The last panel. Finally.
Not the last event—we still had the Hanukkah dinner to look forward to—although it had now expanded into a Hanukkah, winter solstice, end-of-the-conference, thank-heaven-the-snowplows-are-coming dinner. After that would be the group caroling session in the lobby and the exchange of Secret Santa presents. An undetermined number of attendees would be staying around for an as-yet-unpredictable amount of time, and they were all making plans to occupy themselves Monday with improvised panels, informal discussions, ad hoc debates, impromptu strategic planning sessions, and maybe even field trips into the woods to do a bit of owling, weather permitting. But this was the last official panel.
Which Grandfather had described, rather vaguely, as a time for “wrapping up the conference and looking forward at issues facing us.” He’d originally invited Vera Craine, Ben Green, George Voss, and Nils Lindquist to join him on the panel—not being expert in the field, I wasn’t quite sure if they were the most distinguished ornithologists in attendance or merely the ones Grandfather found most entertaining. Alas, Dr. Lindquist’s seat was conspicuously empty. I wasn’t sure if the chief had told him he couldn’t attend or if he preferred not to. Maybe his migraine had come back. Or maybe becoming a prime suspect had brought one on for real.
As people filed in and took their seats, I found Dr. Czerny standing near the back, gazing at the panel with a lugubrious expression.
“If only Dr. Frogmore could be here to take part,” he said when he noticed me looking at him.
“If only,” I agreed. Not that Frogmore would add much to the panel if he were here—or that Grandfather necessarily would have invited him to be one of the participants. But life would be so much less complicated if Frogmore were still alive. And if Czerny was under the erroneous impression that we’d left the fifth seat behind the head table vacant in Frogmore’s honor, and not in the hope that Dr. Lindquist would eventually show up, I wasn’t going to disillusion him.
And to give Czerny credit, he didn’t seem to resent not being tapped to carry the Frogmorian banner on the panel. He just looked melancholy. He took a seat in the back, as far as possible from the rest of the participants—no doubt so he could more easily maintain his position as the one person still dutifully grieving his fallen hero.
Grandfather took his seat at one end of the panel, to general applause.
“I’m not going to introduce myself or the other panelists,” he said. “If you don’t know us by now, you haven’t been paying attention.”
More applause, and a few cheers.
“I’m thinking of holding this shindig again next year,” Grandfather went on.
Enthusiastic applause greeted this announcement.
“So if any of you have any suggestions about how we could improve things for Owl Fest 2020, don’t be shy about speaking up. Not that most of you ever are.” Laughter rippled through the room. “And before you all bring it up, if we hold it next year, we’ll have it a little earlier. September, October—even November would be an improvement. Not close to Thanksgiving, though, or Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur, and well before the weather gets really bad around here. Meg will help me figure out the best date.”
More applause and a few people turned to smile and wave at me.
“Now that we’ve got that out of the way, any suggestions?”
“Bring back the Owlettes!” someone called, to much laughter and scattered applause. Apparently SPOOR had been a hit.
“I have a suggestion.” Melissa McKendrick stood. “Next year, can we select the sacrificial victim by popular vote?” Clearly this was a little edgy for some—Dr. Czerny looked thunderous—but still, most of the crowd laughed. “Not that I’m complaining about this year’s selection, you understand, but if we’re going to make this a regular feature of the conference, I think it would be good to get all the attendees involved in the decision. More democratic.”
“I’m sure we can all think of a few candidates,” Grandfather said. “And I bet I’d be on a few people’s lists.”
Many shouts of “No!”
“I have an idea.” Dr. Craine leaned forward to her microphone.
I noticed someone moving forward from the back of the room. I initially assumed it was someone coming to the front to make a suggestion—real or humorous. Then I realized it was Mr. Ackley. What was he even doing in the panel, much less making suggestions? I started to follow him, out of some instinct that maybe whatever he was up to would be something we’d want to fend off.
He strode forward until he was standing right beside Grandfather, reaching into his jacket for something. Then he turned and I could see that he was holding a gun. He pointed it at Grandfather’s head.
“Everybody stay in your seats!” he shouted. “Don’t cause trouble and no one will get hurt.”
Everybody followed orders. The entire crowd seemed frozen, except for Grandfather.
“What the hell do you want?” he growled.
“I want to make a public statement,” Mr. Ackley said. “I want you all to listen to it. And I want the media to cover it.”
“The media?” Grandfather sounded puzzled.
“The media,” Ackley repeated. “TV. Radio. Newspapers. And all those bloggers and tweakers. I want them all here.”
I’d edged my way forward to the front row of chairs, though there was still a six-foot gap between me and the table behind which Grandfather and the other panelists were sitting—and Ackley was standing. Since no one else was speaking up, I decided to.
“The media can’t get here yet,” I said. “There’s more than three feet of snow out there. The county snowplows are still stuck in it. That’s the reason most of these people are still here at the hotel instead of being halfway home by now. They can’t get out, so how do you expect the media to get in?”
“Then how did the police get here?” Ackley asked.
“Chief Burke came in a friend’s snowmobile,” I said. “And I heard it was a pretty miserable trip. It could be hours before anyone from the media gets through. Maybe days.”
“Fine. We’ll just wait, then.” The entitled Ackley was back, the one completely unable to grasp that he couldn’t summon a taxi to take him to the airport in mid-blizzard.
“Fine.” Grandfather crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Sooner or later you’ll fall asleep, and then we’ll take your silly gun away.”
The audience, who had variously been whispering, shifting uneasily, looking around, whimpering, or peering hopefully at the exit doors, all gradually settled down, in apparent solidarity, into an imitation of Grandfather’s posture—arms crossed, feet firmly planted on the ground, frowns and eyes locked on Ackley.
“I want the media here or I’ll start shooting people!” Ackley shouted.
“Look, there’s no way the conventional media can get here,” I said. “But who needs them in these days of social media? Who here has a cell phone?”
Most of the audience raised their hands. Craine, and Green followed suit. Even Grandfather grudgingly lifted one hand for a few seconds.
“We can all take video,” I said. “And then once we get the Wi-Fi working again, we can all upload the video to the Internet. It’ll go viral.”
“Go viral.” Ackley frowned. “I never know what people mean when they say that.”
“Potentially bigger audiences than TV and newspapers combined.” I had no idea if that was true, but it sounded good. Although I couldn’t imagine what Ackley could possibly do or say that really would go viral, and I hoped I never found out.
“Everybody—get out your smart phones!” I said aloud.
Those who already had their phones in hand held them up higher, while the rest of the crew dug into purses and pockets. I hoped none of them were armed and under the delusion that starting a gun battle with Ackley would be the smart or heroic thing to do.
Ackley frowned nervously and held the gun closer to Grandfather’s temple. I could see Grandfather watching him out of the corner of his eye. I had to admire his sangfroid, but I hoped he wouldn’t do anything stupid and heroic, either, like trying to wrestle the gun from Ackley’s hand.
Within a minute or two, nearly all of the almost two hundred people in the audience were holding up their phones. It reminded me of concerts from my youth, when at some point in the evening it always seemed mandatory to hold up a lighter and wave it around. Several of my non-smoking friends had routinely carried lighters just for such occasions. Of course, it had been a while since I’d been to a concert, and I’d heard that these days cell phones had replaced lighters in this time-honored ceremony.
Ackley gazed out over the sea of iPhones and Galaxies. He looked puzzled, but not entirely unhappy.
“Are you ready, Mr. Ackley?” I asked.
He nodded.
“Everybody! Three … two … one … action. Take it away, Mr. Ackley.”
“My name is James Renfield Ackley.”
If he was expecting a dramatic reaction to this announcement he was disappointed. I saw nothing but blank looks. Blank looks and phones.
“My brother and I used to own a company called Ackley and Sons. A company our grandfather founded. We were the third generation of Ackleys to run it.”
Still blank looks on all the faces except Grandfather’s. Grandfather’s face was screwed up as if he were trying to remember something.
“We’d still be running it, and planning for the day when we’d pass it along to our children if it wasn’t for you miserable owl lovers!”
“Ackwood Lumber.” Grandfather nodded as if to confirm that he’d figured something out.
“Yes!” Ackley shouted. “Ackwood Lumber was our largest subsidiary. We were one of the biggest, most successful lumber companies in the Pacific Northwest. We manufactured millions of board feet every year!”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw the door that led to the kitchen opening at a rate that would make an elderly snail look speedy. When it was open about six inches or so, an eye peered out. Horace. He seemed to be staring at Ackley’s gun. Or Grandfather’s head. They were so close he could hardly help seeing the one when he looked at the other.
Just for a moment I found myself wishing that we were snowbound with Deputy Vern Shiffley instead of Horace. I felt guilty almost immediately. After all, Vern wouldn’t have been nearly as useful for the chief to have on site handling the murder case over the past two days. But now, I suspected, they’d be thinking about how to take down Ackley before he hurt anyone. And you couldn’t argue with the fact that if a situation called for the skilled use of firearms, Vern was the officer you wanted to have around. Vern regularly brought home trophies from a variety of marksmanship competitions. Horace always passed his annual firearms qualification, but he also always sweated it beforehand. If someone was going to try shooting Ackley without hurting Grandfather …
I silently apologized to Horace.
“And Oliver Frogmore was the worst of all!” I’d almost completely tuned out Ackley’s rant, but hearing him roar out the murder victim’s name snapped me back to attention.
“Did you kill him?” someone called out.
A look of malicious triumph crossed Ackley’s face.
“He was the worst of you,” he said. “You all deserve to die, but him most of all.”
He went on ranting about how horrible Dr. Frogmore had been—what a jerk, what a liar. Actually, he might have had most of the crowd shouting out “Amen!” and “Sing it, brother!” if it hadn’t been for the gun he kept firmly pressed against Grandfather’s head.
Although any burgeoning feeling of solidarity vanished pretty quickly when Ackley moved on from vilifying Frogmore to asserting his God-given right to clear-cut every single tree in the Pacific Northwest if he wanted to, with a side order of pro-pesticide sentiment.
At the kitchen door, Horace’s eye had been replaced by the chief’s eye. I found myself wondering if he was a better shot than Horace. I assumed he’d have to pass the same annual firearms qualification, but I’d never heard how he scored. Of course, the chief himself would know, if it came down to choosing between himself and Horace. And the chief would be very good at hostage negotiations, assuming Ackley would ever shut up enough to be negotiated with.
I suddenly noticed that Grandfather appeared to be trying to catch my eye. He was doing something with his fingers. Very slight movements that I had to watch a couple of times to understand. Pointing to his own chest. Pointing down. Pointing up. And then at me.
I deduced he was suggesting that he was going to dive for the floor, at which point I should rush Ackley. I shook my head slightly. He frowned and repeated the sequence.
Great. Grandfather wasn’t just going to do something stupid and heroic. He was going to make me help him.
Better to help him than let him act alone.
I glanced over at Ben Green, who was sitting next to Grandfather. Maybe it was time to test my admittedly feeble ASL skills. I managed to catch his eye and sign out what I hoped was “It’s time.”
He frowned, and signed back “Time for what?” At least I think that’s what he said.
I signed back “Three, two, one, help Grandfather.” I was pretty sure I had the numbers right, and I saw him glance over at Grandfather when I’d finished.
I repeated the numbers, this time just holding up three fingers, two fingers, and one finger. Green nodded.
I wasn’t at all sure what he planned to do, but if Grandfather was going to start something, the more of us joining in the better. It would be better still if I could coordinate whatever Grandfather had planned with some action from the chief and Horace, but neither of them seemed to be peering through the doorway to the kitchen at the moment.
I looked back at Grandfather, who was scowling openly at me.
Mr. Ackley had segued off into a denunciation of global climate change, which was bound to enrage the assembled scientists. And his frenzy seemed to be reaching some sort of crescendo. I was afraid any minute now he’d decide the time had come to finish it. Or maybe he’d just get so angry he’d pull the trigger by accident.
I nodded to Grandfather and held up three fingers.
He nodded back and I could see him tensing.
I changed my finger sign to two.
Ben Green looked as if he might throw up.
I held out only one finger. Then I lunged toward Ackley. Grandfather hurled himself to the floor, and Green lunged sideways, throwing his considerable bulk on top of Grandfather—and thus between Grandfather and Ackley’s gun.
Ackley froze in mid-sentence when I started moving, and I was able to grab his gun hand and knock him to the floor. The gun didn’t fire. And mercifully he fell silent—probably because one of my knees had landed on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
Almost immediately other people joined the fray, rolling me off Ackley and pinning him down.
“Dammit, Ben, I’m grateful, but you weigh a ton,” Grandfather was shouting. “Get up!”
“Stand back, everyone.” The chief. “And leave the gun to me.”
“Meg, are you all right?” Dr. Craine was looking down at me, offering me a hand up.
When I was on my feet, I found myself face-to-face with the chief.