“ ’Sup yourself,” I say, not exactly sure what that’s supposed to mean, but I don’t want to sound dumb.
“That’s Karma.” Dad points to me. Gavin’s eyes are round as he takes in everything that’s happening.
“I’m Henry, and this is Gavin,” Dad says. “What’s your name?”
“Cooper.”
“As in Cooper’s hawk?” I ask. “Very cool short-winged bird—well all birds are cool. But they’re cunning predators.”
His eyes are hard, and that expression on his face makes me cringe. I’ve seen it before. It means I talk too much around new people.
“Cunning predators?” the boy asks.
“Good hunters. They fly really well. All accipiters do, they’re swift-winged birds. Cooper’s hawks are related to sharp-shinned hawks and goshawks; you’ve heard of those?”
“Cooper, as in my name is Cooper,” he says, then adds under his breath, “and yours is Crazy.”
“Cooper.” Dad’s voice is tight. “Are you on your way home?”
“No.” And the tone of his response slams the door on any further conversation.
As awkwardness descends over us, I shuffle in my seat. I meet Dad’s eyes in the rearview mirror and feel a tightness in my belly at his look of discomfort.
“So, do you go to school?” I ask, turning toward the boy.
He stares at me a moment, then lifts one eyebrow.
“ ’Cause, well, I’m just asking, since we don’t. Go to school. Nope. We’re homeschooled because we have to be home to run the Birds of Prey Education Center. Ever heard of it?”
He’s about to speak when Stark chooses that moment to vocalize.
Kek, kek, kek.
Cooper jumps. “What the what?”
“That’s Stark,” I say. “She has special genes.”
Cooper peers at the box with a confused expression, so I elaborate.
“She’s a gyrfalcon, part of the long-winged family. She has a spectacular color morph….I mean, it’s special for a gyr to be pure white like that. They can be brown, black, or silver. They’re an arctic bird, from Greenland, or Iceland, so they blend in with the snow. And you should see how her color sets off her dark eyes. She’s one of the prettiest birds I’ve ever known. And I’ve known a lot of them.”
“Huh.” He’s eyeing me closer now. He takes in my frizzed-out hair, my T-shirt that reads “Do Not Make Me Use My Falconer’s Voice.”
I casually pat my hair to smooth it.
Cooper’s gaze finds my book, still open to the bumblefoot infection, and he wipes his hand on his jeans as though the photos were contagious.
“Oh, yeah. Those photos,” I say. “Gyrs are more susceptible to diseases and stuff. I had to read up on it after I found Stark.”
“Riiight,” Cooper says.
“Stark’s my bird. Well, she was.” Talking about Stark makes my voice shaky. “She was my lure demo bird. Not mine for falconry.” As I say this, an unexpected yearning comes to me, and I imagine hunting with Stark. I would have loved the chance to hunt with her.
“I haven’t got a bird for falconry yet,” I continue. “First I have to write an exam to get my apprentice license. Then I start my apprenticeship with my aunt Amy for two years. We start with trapping a red-tailed hawk. The license allows me to trap and hold one raptor for the purpose of training and hunting. They’re easier to handle than long-winged birds, and using a wild-caught for falconry is best. They make great hunting partners.”
Cooper remains silent, so I continue. “Once I’m done with my apprenticeship, I’ll become a falconer like my aunt. She lives across our road with Uncle Marco, down the longest driveway in the world.”
“That’s kinda cool,” Cooper says.
“I know!” I smile at him, encouraging him to say more. “I’ve been around birds my whole life.”
“So, you ever killed stuff with a bird?”
I glance at Dad again in the rearview mirror. Time to change the topic. “I’m going to high school next year, in Red Rock. Is that where you go?”
“No.”
“Oh. Where do you go?” I ask.
“Are you apprenticing to be a detective too?”
“No, just for falconry.”
He smirks, which makes me even more nervous. Behind him, outside the window, something catches my eye. There’s just enough time to see a coyote slink into the scrub brush on the side of the highway. But our wildlife I-spy game has been forgotten.
“So, are you on Facebook?” I can’t seem to help my mouth from running.
Cooper stares at me as if I’ve got something hanging out of my nose.
“If you want to know more about falconry,” I continue, casually wiping my nose just to be sure, “I can send you some links. What’s your last name? We could friend each other.”
“Are you for real?” he asks.
“Are we getting closer to where you want to go?” Dad cuts in. “We’re, ah…turning off soon.”
“Actually, Henry, I’m going much farther.” Cooper leans over the console toward him and points ahead out the window.
“Well, unfortunately, we’ll have to drop you off here, since we’re turning at the next road ahead.” Dad slows the van as he talks, staring into Cooper’s eyes through the rearview mirror. “I’m sure you can find another ride.”
We stop, and Dad turns around. “It was very nice to meet you, Cooper.”
The silence hangs between them for a beat. Cooper stays rigid, as if teetering on the verge of a decision. It makes me tense too. In fact, all four of us sit frozen in place, staring at one another.
Cooper opens the door and leaps out. He heads directly to the back of the van, and I’m wondering if he’s looking to come in the back and release Stark or take her box or something. I scramble over the seat to protect her. All I see through the window is the top of Cooper’s brown hair blowing in the wind.
Dad unbuckles his seat belt and leans way over Gavin to peer out of the open window. “What are you doing back there, son?”
“I’m not your son!” Cooper straightens and starts marching along the van, passing us and continuing on ahead. Once he’s on the highway, he turns, scratching his chin with his middle finger and staring at Dad with a challenge. He sticks his thumb out and begins walking backward down the deserted road.
“Oh, boy,” Dad says. He straightens and puts the van in drive.
We pass Cooper as we accelerate. I feel strange, as if he were a wounded bird that needed help, but we set him free too soon.
“He was weird,” Gavin says.
“He wasn’t that weird,” I say.
Dad is suspiciously quiet on the subject.
“That road, Dad?” Gavin asks, pointing. “Can we turn there? ’Cause I have to pee.”
Dad groans. “Why didn’t you go at the gas station?”
“I didn’t have to go then, obviously.”
“Well”—Dad glances in his side mirror at the figure behind us—“I did tell the boy we were turning here.”
He takes the turn, and we head down a bumpy trail that has no right to be called a road. Dad studies the GPS and jabs at its buttons as we bump along. “Looks like this road continues across to hook up with Highway 287. We can stay on it all the way through.”
After we’ve stopped for Gavin, he gets in the backseat with me, and Dad starts up the van again. The road straightens out a bit. I keep expecting Dad to lay into me about making him pick up a hitchhiker. Knowing that the lecture is coming makes the silence worse. Dad must be waiting until we get to Denny’s so he can give me his full attention. Wonderful.
“Choose a color,” Gavin says, leaning toward me with an origami fortune teller game folded over his two pointer fingers and thumbs. Each of the four flaps has been colored with a different marker.
“Red,” I say.
“R-E-D.” Gavin counts out the color’s letters by pinching and then opening his thumbs and fingers, closing and opening the fortune teller.
“This is my gift,” Gavin says. “Predicting the future.” He counts out the number with careful concentration and then looks at me again with a wicked grin. “And now, pick another number. Choose your fate wisely.”
“Two.” I don’t know why I play. His fortunes are so crazy.
Gavin unfolds the flap marked with a two and clears his throat. “You will suffer an unfortunate accident involving a turnip truck.”
“It does not say that.”
“And then you die!” Gavin crows, waving the game in front of me.
I snatch it from him. “Oh, too slow!” I hold him away at arm’s length until a hard bump pulls my attention back to the road.
“We still haven’t reached 287, Dad?” I ask, stuffing the game in my back pocket. “Think the GPS is wrong?”
“Never,” Dad says.
I lean forward and open the console, hoping for a road map.
“Dad, where’s the phone?” I look at the floor and under the seats in front of me.
“I don’t know. Where did you leave it?”
I think about Cooper leaning over the console. “That boy stole our phone!” I blurt out.
“Are you sure?” Dad turns around and points under Gavin’s seat. “Did you check—”
A shocking boom explodes from one of the back wheels. The van lurches to the side, and we fishtail wildly. I grab the door and scream.
“Hang on!” Dad yells.
The front tire sinks into the soft shoulder of the road. In an instant the van plummets, glass smashes, metal shrieks. Gavin’s head jerks, and his long blond hair floats as if caught in a slow-motion, underwater scene. It takes just a fraction of a second for this to happen. It takes a moment longer for me to realize that the van has flipped over and we’ve landed sideways.
The van is still and quiet. Deadly quiet.
“Dad!” I scream. “Gavin?”
I blink. Everything is wrong. I try shoving my door open, but it’s jammed. The other door is above my head. I reach for Gavin, but my seat belt stops me. I release the button and sag out of the seat.
The van is a horror show, full of broken glass. But the worst part is being sideways. It’s so confusing. I can’t figure out where everything is. I pull myself up. Glass crunches under me.
“Gavin! Are you okay?” I grab him, and his eyes fly open. He gapes at me but doesn’t seem to focus. Then he blinks, looks around, and screws up his face. “Karma! Dad? What—” He starts to cry.
“We were in an accident, Gav. Shush, it’s okay. Here.” I jab at his seat belt, and he flops into my arms. I’m wild with checking him over, making sure he has all his limbs. My world narrows to only my brother. He’s so trusting and wily and fragile, and I hold him and hold him.
Once Gavin has calmed me down, I turn to Dad.
He’s too still.
My heart pounds as I grip him. “Dad! Wake up!”
He moans, and slowly his eyes open. The front of the van smashed toward him. His face and neck are bleeding from a bunch of little cuts.
“Dad, the airbag is covering you; I have to get you out.”
But it’s not the airbag. The whole steering wheel is pinning him to his seat. I don’t know what to do. Dad is on the downside of the van, leaning against the door. His window is broken, and there are glass shards all over his chest.
“Dad! Get up!” Gavin starts to cry again.
I raise my chin and hold on to the focus inside me. Cry later. Things need to get done.
Dad finally lifts his head and looks up at me. “Karma? Are you okay?”
He’s talking. He knows me. “Yeah.” My breath comes out like the mew of a kitten. “Let’s get out of the van, Dad. Help me.” I pull his arm, and he cries out. I immediately stop. “What?”
Dad pushes against the steering wheel that’s bent in toward him. The whole front dashboard is looking like an accordion. “Something’s pinning me. My leg.”
Dad grabs his leg with both hands and tries to shift it, but it doesn’t move. He pushes against the steering wheel. It doesn’t budge.
“Karma, you’re going to have to call for help. I’m stuck.”
My focus is slipping as the adrenaline in my system pumps. I look around the van, confused. Then I think of the phone. It’s missing. Then I remember Stark is still in the back. How could I forget Stark?
I lunge to the back of the van, crawling over more broken glass. The fun-house tilt of everything makes me woozy. The seat is angled above me, and I skirt around it to get to Stark’s crate. The crate is still bolted to the frame of the van. I peer inside the tiny slatted window, half expecting to see a lifeless form, but there she is, crouched on the side of the crate. She shakes her head. Amazingly, she seems to be uninjured. A few down feathers stick out, making her look disheveled. A primary feather is bent on her tail, but it can be easily fixed with hot water and a crimper. I want to take her out, to check her over thoroughly and reassure her. But if I do, I might never get her back in.
“I’ll come get you soon, Stark. You’re okay.” I leave her safe in her crate and turn to the back doors of the van. I reach for the handle on the lower one and push on the door. It creaks but swings open.
“Karma?” Dad yells.
“Hold on, I’m going out.” I need air. I need to think.
We’re at the bottom of a sharply steep slope dropping off from the road. I scramble up the slope, which is covered with loose rocks. My arm is suddenly throbbing. I stop to catch my breath and look up at the incline, then back down at the van. Gavin has made his way outside and is watching me.
I pull myself up the embankment. Gravel gets into both my running shoes. The dust coats the back of my throat as I rasp with the effort. Finally I reach the edge and step out onto the road.
Our tires have left grooves alongside the road. With the dirt shoved around and the tire tracks right there for me to see, the violence of what just happened sinks in. My knees tremble, and I drop and slump onto the hot dirt. When I peer down the road in both directions, I see no one. Even so, I scream.
“Help!” I cup both hands around my mouth and yell again. “Help!”
Only the shriek of a raptor returns my call. I shield my eyes from the sun and look up. It’s a Swainson’s hawk, wheeling in a circle, hunting.
“You see anyone?” Gavin’s little voice calls up.
“No.” I push myself back up, lean on my knees for a moment, and then stand tall. From this part of the road, I can’t see Gavin or our van down below.
“What do we do, Karma?”
“Ask Dad! I don’t know!”
As I gather my thoughts, I wipe my grit-caked hands on my pants and look down at our broken van. It rests at the bottom of a ravine, pinned against the base of a scrubby tree. There’s a patch of smaller trees behind it. An idea hits me, and I jump off the road, sliding back down the soft sand toward the van.
“You see anything?” Dad asks.
“Hang on, I’m going to get you out.” I head for the shade of the trees, searching for a long branch. Gavin watches. His eyes are big and red, and his face is pale white.
I find a sturdy branch and push one end on the ground, leaning my full weight on it. It bends but doesn’t give. Please let this work.
By the time I climb into the van again, maneuvering the long branch through the back doors, I’m soaked in sweat. My eyes burn, but the only thing I care about right now is getting Dad free.
“Try this, Dad. Can you wedge it under the wheel?”
Dad fumbles, and when I see how truly stuck he is, my head pounds. He shoves the branch between his knees, gritting his teeth.
“Good! I’m going to use the console as a pivot point. Remember the fulcrum lesson….Dad? You okay?” I feel like I could protect him with the power of my need. He has to be okay.
“I’m okay,” he says.
I don’t like the idea of pressing on Dad’s
leg, but I’m ready to try anything. Gavin and I lean on the branch with our combined weight, but nothing happens. We jump up and down on it, thrashing it this way and that. Still, the steering wheel doesn’t budge.
“What are we going to do?” Gavin cries. He slumps to the seat.
That’s when I notice Stark’s cage door is wide open. I scramble over and peer in. The crate sits empty.
“Where—? What happened to Stark?” I whirl around and look at Gavin.
His gaze casts down at the broken glass at his feet. “She got away,” he says.
“What?”
“I was just going to see if she was okay, but when I opened the door, she left.”
“What? Why did you…? She was totally freaked out.” Everything closes in on me now. The accident, the roll down the embankment, metal crunching, broken glass, Dad trapped, deserted road, no phone. And now Stark is gone.
My sobs drown out anything that Dad and Gavin say.
I sniff and raise my head.
“Karma,” Dad says softly.
I crawl over to him and lean on his shoulder. He tries to put an arm around me, but I can see in his expression that it’s awkward and painful for him. He gives up and rubs my arm instead. I peer at his face again.
“We need to fix you up,” I say.
I scramble for the first-aid kit tucked into the back compartment and take out sterile gauze and antiseptic to clean Dad’s cuts. Some have glass stuck in them. I find tweezers in the first-aid kit. They’re hard to grip and my fingers shake as I pull the glass out. Gavin has no cuts. The window on his side didn’t break.
“I’m sorry,” Dad says. “Our tire blew, and I lost control.”
“It’s okay. Just tell me what to do now.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. I know what he’s thinking, and I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I can leave him here. But I have to get us help. Am I brave enough to hike out alone? I don’t feel that brave.
“I’m going for help,” I say.
“I’m going too,” Gavin says behind me.
“No,” both Dad and I say at once.
“I need help here, little man,” Dad says. Then he looks at me. “We’ve gone over forty miles from the highway, but the GPS showed we were almost to 287. If you keep going on this road, it should only be a few more miles before you get to the highway and find help. I think it’s the best way.”
Falcon Wild Page 3