to you?”
“No,” said Ned. They had stopped at the edge of a deserted rest stop, poured their water onto the ground, scooped up the resulting mud, and flung it all over the lower half of his formerly pristine 1968 Cadillac De Ville.
“Listen,” she said. “I really am sorry about the mud. As soon as we get to Carlene’s, I promise I’ll help you clean up every bit of it. But don’t you feel better knowing no one can read our plates?”
The GPS guided them through back roads and a maze of subdivisions. Ned rolled into the driveway of a neat raised ranch and stopped beside a Toyota hybrid. As he and Luna slid out, the front door opened and a stout woman in her early forties barreled toward them, her glorious, waist-length brown hair streaming behind her.
“Luna, darlin’!” she cried, enveloping her in a bear hug. “What a kick in the pants it is to meet you in person after all these years!”
A smiling blond man appeared behind her. “Derek,” he said, and offered his hand. “Carlene’s other half.”
“I’m so glad to meet you both!” said Luna. “This is Ned!”
“Hello there, darlin’!” said Carlene, enveloping him in another hug. “Now, not to be pushy or anything, but let’s get your bird out of the car and your car into the garage, because Harper says people are looking for you.”
“That is one beautiful automobile!” said Derek. “I’m kinda surprised you take it off-roading.”
“You said you needed a big flight cage, so I figured you had one of those raptor bastards with you,” said Carlene, peering inside the Cadillac. “Holy shit, I guess I was right, look at the size of that crate! So Ned, I only do songbirds, and I hate those raptor bastards because some of ‘em eat my little guys. But if one of ‘em gets hurt, then even if he is a raptor bastard I’ll try to fix him, because what am I supposed to do? He’s still a wild thing! Come on, bring him in.”
“I’m just dropping Luna off,” said Ned. “I have to go.”
“I promised to help you clean up your car!” said Luna.
“Use the bathroom and we’ll show you around, then you can get back on the road,” said Derek.
The right half of the backyard was ablaze with flowers. The water in three birdbaths shimmered, bright feeders hung from the trees, and all were alive with small, darting birds. On the left half of the yard stood four medium-sized wooden flight cages, all lined with soft green mesh. Visible through three of them were more small birds. In the fourth one Mars stood alone, Gulliver among the Lilliputians. He hopped into a large black rubber tub filled with water, ducked his head, and let the water run down his back.
“This is like the Garden of Eden, Carlene!” said Luna. “I can’t thank you enough.”
“We can’t thank you enough!” she cried, throwing an arm around Luna’s shoulders. “Those two flights on the left? Those are thanks to you. I don’t know if you know this, Ned, but Luna here’s like Santa Claus for rehabbers.”
“There’s a lot I don’t know,” said Ned, gazing at the bright turquoise streak running from the top of Carlene’s hair all the way down the left side.
“You know why I did that? Because I talk a blue streak, so’s I might as well wear one. And this way if Derek ever goes deaf, he can find me in a crowd! You got quite a head of hair yourself. Anyway, come on, we’ll give you a tour and then say farewell.”
The sunny living room was as colorful as the garden, with cushions and pillows in primary colors and floral prints. Vying for space in the den were two big easy chairs in front of a flat screen TV and a long, wide table piled high with what looked like the contents of an entire craft store.
“Derek works for an insurance company, and when I’m not doing birds I make crafts,” said Carlene. “Why people want this kinda crap cluttering up their homes is beyond me, but they do. Now come on and I’ll show you the bird room, and don’t forget there’s no talking except a whisper. Which is obviously a bigger problem for me than for any of you.”
Ned and Luna followed her into a large, bright room and stopped in astonishment, as they appeared to be standing in a long-leaf pine forest. The sun’s rays illuminated knee-high ferns, wiregrass, and cabbage palms, while a delicate mist crept toward a cluster of pitcher plants. Gauzy clouds drifted in the blue sky. The sounds of birdsong, crickets, and tree frogs emanated from an iPod set up in the corner.
“Look at the myrtle oak and the gopher apple,” whispered Derek appearing between them and pointing to each tree. “Sweetbay magnolia there, and Atlantic white cedar over there. You’ll find every one within ten miles of here. That woman can paint!”
“Carlene did this?” marveled Luna.
Resting on a long table were a half dozen cages made of black mesh stretched over metal frames. Each one was edged with greenery, contained a small branch for a perch, and held a single adult bird, most sporting a bandaged wing or leg. Carlene stood at a second table, holding a pair of forceps in one hand and a jar with live mealworms in the other. Before her were six plastic containers, each home to a small padded bowl containing several nestlings. She went down the line, plucking mealworms and pushing them into gaping mouths, each tiny nestling squirming and squeaking in its frantic effort to outmaneuver its siblings.
“I don’t talk at all when I’m in the bird room because it’ll scare the adults and I don’t want my babies growing up thinking it’s normal to hear human voices,” said Carlene, when they were back in the kitchen. “I can’t even whisper ‘cause I’m like a bowling ball rolling down a hill, before you know it I’d be yelling my head off. I do know my own pros and cons.”
“I had no idea you could paint like that!” said Luna.
“Well dang,” said Carlene, waving dismissively. “‘Course I can paint, I’m a crafty kind of a gal. And y’know something, Ned, since you’re not a rehabber? If I get an injured or orphaned bird in, I’m not going to drag ‘em into my world. I’m going to take care of ‘em in a world that’s as close to theirs as I can get it.”
“Thanks for the tour,” said Ned. “This is a great place, but I have to go.”
As Luna opened her arms to give him a hug, Carlene reached for the phone chiming on the kitchen counter. “Thanks, Ned,” Luna whispered in his ear. ”I’ll let you know when I get there.”
Ned was so overcome by the feeling of her body against his that for a moment he lost track of his surroundings. “What!” cried Carlene and Luna jumped, wrenching him back to the kitchen. He looked up to find Carlene wearing a thunderstruck expression. “Waxwings!” she bellowed, and rushed from the room.
“This is awesome!” said Derek, close behind her. “We’re releasing five of them!”
“A release?” cried Luna, her face lighting up. “Oh Ned, I’m sorry you’ll miss this! It’s why we do what we do!”
Ned sat in the back seat of Carlene’s small SUV next to Luna, listening to Carlene describe how the five Cedar Waxwings she had just raised needed to be released into a flock of wild ones. Her birder friends had been searching for two weeks for a flock, but the flock always disappeared before Carlene could get there. All five birds rode in a covered crate — a tenth the size of Mars’s, and with a handle — in the storage area behind the back seat. Computer people are so sane, thought Ned, once again regretting his decision.
“So Luna,” said Carlene. “Last October I saw Janie Beckendorf! Did you ever meet her?”
“No, but I’ve talked to her a bunch of times! How is she?”
“Well, she’s just fine! Still flying wildlife around in that old bush plane of hers. Wiscasset Wildlife in Maine had a Cerulean Warbler who hit a window and missed migration, so Janie picked him up in the plane and flew him down here. She hung out with us for a few days while he acclimated, and then we let him go. With any luck he didn’t meet up with any more windows on the way to Costa Rica!”
“What’s a Cerulean Warbler?” asked Ned.
“Gorgeous little blue songbird. You gotta see ‘em to believe ‘em.”
“Are they endangered?”
“Nah, there’s a bunch of ‘em out there.”
“But… you’re saying this woman flew the bird from Maine to Florida and then let him go? Just a regular bird? A common, five-pound bird?”
“Five pounds!” cried Derek, wearing a theatrical expression of alarm. “Can you imagine a five-pound warbler?”
“Oh, mama, that’d scare the bejeebies outta me,” said Carlene.
“A warbler made of lead wouldn’t weigh five pounds,” said Luna.
“They’re, like, ten grams soaking wet,” stated Derek.
Ned regarded his fellow travelers, who did not seem to understand his point. “But how much did it cost in fuel to fly this ten-gram bird in a private plane to Florida?”
“Got me there,” said Carlene. “Sometimes these warblers have secret bank accounts.”
As Derek and Luna chortled, Ned shook his head. “I’m just not getting this. One single ten-gram, not-endangered bird? What does it matter?”
For a moment the car was still, then the others exchanged good-natured smiles.
“Well hell, it sure mattered to that bird!” cried Carlene.
“There! There!” said Derek. He pointed to the edge of a field, where a woman standing between two parked cars waved her arms. Three people stood close by, and four more were halfway across the field.
Carlene stopped the car and jumped out. She opened the back door, grabbed the crate, and, holding it carefully by the handle, took off across the field at a dead run. Ned looked at Luna for some kind of interpretation, but she was already sprinting behind Derek. Ned hustled after the crowd of people, some old, some young, all carrying binoculars, all seemingly beside themselves with excitement. Fifty yards into the field, he heard the sound of tiny bells coming from the top of a tree.
Eight pairs of binoculars pointed in one direction. Ned squinted, and a middle-aged man handed him an extra pair. Lining the branches of a grand old myrtle oak were dozens of striking little black-masked, buff-colored birds, their tails edged with brilliant yellow, a single bright red speck on each wing. Carlene raised the crate into the air, opened the door, and five blurs streaked outward and upward; into the tree, into the welcoming flock.
Ned glanced at Carlene, at the tears streaming down her face. He started toward her, thinking she must have injured herself in her mad dash across the field, only to realize that everyone in the small crowd was in pretty much the same condition. The tough ones were only blinking rapidly; the emotional ones were practically sobbing. Almost on cue, everyone started hugging each other. What fresh hell is this, thought Ned, then Luna turned and wrapped her arms around him.
How have I gone this long without knowing about Cedar Waxwings, he thought.
• • •
Federal Wildlife Officer Erik Gunderman entered the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service building in Falls Church, Virginia, filled with a sense of unease. The previous morning he had met with Adam Matheson, then with Matheson’s far more forthcoming zookeeper. After he returned to his office he wrote a report to his Regional Supervisor, struggling to edit his sarcasm and disgust. Three hours later he received an email from the assistant of Daniel Whittaker, Fish and Wildlife’s Chief of Law Enforcement for the entire United States. It requested he meet with the Big Kahuna himself at 4:00 the following afternoon, with a round-trip ticket to Washington attached.
Gunderman grew up within walking distance of the Loxahatchee, the refuge he now dedicated his life to protect. He snuck into it in his youth, volunteered there in his teens, then attended the University of Miami, only two hours away. He followed his meticulously planned career path with determination. He graduated with a degree in Ecosystem Management and Policy, then spent eighteen weeks of Special Agent training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, four weeks of Advanced Wildlife Officer training at the National Conservation Training Center in Shepherdstown, West Virgina, and ten weeks of field training in Alaska, Texas, and Vermont. Eventually he returned to the twisted pines of Loxahatchee, this time wearing the uniform of a Federal Wildlife Officer.
For years his supervisor had encouraged him to become a Special Agent, one of the elite team of undercover wildlife officers who crack big-money poaching and smuggling rings and nail major polluters. Gunderman always promised to consider it, then he dismissed it in under fifteen seconds. Special agents lived on the move, and he was not about to leave the Loxahatchee.
Gunderman landed, rented a car, and drove to the Fish and Wildlife Service office in Falls Church, Virginia. He rode the elevator to the 10th floor, his thoughts jumping while his demeanor stayed calm. What did Whittaker want? There was no precedent for this.
“I have your report here, Gunderman, and it’s very astute,” said Whittaker, after Gunderman had been seated in his spacious office.
“Thank you, sir.”
“This Matheson mess could be media hell,” said Whittaker, who had crew-cut grey hair, a solid build, and a level gaze. “That arrogant asshole! What did you call the bird? A ‘marital bargaining chip.’ That’s exactly right. Some rich loony on the lam with a Bald Eagle? Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on in this country?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“And of course, the public doesn’t give a shit about permits. All they’ll care about is Mr. versus Mrs. Billionaire fighting over the symbol of America. And then every moron in the country will want an eagle, just like every moron in the world wanted an owl after Harry Potter.”
“I agree, sir.”
“I expect the police will pick her up within a few days, if they haven’t already, but I’m not taking any chances. I want that bird back in the possession of Fish and Wildlife. I want it done yesterday, and I want you on it.”
Gunderman blinked, dismayed. “But why me? I mean, why me, sir?”
“Your Regional Supervisor is a good friend of mine. I told him the problem, he recommended you. Your record is exemplary. You have the instincts and skills of a undercover agent, but you wear a uniform. That’s exactly what I need.”
“But what about my duties at the refuge?”
“I’ll temporarily transfer another officer.” Whittaker leaned forward, arms on his desk, and looked at him intently. “Listen to me, Gunderman. This is way bigger than John Q. Public wanting a pet eagle. You officers are out there risking your lives and what do you get? Couple inches of type. You want to send a message to the lowlifes shooting eagles out of the sky, and to the rich bastards who buy their heads on the black market? To the poachers netting endangered species, and to the rings grinding them up for traditional medicines? Then find and arrest Luna Burke. If she took that eagle, then she has committed a Federal offense. Once we’ve got her, we’ve got a better shot at her fucking husband. This is our chance to show the public that when it comes to environmental crime, nobody is above the law! When the shit hits the media, I want them to report that crossing Fish and Wildlife is a big mistake.”
Gunderman nodded. This was big picture stuff. It wasn’t what people normally thought of when they thought of an environmental crime, so perhaps therein lay its effectiveness. It would mean he’d have to leave the Loxahatchee — at least, temporarily — which did not make him happy. But in the end, it would be worth it. Plus, it didn’t seem as if he was being given a choice.
“Rent a car, book a flight, whatever you need, just keep an expense report. Got it? Since we don’t have a trail on either one of them, I’d start at the wildlife center in Pennsylvania. You on board?”
“Yes, sir!” said Gunderman.
• • •
Warren leaned back in his chair, feet on the deck railing, listening to the occasional lazy snarl. The beer was cold, the sun was warm, and soon Florida’s resident population of panthers would increase by one.
Maybe I should paint a bullseye on him before he leaves, he thought.
Bastards.
He could spend hours, if he let himself, obsessing about all the greedy, rapacious scumbags who had invaded Florida. They felled the trees, fouled the skies, polluted the water, killed off entire populations of wildlife. For what? Another house? Another car? How many did they need? When would it end?
Adam Matheson: one of the worst. Industrial parks. Airport expansions. Golf courses. His lawyers had snatched a ten-acre piece of land next to Big Turkey Swamp right out from under a local Land Trust; instead of open land it was now a cluster of high-end condos, right at the edge of prime panther habitat. Less than two weeks after those yuppy douchebags started moving in a radio-collared panther had been hit by a Lincoln Navigator.
And then there was Luna.
Matheson could have stuck with the socialites and the bimbos, but no. He had to land an orphaned girl who’d never been out of Pennsylvania, whose idea of a heartthrob was an imprinted eagle. And now she’d left him, but he would bet Adam Matheson wasn’t going to take it lying down.
Warren rose and paced smoothly back and forth across the deck, stripping the label from his beer bottle. Basically, her plan was good. The rehabbers would close ranks, and she’d be hard to track. But It was a long way to Canada, and a lot could go wrong. How long before Matheson sent his psycho football player after her? Both of them were nuts, and Roland had guns. Not the type of men he wanted focused on Luna, a child of the wind and sky.
Warren walked through his house, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, cursing American gun laws. Every pea-brain in the country owned a gun. You didn’t have to know a damn thing about them, you didn’t have to be a decent shot, you didn’t even have to not be a paranoid schizophrenic.
He unlocked the basement door and descended the stairs, feeling the cool stillness rise to greet him. He flicked on the light. Warren stood in the middle of the small room covered with pegboards, stroking his beard, his gaze traveling past the Glock, the pair of .38s, the .45s, the trio of Berettas, the Super Blackhawk, the Ruger, the M-16s, the AK-47s, finally settling on the Heckler & Koch PSG1.
He took it down from the wall. He stroked the barrel, then raised it to his shoulder and squinted through the scope. Finally, he smiled.
The only thing better than a good sniper rifle, he thought, is a wild kitty just set free.