Elias poured himself a second cup of coffee and glanced out at the misty morning. His laptop lay open on the kitchen table, flanked by two phones. One was his regular cell phone, the second he had purchased yesterday. The banner on his computer screen read Ten Frequently Asked Questions About Your New Burner Phone.
He had bought it on impulse. He wasn’t clear about this hacking business; he knew at one point Luna had one so her husband couldn’t track her, and considering the way things were going, he thought he should have one, too. After one of the volunteers showed him how to transfer the numbers of the 119 rehabbers in Luna’s group onto his new phone, he sent out a message.
529-628-4720 Rehabbers: this is my new untraceable burner phone so I’m not going to ID myself except you know me from the West Nile Virus conference last year. Be careful. Don’t write anything someone could hack.
amphibious632@hotmail.com Gotcha
bluestreak@juno.com Yokay
sunny@capedaviswildlife.org Affirmative
rackocoons@hotmail.com Where’s Esther? Our potential Wikileak?
chiroptera@gmail.com Right here, Bob! Why don’t you fuck off?
Ten minutes later, as he continued to investigate the capabilities of his new device, it sprang to life. Elias jumped, assuming it was the police. “Hello?” he answered hesitantly.
“Yo, Elias,” said Warren. His tone was determinedly casual, though tightly harnessed anger clearly seeped around the edges. “Good job, getting a burner. Listen. Can you get Banshee to a location outside Lake Arrow, Minnesota by tomorrow afternoon?”
“What?” said Elias.
Warren explained this would be the meeting point for Stanley, Ned, and Mars, who would be coming from Northeast Iowa; Luna, who would be coming from Chicago; and Warren himself, who would be coming from Indiana. Elias needed to bring a vehicle large enough to accommodate two eagle crates and three people, because from there Elias, Warren, Luna, and the two eagles would head for Hélène’s.
“But…Luna’s in Chicago?” asked Elias. “What’s she doing in Chicago?”
“Long story,” said Warren. “One more thing,” he added, as if he were asking Elias to grab him a beer from the refrigerator. “Can you throw together enough paperwork to get the birds across the border?”
“Uh, maybe,” said Elias, knowing the paperwork to get American wildlife into Canada took weeks, if not longer.
“Good!” said Warren. “I’ll call you back.”
Elias felt a sizzle as he hung up. He and Warren were two cool guys working under the radar, planning a special op on their burner phones. It only lasted a moment, though. Don’t be ridiculous, he told himself. It wasn’t like Banshee could just vanish, especially with Gunderman nosing around. And even if Elias managed to smuggle her out, it would take about five minutes for Gunderman to put it together and issue an APB on the center’s SUV. Elias pictured himself flooring it toward Minnesota, a platoon of screaming police cars in his wake.
He closed his computer and pocketed his new phone. He left the kitchen, crossed the field, and hiked to the top of ridge, puzzling over why Luna had decamped to Chicago, and how he could get Banshee to Minnesota. He sat on a boulder, caught his breath, and looked over the lush Pennsylvania landscape. He and his fellow rehabbers spent their lives fighting ignorance, indifference and greed, struggling to help those who had no voice. It was clearly a one-sided battle. How much difference did the life of a bluebird, a badger, or an eagle really make?
A lot.
Elias clung stubbornly to his belief. He could take a wild creature on the brink of death, bring her back to life, and set her free. Not every time, of course. But when the magical, mystical, odds-defying sequence worked, it was enough to prevent him from laying down his arms, despite his weariness. And if he and his compatriots could perform these little miracles, year after year, they could certainly make an eagle disappear from Pennsylvania and reappear in Ontario.
He pulled out his phone.
529-628-4720 Everyone: Need unrl f BAEA 5.7 k no records. Right now.
Elias thought of Adam Matheson’s hackers scratching their heads over the animal nut gobbledygook, unable to recognize BAEA as the American Ornithological Union’s abbreviation for Bald Eagle. They wouldn’t realize he was asking if anyone had taken in a female weighing about five and a half kilograms, whose injuries had rendered her unreleasable, and whose statistics had not yet been logged into the exhaustive records the state and federal government required rehabbers to keep. It might not stump hackers for long, but it would certainly slow them down. After a moment, his phone chimed.
pacificawild@outlook.com Sorry
gduncan@bobcathollow.org None
envirowacko@gmail.com Will ask around off-line
bluestreak@juno.com Checking.
ben@coldcreekpreserve.org Just got one in! Roadside zoo confiscation.
529-628-4720 Can you make her disappear?
ben@coldcreekpreserve.org No. Conservation Police brought her in, there’s a paper trail.
kelly@muscongusbaywildlife.org Wish I could raise the dead. BAEA intake this morning, DOA. Power line.
Elias paused, thinking furiously. He raised his phone.
529-628-4720 Paper trail?
kelly@muscongusbaywildlife.org Not yet. In the freezer.
529-628-4720 Princess and the Pauper. Right angle to NER. Are you both following?
Elias’s phone was silent. He waited, praying the two rehabbers knew enough of Luna’s plans to decipher his shorthand. Finally, his phone chimed twice.
kelly@muscongusbaywildlife.org Overnighting.
ben@coldcreekpreserve.org Will deliver. Send me time and place.
Elias sent Ben a private message.
529-628-4720 6:15 tonight?
ben@coldcreekpreserve.org You got it.
Elias snapped his phone shut.
Kelly, from Muscongus Bay Wildlife in Maine, had been a friend for years. So had Ben, who was from Cold Creek Preserve near Buffalo, New York. Both were longtime rehabbers who conscientiously followed the rules. That is, until it was clearly time to circumvent them.
Elias went over his plan, looking for holes. Earlier this morning Kelly had taken in a female Bald Eagle, dead on arrival after hitting a power line in Maine. Kelly had put her in the freezer, and not yet filled out the paperwork required for eagles. Normally she would complete the forms, pack the dead eagle in ice, and overnight her to the National Eagle Repository, the federal agency which collects protected but deceased eagles and distributes their feathers to Native American tribes.
But now, instead, she would overnight the dead eagle to Ben. Ben’s female eagle, confiscated from a roadside zoo in Buffalo by the state’s Conservation Police, was very much alive. But today Ben would record that she suddenly collapsed and died, probably due to stress and age. Tomorrow Ben would receive Kelly’s record-less eagle, repack her, insert a copy of his own records, and send her on to NER. This afternoon he would take his confiscated eagle and drive her to the Western Pennsylvania Wildlife Center. The Pauper and the Princess would switch places, the confiscated eagle would move from a dirty little zoo in upstate New York to a palace of a flight cage in Pennsylvania, and Banshee would reunite with her mate and roll on up to Ontario.
And the plan would work because of the general blindness of humanity. Elias pictured Banshee: the slight droop of her left wing, the crooked third toe on her right foot, the unusually loud, rapidly descending notes of her cry; the way she cocked her head to compensate for her blind left eye, visible only by its slight sheen when she looked toward the sun.
He could pick her out of a flight cage filled with eagles. But then, he knew her.
He would have to borrow a car, call Hélène, expedite the paperwork, and find a way to get rid of Gunderman for a couple of hours. The plan would work, and no one but Elias, Celia, Stanley, Warren, Luna, Ned, and 119 rehabbers scattered across the country would know.
Elias stood up and gazed over the hills and valleys, home to wild creatures determinedly living their lives. He raised his fist in tribute to the resistance, then he followed the trail down the mountain. Halfway through the field he noticed the hammock was swaying, and he slowed to a stop.
It was covered with a colorful quilt. Celia swung gently, radiant, a six-month-old Wizzie beside her. On Wizzie’s other side was Luna, just turned seventeen. She had been living with Harry and Rose for almost two years. She was still quiet and guarded, but her transformation had been a thing to behold. The three of them swung in the summer shade. Dad! Join us! Celia beckoned.
Come on, Elias, called Luna, smiling. There’s always room for you.
He blinked, and the hammock was empty. Life is filled with miracles, he thought. Let’s see how many we can find now.
• • •
“Who do you think Warren’s going to kill first?” asked Stanley, his eyes bleary above his steaming coffee cup. “Matheson or Edwards?”
Ned sat beside him. Neither of them had slept much, even after Warren had phoned to say Luna was safe. “I still can’t figure out how she got away,” said Ned, “unless another mob of rehabbers with guns showed up at his house.”
Stanley regarded him sympathetically. “I’m glad I’m not you,” he said.
“Why don’t I go home?” asked Ned. “She’s married! And she’s not just married, she’s married to Adam Matheson. Plus, she’s a felon. I could go on.”
“You could.”
“I don’t even like birds. I thought they’d grow on me, but no. Not at all. That one out there? It still scares the shit out of me. You know something? The first time I met her she had fish puke all over her.” He leaned his head on one hand. “What’s going to happen when she gets to Canada? Notice I’m saying when.”
“That’s what we’re all waiting to see.”
Something in his tone made Ned squint. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s a rehabber thing.”
Ned snorted. “I’m either one step above or one step below a rehabber, depending on how you look at it.”
Stanley put his cup down. ”Have you noticed the Greed Is Good crowd is back in charge of this country? Every day they rip another environmental regulation to shreds.”
“And?”
“And we need our own Hélène.”
Ned regarded him blankly.
“You don’t know what it’s like, Ned. The destruction. The suffering. You work for decades to change the laws and finally you win, but only for a minute. You feel triumph and hope, and then another sleazy politician takes it all away. You get tired. You need someone to inspire you not to give up.”
“Are you saying it’s Luna?”
Stanley looked back at him with a mixture of embarrassment and defiance. “I know, I know! I know how it sounds! But she’s already mythical. When Harry and Rose took her to Ontario for her sixteenth birthday, Hélène spent ten minutes with her, then handed her a Golden Eagle. You know what Golden Eagles are like? They’re like Mars on steroids. Luna handled that bird as if she’d done it her whole life. Everyone could see it. After they left, Hélène said Luna was the one. And we’ve been waiting ever since.”
A two-toned whistle emerged from Ned’s phone. It was Carlene, texting from her painted bird room in Florida.
bluestreak@juno.com Goddamn cops were at the panther refuge and F&W just released this photo
He clicked on the attachment. Beneath the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Services logo was a photo of Warren, eyes on the distance, holding a pair of binoculars beneath his chin.
“What is it?” asked Stanley
“Warren’s officially a Person of Interest,” said Ned, tilting the phone toward him. “They’re tightening the net.” He put the phone down. “Does Luna know who…what…she’s supposed to be?”
“No,” said Stanley. “We don’t think she could take it.”
• • •
Celia stood by her office window, her eyes on the flight cage where Banshee stood, stubbornly motionless, on her perch. The volunteers’ morale was down. They tried not to question her directly, knowing she had no answers, but Celia could see the concern in their eyes. Even worse, she could feel it: anxiousness hung like a fog, emanating from people who knew its effect on wildlife and tried to suppress it. She saw a flash of motion, and watched her father cross the field.
“Dad, what is going on?” she asked, as Elias entered the room. “No one knows what happened after Trish and Angelica’s! Do you?”
“I know they’re okay,” said Elias, “but that’s all I can tell you. Just hang in there a little longer. Can you do that?”
“But when is it going to end? Banshee’s still not eating! Are we all supposed to just sit and watch? And Officer Gunderman — why does he have to come back here?”
“It’s not our decision, Celia! And don’t forget what he did for Warren!”
Celia turned toward the screen door. Standing outside was Gunderman, lowering his hand as if he had changed his mind about knocking.
“Officer Gunderman!” said Elias. “Come in.”
Celia watched him enter the room. As usual he stood straight and tall, his uniform neatly pressed, his eyes level. But there was something defensive and guarded about him, an inner cloud which had not been there before. The first time she met him she noticed his face was handsome and kind, but she dismissed it. Now, she noticed it again.
“Good morning,” he said politely, and she wanted to sit him down and ask, what happened? Are you in trouble because of what you did for Warren?
“I just wanted to let you know I’m back in town,” he said. “I won’t disturb you for long, but we believe Luna Burke may try to take the missing eagle’s mate. I still hope her plan is to cooperate with us, and to return the missing eagle. If so, I will do everything possible to help her.”
Celia and Elias exchanged glances.
“But if her plan is to take that second eagle, it’s my job to stop her.” He regarded each of them in turn, and sighed. “Basically, right now I’m a bird guard.” He paused, then backed toward the door. “Thanks for your time. I’ll swing by again this afternoon.”
He left the room, and Elias turned to Celia. “Just keep the faith,” he said. “I’ll be back in a little while.”
• • •
The apartment was small and neat. It had been empty when they arrived, its owner in Springfield visiting her mother. Lyllis insisted Luna take the bedroom, then she busied herself with the foldout couch. This is why friends need to keep copies of each other’s house keys, Lyllis said.
A half hour later Luna turned out the light on her bedside table. She expected the worst, but almost immediately she fell into a dreamless sleep. Eventually she awakened with a start, rose, and pulled on Lyllis’s shirt. She padded barefoot into the living room, now flooded with daylight, but the apartment was empty. On the dining room table was a note in loopy script: BACK SOON. The sky was overcast. The kitchen clock read 11:13 a.m.
“It’s me!” came a voice from the hallway, accompanied by the click of a lock. “Don’t freak out.”
Lyllis entered, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered young man with long braids and more than a passing resemblance to Roland. He saw Luna’s look of apprehension, and smiled apologetically. “You don’t have to worry,” he said. “Kidnapping doesn’t run in the family.”
“This is Michael,” announced Lyllis, placing a shopping bag on the table. “Roland’s nephew. My nephew too, though maybe not officially.”
Michael shook her hand, then reached into a bag and offered her a cup of coffee. “I had a big fight with your friend Warren this morning,” said Lyllis. “I don’t know how he got my number, but he called me and said two of his friends were going to pick you up. I said hell, no.”
Lyllis put her hands on her hips. “Warren said your next stop is a cabin outside Arrow Lake, Minnesota. We’re going to get you there tonight. And if Roland thinks he’s going to grab you again, he’s going to have to get past his own family. Michael and I are the best bodyguards you’ve got.”
“Thank you, but it’s too dangerous,” said Luna, shaking her head. “Where are Warren’s guys?”
“I just don’t know,” said Lyllis, exaggeratedly baffled. “And I can’t find out from Warren, because I turned my phone off.”
“There’s no point in arguing with Lyllis when she gets like this,” said Michael. “Uncle Roland’ll be watching her garage, so we rented a car. Warren promised to let us get you to his friends’ place in Minnesota, and Lyllis promised to not smash his tracker.” He gestured to Luna’s necklace, and she touched the silver bead.
“But what about your phones?” she asked. “Did you make any calls they could hack?”
“Michael’s girlfriend rented the car for us fifteen minutes ago, and we’re getting out of here right now,” said Lyllis. “They won’t have time to put it together. I bought you some clothes,” she added, pointing to the shopping bag. “Underwear, pair of pants, shirt, sweater, and socks. ‘Course I know your sizes. Look underneath, ‘cause the most important items are at the bottom. Size 8, regular width.”
Luna pulled out a box.
“Running shoes,” said Michael.
• • •
Gunderman drove through town with both hands balanced on the wheel of his car, still shaken by the sight of Warren’s face on the Fish and Wildlife release. A call from Whittaker was imminent, and it would not be pleasant.
He pulled into a space close to the police department. He slid out and spotted Elias, sitting in his parked truck. “Officer Gunderman!” said Elias through his open window. “Can I talk to you a minute?”
The men met on the sidewalk. “I have a favor to ask you,” said Elias. “Today is the anniversary of my daughter’s husband’s death. Sometimes she gets a little sad. Would you consider taking her out to dinner tonight?”
Gunderman pictured the photograph of Celia, blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight, gleefully hugging her husband’s killer.
“What do you think?” pressed Elias.
“Oh. Yes. I’m sorry to hear that. Certainly, whatever I can do to help.”
“That’s very kind of you,” Elias said smoothly, as if these were arrangements he made all the time. “There’s a great little Italian place on Maple. How about six o’clock?”
“All right.”
“I realize we have our differences, but you’re a good man,” said Elias. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you this, but Celia’s awfully sensitive. Best not to bring this up.”
“Understood.”
Elias smiled, clapped Gunderman on the shoulder, and headed down the street. Does he really think I’m going to fall for this? thought Gunderman. Is Warren involved?
• • •
The smell of bacon filled the kitchen. The windows framed a cloudy afternoon. Elias was spreading mayonnaise on six pieces of toast when Celia dropped the skillet onto the burner with a crash.
“A date?” she gasped.
“You want to help Luna?” asked Elias, glancing behind him and keeping his voice down. “You want to get Banshee back with Mars? Then go out to dinner and don’t ask any questions.”
“But…did you already ask him?”
“I just set it up. Go along with it, have a nice dinner, and do your part.”
“But I don’t want to go on a date!”
“Suck it up, Celia! This is the only …”
Elias stopped abruptly as Wizzie walked into the room. “Who’s going on a date? Not Mom.”
“Yes, Mom,” said Elias.
“With who?”
“Never mind,” said Elias. “You don’t need to know everything that goes on around here.”
Wizzie peered at Celia. “But who would you ever go on a …” Her jaw dropped. “Is it Officer Gunderman? Are you going on a date with Officer Gunderman?”
Celia threw Elias an irritated look.
“When did this happen?” cried Wizzie. “Can I come?”
“Of course you can’t,” said Elias. “Don’t be ridiculous. And it’s not a date, it’s a business dinner.”
“But I heard Mom say a date!”
“It’s a date for a business dinner!”
Wizzie looked imploringly at Celia, who was busily making sandwiches. “Mom! I can go with you, right?”
“No,” said Celia, determinedly avoiding eye contact with her daughter.
“But he doesn’t even have a business! He works for the government! Are you allowed to do this? Isn’t it like dating your parole officer?”
“You’re not going,” said Elias. “You’re going to Anna’s for a sleepover!” He glanced at his watch. “Aren’t you getting picked up soon?”
“But it wasn’t even Anna’s idea! She said all of a sudden her dad told her she was having a sleepover, and…”
“…and that’s all she wrote, Wizzie!” finished Elias, grabbing a sandwich. “You’re going to Anna’s, Mom’s going out to dinner, and I’m holding down the fort! You ladies have lunch, and I’ll go check on the beavers!”
Pulling a baseball cap off a hook, he hurried out the door toward the clinic and went over his mental checklist. Wizzie, done. Celia, done. Well, basically done; Celia couldn’t admit to something she didn’t know. The only potentially awkward moment would be if Gunderman brought up the supposed death anniversary, but Elias was sure he was too polite to do it. Even if he did, Celia would be too shy to correct him.
Gunderman would assume there was an eagle heist in the works, but if he didn’t go along with the dinner, he could derail what might be his only chance to apprehend Luna. He would probably post a cop on the road, which was why Elias needed to borrow Owen’s car.
He finished his sandwich. The Princess and the Pauper plan will go down in rehabber history, he thought. He almost wished he could explain it to Gunderman, just so Gunderman could more fully understand the importance of keeping a bonded pair of Bald Eagles together. He’ll learn, he thought.
• • •
Gunderman watched Elias stride away, then he turned and entered the Prattstown Police Department. The day before he had met the chief, a genial man in his fifties who hadn’t let on, if he knew, that Gunderman had arrived from Rock Ridge in disgrace. The chief had shaken Gunderman’s hand, pledged his support, and encouraged him to use their database.
Today the station was quiet. Right now I’m a bird guard, he had said to Celia and Elias, deliberately trying to rouse Celia’s sympathy and prod her into revealing a plan. But it was true, he was a bird guard. And now it was clear Elias had a plan, but whether Celia was in on it was anyone’s guess. Gunderman nodded at an officer, and sat at an empty desk in the corner. His cell phone rang, and he pulled his eyes from the computer.
“Get onscreen,” ordered Whittaker.
Gunderman tapped the keyboard, feeling a chill at his boss’s tone. Whittaker appeared at his desk, his eyes hard. He slapped a folder down, removed a photograph, and turned it toward his computer screen.
The old black and white shot showed a dozen fit, muscled young men clustered on a beach. They were short-haired, clean-shaven, and shirtless, all wearing shorts and the occasional brimmed cap. Gunderman squinted at the man beside Whittaker’s pointed finger: a young Warren, grinning rakishly at the camera.
“Warren Trask,” said Whittaker, snapping off the syllables. “Naval Special Warfare Group Three, SEAL Team One.”
He picked up a second photograph and slid it in front of the first. Another old black and white shot showed a group of men in full camouflage, bullet belts crossed across their chests. Warren stood beside Whittaker’s pointed finger, staring steadily at the camera, an M-14 balanced casually on one shoulder.
“Warren Trask,” he said. “Rung Sat — ‘The Forest of Assassins.’ I’ll spare you the medals and citations.”
Whittaker picked up a third photo. “Warren Trask,” he said. “Founder of The Florida Panther Recovery Unit.”
The recent color photo showed Warren, grey-haired, bearded, sitting on the hood of a battered jeep. His eyes were fixed on the distance, and he held a pair of binoculars just beneath his chin.
“And you know what?” continued Whittaker, his voice rising. “There isn’t one shred of evidence linking a trained combat vet, decorated sniper, and defender of the environment to any of this Matheson bullshit. None of the police officers involved in the capture of the Unidentified White Male will give a positive ID because one, they tackled him from behind, two, his face was camouflaged, and three, he kept it hidden when he was in the fucking bear net.”
“Yes, sir,” said Gunderman.
Whittaker lowered the photographs. “This information should have come from you. Can you make a positive ID of this man?”
Gunderman held Whittaker’s gaze. He swallowed. When he finally spoke, his voice was harder than he meant it to be.
“No, sir.”
Whittaker gave a grunt of disgust. “Your regional supervisor has been my best friend for 40 years.”
He slammed his hands down on the desk and shoved the file aside. “You listen to me, Gunderman,” he said. “I want both those eagles, I want this case wrapped up, and I want Luna Burke headed for court. You’ve got 48 hours. If I don’t get all of it, you’re out.”
He reached forward and severed the connection.