Which apparently is Oh-So-Superior for crow.
“We’re not,” Quinn says, and starts explaining the situation as he reaches through the netting to remove the transmitter. But even after he’s handed Cricket the transmitter and let the crow go, he’s still having to explain things to the professor because, for such a supposedly smart guy, Mr. Corvus Brachyrhynchos is sure asking a lot of dumb questions. Like, “How did they know the camp was used by someone with a shotgun? Are they sure the hog was slit open? What if it was downed by coyotes? How can they be sure it was a man on a horse?”
He finally shut up when we piled into Quinn’s truck. The adults got the cab, while the rest of us and the backpacks and Marvin crammed into the bed of the truck.
After we’d been driving for a while, I peeked inside the tent to check on Marvin. His eyes were droopy, and I could feel my heart lurch. He was not doing well. Not well at all.
I bit my lip and looked away, thinking that after all this, that big ol’ ugly bird had better not die.
SIXTEEN
On the ride back up to the Lookout, Casey sat close beside me and whispered, “You okay? You’ve got this gutsy girl thing going on the outside, but on the inside you’re upset.” He caught my eye. “I can tell.”
I tried to scowl like, You’re full of condor poop, buddy, but my chin kinda quivered and gave me away.
He smiled at me and put his hand on my knee. “He would have died out there on his own, you know.”
“It looks like he’s going to die anyway,” I said, and my voice came out all raspy.
“They’re helicoptering him out of here, they’ve probably got some raptor expert waiting for him at that animal hospital. . . . Your big buddy is gonna pull through.”
“He’s not my big buddy,” I said, because I didn’t want him to be my big buddy. I didn’t want to care about him at all. I wanted to go back to thinking he was an ugly oversized turkey vulture who ate guts and bottle caps.
“So why wouldn’t you let anyone else carry him?”
My eyes popped. “You think I wanted to carry him? That bad boy is heavy! I just thought it was fair since I was the one who was carrying the least.”
Casey just smirked.
It was strange pulling up to the Lookout. It felt like a week since Cricket and I had left camp, but it had only been a day. Everything was pretty much the way we had left it, except for the blue and orange mountain bike leaning against the steps.
“She’s back?” Gabby whined.
This time Bella just let it slide. Then, as we were unloading the truck, Robin perked an ear and said, “Listen! They’re already here!”
At first it was a distant, choppy sound, but as the helicopter came around the mountain and into view, the noise became thunderous.
“It’ll be safer in the Lookout, girls!” Robin called, tossing Bella the keys. Then she realized that her little group had grown since the last time we’d been there. “And boys!” she added. “Go!”
So the six of us ran up the steps, opened a few shutters quick so we could watch, then dove inside. Janey wasn’t inside the Lookout, but wherever she was studying bugs and bones—or whatever people who work at natural history museums do—she couldn’t have missed the arrival of the helicopter. It put up a huge dust storm and we felt like the Lookout windows might implode from all the wind it was making.
The blades never stopped turning. Quinn held open the passenger door, and we all watched as Professor Prag got in with Marvin, who was still wrapped in the tent.
“Why is he going?” I asked. Something about turning over Marvin to the professor just felt wrong.
“Probably because he knows about birds,” Casey said.
Then Billy made me laugh by saying, “Dr. Corvus Brachyrhynchos, at your service.” He had one eye open wide and the other squinting like he was wearing a monocle. “I steal your bird, I steal your tent.” He got a manic look in his wide-open eye. “I am a fowl creature!”
“We’ll get your tent back, Billy,” Cricket said. “I promise.”
After the chopper was out of sight, Bella let out a big sigh. “I can’t believe everybody saw a condor before me. I missed out on everything. . . .”
Cricket said, “Be glad, Bella. It was no fun.”
“But you guys had such an adventure. You found a condor, you got lost, you roasted rattlesnake. . . .” She sighed again like it was the dreamiest night imaginable. “All we did was worry.”
“How far did you guys hike?” I asked.
“We went over the ravine, through Hoghead Valley, past Chumash Caves clear out to Devil’s Horn. We didn’t get back until dark and we were really hoping everyone was here, but then nobody was.”
“Did you go through Miner’s Camp?”
“Had to.”
“Were those boar hunter guys there?”
She sort of cocked her head. “What boar hunter guys?”
“The ones dressed like trees?”
She shrugged. “We didn’t see anybody in Miner’s Camp.”
“Did you look?”
“Sure, we looked. We were looking for Gabby, weren’t we?”
“But . . . they said Quinn talked to them the day before. So their camp must’ve been set up. . . .”
“Oh, there was a tent, but no people.”
Just then Quinn and Robin came in. “Well,” Robin said. “What do you say we make something to eat? From what Gabby told us, you must be famished!”
“We are!” Cricket said, heading for the door. “Come on! Let’s get cooking!”
But while everyone else was filing out, I took a little detour over to where Quinn was frantically making notes in a new log book. “Excuse me,” I said. “You know those guys dressed in camo gear at Miner’s Camp?”
He nodded but didn’t look up.
“Are they boar hunters?”
He stopped and looked at me. “Most likely.”
“But you’ve never caught them hunting?”
He shook his head and went back to writing in the log. “And they always have a camping permit, so there’s not much—” He suddenly looked at me with a sharpness in his eye that hadn’t been there before. “Maybe they’re the ones who shot JC-10! Why didn’t I think of that before?”
“Wait a minute! The reason I was asking was—”
But he was already charging out the door.
So I’m left standing there with more questions than ever, and then my eye catches the new log that Quinn had written in. His penmanship is blocky and surprisingly precise, considering how fast he’d scribbled, and right above his writing is an entry made at eleven that morning: Picked up strong signals from both AC-34 and JC-10 at 280° east. D. Prag.
“Hey, Quinn!” I call as I pound down the Lookout steps.
He’s leaning inside his truck talking on the radio, and when he’s done, he peels his headband off and wipes his brow with it, then flashes me his samurai smile. “I don’t know why I didn’t put that together earlier! Thank you so much for the tip, Sammy.”
“But . . . wait. So much of this doesn’t make sense and I . . .” Between the heat and his blinding smile, I lose my train of thought for a minute. So I jump ahead to “Where’d you guys get another receiver?”
“Another receiver?”
“The log says you guys picked up signals this morning.”
“Oh. I borrowed it from Professor Prag yesterday.”
“So that’s where you were yesterday? At the college?”
He hesitates, then asks, “What’s this all about?” Again, that smile. That brain-freezing smile. “Gee, Officer, should I call my lawyer?”
Then someone calls, “Quinn!” from over by the fire ring, and there’s Janey, with the others, waving and smiling.
Quinn puts his hand on my shoulder like we’re chums and steers me toward the fire ring. “Let’s see what’s cooking.”
Now, okay, (a) I didn’t like the way he was treating me like a child, and (b) I wasn’t going to waste my time ask
ing him any more questions. First he thought Vargus had broken into the Lookout. Then he jumped all over the idea that the Camo Campers had shot Marvin and switched the transmitter. It was like he wanted to blame someone, anyone.
Why wasn’t the truth more important than the blame?
I let him lead me toward the fire ring, because I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to just pretend to go along. Besides, I’d already totally alienated Professor Pointy Nose; it probably wouldn’t be too smart to do the same with Quinn.
But as we walked, I tried to figure out how all these random scraps of information fit together. Maybe Quinn and the professor were in cahoots. Maybe they’d lured Vargus up to the Lookout and had strewn beer cans around to make it seem like college students had stolen the equipment? After all, Quinn knew when Robin was planning to come up. She’d been surprised that he wasn’t there already. So maybe he’d been hanging back, waiting for her to discover Vargus?
And how convenient that the professor had a receiver.
And where’d Quinn get the shooting net?
Where was he yesterday when Cricket and I were waiting and waiting for him to show up?
Anyway, we’d barely made it over to the fire ring when a white four-wheel drive with a giant KSMY emblem on the side comes revving up to the Lookout.
Quinn actually moans, “Oh, no,” when out of the cloud of dust surrounding the SUV emerges Pretty Vegas himself—Grayson Mann. With him, there’s a kinda heavyset man wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt, carrying a big video camera.
“Mr. Terrane, Mr. Terrane!” Grayson calls out to Quinn. “We intercepted some radio traffic about a shot condor. Is it true?”
“I’m afraid so.” Quinn sees the guy in the cargo shorts hoist the big camera onto his shoulder and says, “Mr. Mann, I really don’t want to turn this into a media event.”
“I understand, I understand,” Pretty Vegas says to him. Then he nods at the cameraman. “You remember Alton from our earlier coverage, right?”
Quinn and the cameraman give each other familiar nods, and with that formality out of the way, Pretty Vegas asks, “So when did it happen? How’s the bird? Is there anything we can do to help you track down the hunter?” He pumps his shirt in and out trying to cool off a little. “Name it and we’re on it.”
Quinn says, “I know you mean well, but I’m afraid the exposure from your miniseries might be exactly what led someone to the birds in the first place.”
Pretty Vegas’s jaw drops. “Are you saying this is our fault? We were just trying to inform the public of the plight of the condor and help you get the funding you said you so desperately needed to keep the program going . . . !”
Quinn sighs. “I’m not saying this is your fault. We really appreciate your efforts and support. You and Alton did a terrific job putting that series together.” He takes a deep breath and adds, “But I think under the circumstances, not turning the situation into a public spectacle would better serve the condor population.”
“We’re not talking about making it a public spectacle! We’re simply interested in helping you track down the hunter so he doesn’t strike again! It’s been proven time and time again that if the public is on the lookout for a certain criminal, the public will find that criminal!” He fans his shirt again, then scratches his forearm, and I’m actually feeling kinda sorry for him ’cause he’s obviously dying in his sweaty, itchy work clothes.
“I still don’t think it’s a good idea,” Quinn tells him. “Law enforcement is involved, and we’ve got the best in the field attending to the injured bird. We’re hoping he makes a full recovery.”
Pretty Vegas hands him a business card. “Well, if you change your mind . . .” Then he adds, “Just promise me you won’t give the story to anyone else. We’re the station that’s rooting for you. . . .”
Quinn nods. “Like I said, we appreciate that.”
“I feel for you,” he says, with a friendly pat on Quinn’s shoulder. “Those birds are your pride and joy.” Then he drops his voice and says, “Public outrage is a powerful tool. And your everyday viewer can be very generous. . . .There are all sorts of ways we can help.” Then he adds, “And if it was just an accident, public awareness could prevent future injuries.” He cocks his sweaty, swoopy-haired head a little. “You think it might have been an accident?”
Quinn nods. “That’s certainly a possibility.”
I feel like screaming, “What? A condor’s transmitter got strapped onto a crow by accident?” But Quinn shoots me a look, and it hits me that maybe he just doesn’t want to give anything away to a reporter. Or maybe he just wants to get rid of the guy.
Then Pretty Vegas’s eyes narrow a bit and he says, “What about that group of developers?” He snaps his fingers, trying to remember something. “Luxton Enterprises—that’s it!”
“What about them?” Quinn asks.
“They had this grandiose plan for a golf course and estate homes, but their property butts up to the condor sanctuary, so they got denied.”
“Right. But that got nixed in the early stages. And it’s been over a year.”
“But it’s still real motivation! Trust me, I’ve got a nose for this sort of thing.” He scratches his arm and fans his shirt. “I’m going to do some checking for you. We’ll get to the bottom of this! Come on, man, think about it—if they’re the ones behind this, they might not stop until they kill them all!” Then, like he’s switching cameras in the newsroom, he turns and flashes his reporter smile around at the rest of us, shaking hands, going, “Grayson Mann, KSMY . . . Grayson Mann, KSMY . . .” Then he hands a business card to each and every one of us, saying, “Here’s how you can reach me if there’s a break in the story. I’m behind you people. Behind you one hundred percent.”
When he’s gone, Robin takes a deep breath and says, “Media people,” and Quinn mutters, “I’m sorry I ever let Dennis talk me into doing that series.”
A little alarm goes off in my brain. “Professor Prag wanted TV cameras up here?”
He nods. “He thought it would help raise funds, which it has.” Then he kind of eyes me and adds, “I know you and Dennis didn’t hit it off too well, but I can see why—Dennis likes things done his way and you like to buck authority.”
“I like to buck stupidity.”
The minute it came out, I wished I could take it back—even if it was the truth. But the odd thing is, Quinn just sort of pulled back a smile and said, “Dennis is far from stupid, but I do admit he takes some getting used to.”
Then Janey pipes up with, “But back to the condors. It sounds like that Luxton Enterprises is worth looking into . . . don’t you think?”
Quinn nods, but it’s sort of a reluctant nod.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
“I don’t know,” Quinn says. “I guess I don’t really want to believe any of this. Some angry developer’s going to extinguish an endangered species for a few houses and a golf course?”
Janey shakes her head. “I know, but it’s probably worth millions to them.”
Robin nods. “She’s right, Quinn.”
“But this doesn’t seem like it was a big-bucks operation,” I tell them. “I mean, come on. One guy on a horse? A slaughtered pig? A four-by-six tent? And why put a transmitter on a crow? It sure doesn’t sound like someone who’s trying to get rid of all the condors.”
All the adults just stand there blinking at me. And then Quinn says, “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but maybe you should just let the adults handle this.”
So I blink at him a minute, then snort and walk off, wondering why I even cared.
SEVENTEEN
When the food was ready, everyone else joked and chatted while they ate, but I scarfed and brooded.
At one point Casey whispered, “Psst. What are you thinking about?”
“Huh? Oh . . .” I looked around. Billy was poking at the wood in the fire ring, Robin was cleaning up, and Quinn was busy entertaining Janey and the other girls with some adventure
story. I shook my head. “I can’t talk about it right now.”
I did talk to him for a little while about other stuff, but I must have drifted off to Broodsville again because the next thing I know, Robin’s saying, “So we all agree?”
“What?” I whispered to Casey. “What are we agreeing to?”
“Packin’ it in. Goin’ home. Gettin’ out of Dodge.” He grinned at me and shook his head. “You have amazing powers of concentration.”
“You mean we’re going home? All of us?”
He nodded. “Welcome back.”
I kinda cringed. Here I’d been sitting right next to him and all I’d really done was think about condor killers.
Did I care about them more than I cared about him?
No!
But my stupid fanatical brain had sure made it seem like I did.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. And for the first time ever I reached out and touched his hand.
Everyone else was standing up, so we did, too, only he held on to my hand and said, “Can you tell me about it on the ride home?”
“You’re coming with us?”
“My dad’s not scheduled to pick us up at the trailhead for two more days. But Robin’s offered us a ride and we’re taking it.” He eyed the stack of dirty plates that Robin had collected. “You guys kinda ate up all our food.” He hesitated. “So can you talk to me about it on the way home?”
I glanced at the other girls, then shook my head. “I want to,” I said quietly, “but I can’t.”
“So I guess that means you’ll finally have to give me your phone number?”
“Uh . . .” All of a sudden I felt like a deer in the headlights. I knew I should run, but I was frozen in place.
He waited, but after a minute of me saying nothing, he said, “Your mom still won’t let you talk?”
I said another real intelligent, “Uh . . .” because Casey doesn’t know anything about my living illegally with my grandmother or any of that, and I didn’t know how to explain that I wanted to give him my phone number, but that doing so made me traceable, not just to him but potentially to someone very dangerous.
Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things Page 13