“Anticat.” Badgercat smirked bitterly. “So they aren’t even considering that the Plucker could be someone else? Not to mention, I’m not even a cat.”
“Well, after they found the plucked sparrow in the hollow of the oak by the slaughterhouse, and your paw prints happen to be all over, not to mention badger Barbara saw you . . . No. They are sure you are the Plucker. And you are a cat.”
“I’m a badgercat! And I didn’t pluck the sparrow! Someone set me up!”
“Of course they did.” Ratty nodded.
But Badgercat thought he saw a shadow of doubt flash across Ratty’s deadpan face. Badgercat suddenly felt like a wet, scared, abandoned kitten. If he lost Ratty’s trust, if he lost his last friend, it would all be over. Who would help him through these difficult, terrible times?
Who would give him measured, sage advice? Who would warn him of any dangers? Who would tell him about Operation Anticat, approved by Weasel . . . Wait!
“Ratty, how do you know about Operation Anticat? And that it was approved by Weasel at an emergency meeting? Those meetings are private and highly secure. Do you really know rats who work for the head of the Union of Mixed Woods?”
“I am one of those rats,” said Ratty calmly. “I work for Madame Weasel.”
“But then . . . then . . . why are you helping me?”
“Because I hate Weasel,” said Ratty simply. “Her enemy is my friend. Weasel is only soft and fluffy on the outside. But on the inside she’s a bloodthirsty tyrant. She devours her subordinates. How many rats—my colleagues and first-rate agents—were destroyed by her? I’ve lost count!” Ratty’s habitually dim and indifferent eyes suddenly flashed with rage. “Every time I get called to her office, I don’t know if I’ll come out alive. The concept of fairness is foreign to her. If Weasel accuses any animal of a crime, to me, that animal is innocent.”
“I’m proud to know you,” said Badgercat, stunned. “May I shake your paw?”
“For you, I’ll make an exception,” said Ratty. “Normally, I don’t like being touched.”
Ratty’s clawed paw was cold and very strong. Badgercat sensed icy logic, courage, passion, and restraint—all that in a paw shake.
“Now let’s get going. We can’t waste any more time.”
“I’m waiting for an important message,” said Badgercat.
“From?”
“From a maniac-specialist. He’s a real genius—amazing at what he does. I’m really counting on him.”
CHAPTER 7: IN WHICH NO ONE CAN BE TRUSTED
“Some maniacs run around the woods, foaming at the mouth with bloodshot eyes, and attack any animal they come across, rabidly ripping them to pieces . . .” Chief Badger huffed as he bent down. He put the pieces of the broken egg-shell vial, previously holding Vulture’s mosquitoes, into his burdock trash bag. “Yes, some maniacs do that. But our Plucker isn’t like that . . .”
Lately, Chief Badger liked to think out loud. Actually, he was conversing, out of habit, with his partner Badgercat. But since Badgercat wasn’t there, it turned out he was just talking to himself. He opened up another burdock trash bag.
“Our Plucker is a completely different type of maniac. He’s the kind who considers his atrocities a part of his creative process. These maniacs have a ‘style’ and a ‘signature.’ They meticulously plan out every move. They come up with a story. To them, each crime is its own scene of a movie or chapter of a book. Often, they’re inspired by a preexisting popular tale. The key is to understand the logic behind the story these maniacs are trying to tell.” Chief Badger gathered up the used birch cups. “In this case, we are dealing with a story about birds. And about their burnt feathers.”
The ashes of feathers . . . feathers on fire . . . a huge white wing as big as the whole sky, enveloped in flames . . . Chief Badger shut his eyes to make the vision go away, but even with his eyes shut he could see sparks of fire and flying clumps of sizzling dirt.
He staggered, grabbing hold of a nearby tree to steady himself. The crackling of burning pine roots and needles . . . the fearful, painful cries of a helpless honey badger . . . No, no, no. It was all inside his head. It was just neurosis. It was the aftershock of a nightmare from long ago. A nightmare that psychologist Mouse advised him to “let go.”
“You’re always mentally returning to that night when the irreparable happened,” Mouse had told him. “It’s irreparable because it cannot be fixed. That night is in the past. Don’t torture yourself. Don’t cling to your past. Let it go.” He thought he had stopped clinging long ago, had let go long ago. For years he had eaten those memories away with larvae and rain worms, drank them away with mothitos, distanced himself from them with layers of badger fat. It had been years since he’d had one of these neurotic episodes . . .
He felt better. Chief Badger opened his eyes. It was all Super Bat’s fault with her beastly work schedule. It was all due to overexhaustion—not enough sleep and no time off. It had nothing to do with that past tragedy.
The burnt feathers were some kind of symbol—an allusion. What was the Plucker alluding to? Of course he wasn’t alluding to Chief Badger’s personal loss, known to very few. He was alluding to some well-known story, some myth or fairytale.
Chief Badger grunted as he bent down to pick up Starling’s plate. Twelve pine nuts. Exactly the number Chief Badger had given him. Starling hadn’t touched them. Ever since the Plucker had appeared in the Far Woods, Starling had lost his appetite. He was obviously scared he was going to be plucked. Come to think of it, all the birds in the Far Woods were on the verge of nervous breakdowns.
Chief Badger popped the nuts in his mouth and threw the plate into his burdock trash bag. Something was on the tip of his tongue . . . something bird-related from classic beastly literature . . . He had to remember it. Okay. What bird-related works did he know? One Flew Over the Chicken’s Nest—the story of a hen, living in a cage, that dared to ask the question “What came first: the chicken or the egg?” No, that wasn’t it. The Finch Always Sings Twice—a white turtledove asks her boyfriend dove to peck her elderly husband to death, but in the end the dove gets pecked to death too. And there’s no finch in the story at all, so the choice of title is completely baffling . . . But, no, that wasn’t it either. Then what? It was on the tip of his tongue . . . A poem, maybe?
Badger picked up Barbara’s cup last. He had foreseen what he would find on its handle. Sure, maybe he was retirement-age, but his badger intuition was as sharp as ever. Though, this was one of the few times when Chief Badger would have preferred to be wrong. Barbara said she hadn’t touched the sparrow, but she had lied. Chief Badger could see traces of ash on the cup’s handle.
No one could be trusted—even a young, beautiful, open-minded, smiling badger. No one. Surprising? No, just sad. The clue should have made him happy, but Chief Badger wasn’t happy. It was like finding a beautiful white porcini mushroom in the grass, with a big, glossy cap and a thick, sturdy stem. But when you touch the cap, it’s filled with worms. You would think it’s a great find. What could be better than a slightly rotten, worm-filled mushroom for a snack? But then you feel sorry for the mushroom: so young and fresh, but rotten on the inside.
All that was left was to verify that the ash on the handle was from the burnt sparrow feathers. He needed to summon Magpie, so she would take the cup to Vulture on her tail. Rat-a-tat, rat-tat-tat, Chief Badger rapped on the trunk of the oak. His paw caught on something uneven in the bark. Badger took a closer look. It looked like two fresh bite marks from the front incisors of some animal. And to the left, a fresh scratch mark. Chief Badger scraped at it. Deep inside the bark he found a broken-off claw. Badger carefully bit off the piece of bark with the lodged claw and wrapped it in a fresh burdock leaf, to be sent for analysis along with the birch cup.
A thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Why would anyone bite and scratch at an oak tree? It sounded very familiar . . . Yes! The cloudy memory that had been spinning around Badger’s head finally formulated
itself into a poem:
He brandished his claws,
gnawed on tree trunks with his jaws,
he’d grown strong—was back in his prime,
but the hamster had lost his mind.
And in a mad, cackling fit
he tore Owl and Cuckoo to bits.
Forest! Of course! Robert Forest, the famous woodland poet!
“Maybe our maniac is using his verse for inspiration?” he addressed the oak. “What do you think, partner? We definitely can’t rule it out. If my memory serves, those lines are from an ode or maybe an elegy or a sonnet about . . .”
But his memory didn’t serve. Badger couldn’t remember which of Forest’s work the lines were from. It had been many moons since he’d last opened a book of poems.
He would ask Magpie to swing by the library on the way. Where was Magpie anyway? She usually responded to a call right away. Maybe he hadn’t rapped the right tune? Luckily, Magpie had a great commercial on the root-tube, and it was impossible to forget her call sign (unlike the title of Forest’s work): “Got news to share? Magpie cares! She’ll bring it on her tail. She never fails! Summon her with this tune, and she’ll be there soon: Rat-a-tat, rat-tat-tat. How easy is that?” Chief Badger called for Magpie again, looked up and, squinting into the sun, scanned the sky. This time, the dark silhouette of a bird appeared almost instantly above the oak’s thick canopy. There was something different about Magpie’s flying. She wasn’t zigzagging, she wasn’t swinging her heavy tail and, strangest of all, she was completely silent. Was she ill? Chief Badger looked anxiously at the descending magpie and, upon closer inspection, realized it wasn’t Magpie but Doc Hawk.
“I have news!” Hawk landed under the oak, stirring up dust, dry leaves, and acorns.
“Are you taking Magpie’s place?” asked Badger, surprised.
“I don’t know where Magpie is.” Hawk gave an irritated wave of his wing. “I wanted to send you some news, but she never answered my call. Honestly, I don’t have time for this! I’m a doctor. I’m always on call to solve matters of life and death! One patient needs beak-to-beak resuscitation, another needs a beak massage, and another’s body temperature must be stabilized. But, instead, I’m here flying around with news like some sort of, well, magpie!”
“So you called for Magpie and she didn’t answer?” asked Chief Badger.
“Exactly! No respect!”
“She didn’t answer my call either. I’m afraid this isn’t a matter of disrespect. Something has happened to her. Seems like no one in the Far Woods has seen her today.”
“That’s not true. I saw her today.”
“But you said she didn’t come to your call.”
“She didn’t,” said Hawk, annoyed. “But about an hour before that, when she wanted something from me, she flew over without a problem.”
“What did she want?”
“Information, as always.”
“What information?”
“If you ask me, something completely trivial. But I didn’t mind telling her. Especially since the patient never asked for it to be kept confidential. . .”
“Hawk, try to concentrate. What did Magpie want to know?”
“She wanted to know if Arctic Fox is allergic to milk.”
“And?”
“He is.” Hawk was almost yelling. “Is this really of interest to you?”
“I’m not sure yet.” Chief Badger frowned. Tree trunks, birds, milk, the Plucker, Robert Forest—they were somehow connected. Subtly connected like the threads of an ancient cobweb that hung in one of the dark, forgotten corners of his memory, which he wasn’t able to find.
“I thought you might be interested in news about owl Chuck.”
“Has he regained consciousness? Can he give a witness statement?” asked Badger hopefully.
“Well, not exactly.” Hawk frowned. “But he’s definitely showing some progress. He has come out of his coma. And he’s trying to speak. It’s all thanks to me. I never left his side, day and night. I massaged his—”
“What did he say?” interrupted Badger.
“Hawk’s work is done here. Hawk can go. ”
“That’s what he said?”
“No. That’s what I’m saying. Don’t pay me any attention. I’m just thinking out loud. About the work of a doctor and the beastly ungratefulness of some. . .”
“So what did Chuck say?”
“He said, ‘Br-br-br.’”
“What does that mean?”
“How should I know? I’m a doctor, not a translator! I save lives!”
“Br-br-br,” mumbled Badger to himself. “Brbrbr ugh . . .” He walked around the oak. “Brbr . . . ugh . . . Brbrugh . . . Bur-bur-ugh . . .” Chief Badger looked into Hawk’s tired, blood-shot eyes. “I think he’s saying ‘Barbara.’”
CHAPTER 8: IN WHICH NO ONE WANTS TO GIVE A FEATHER
“Old age is no picnic!” cawed raven Sarah in a monotone. “Youth is wasted on the young! I’m so old, I can’t hear my own cawing! What did you say? Which book did you want?”
“We aren’t here for a book,” repeated Vulture patiently. “We’re here for one of your feathers. And some information: your number, breed, length of flight feathers, color, and name. I’ve already indicated what I know—breed: raven; color: white; name: Sarah. I measured your flight feathers while you were napping. All that is left is to pluck a feather and assign a number.”
“Pluck a feather,” repeated Starling glumly. “Assign a number.”
“Caw! You’ve lost your library cawrd?” asked Sarah. “And you don’t remember your cawrd number? No problem. I’ll find your number in the cawrd cawtalog. I’m the librarian, after all. I’ll take care of it!”
“We aren’t library patrons.” Vulture sighed heavily, losing all hope. “We are the police. I’ve already told you. Here are our badges. Sarah, please, we need you to cooperate. Do you have a number? A number you prefer? If not, we’ll assign you a number.”
“Assign you a number!” yelled Starling right into Sarah’s ear.
“What?” Sarah perked up. “You want to number me?”
“It’s just a formality,” said Vulture. “I don’t like it myself.”
“What?”
“A formality!” yelled Starling.
“Oh, a formality.” Sarah narrowed her eyes. “I know all about formalities. I remember them well. Last time I was numbered was a hundred years ago. I was numbered along with my family of white ravens. They put numbered rings on our legs! I was number thirteen, if you care.”
“Thirteen,” Vulture wrote down. “And now I have to pluck—”
“They studied us! They ran experiments on us! They plucked our white feathers! And then . . . then they used us for taxidermy! Look. That cursed ring is still on me!” Sarah stretched out her dry, scrawny leg with browned claws. On her ankle was a darkened metal ring with a barely legible number thirteen. “You think it’s still on me because it’s impossible to take off? Oh no! Doc Hawk offered to surgically remove it. But I refused. I kept the ring as a reminder of my family because I was the only one who survived. I’m the last living white raven in the Far Woods.”
“I’m very sorry you had to live through that,” said Vulture. “And I wouldn’t want to stir up those awful memories. But there’s a maniac loose in our woods: the Plucker. And everyone is in danger, especially birds. For your own safety, we’d like to record your information and pluck a feather.”
“Record your information! Pluck a feather!” yelled Starling as loud as possible, so Sarah would hear him.
“Caw! So you two are the pluckers! The raven exterminators!” Sarah flew up with great difficulty, stirring up a cloud of dust, and perched on the highest bookshelf. “You wish! You won’t get the last living white raven without a fight! As they say: a bird in the hand is worth two in the books!” She burst into a hoarse, hysterical cackle.
“We aren’t the pluckers! We’re the police!” Vulture flew up and perched on the bookshelf across fr
om Sarah. “Sarah, please believe us. We’re taking a feather from every bird in the Far Woods. Not just from rare white birds. What can I do to gain your trust? Do you want me and my colleague Starling to each give a feather right now, right before your eyes? Not a bad idea. Right, Starling?”
“Bad idea,” mumbled Starling, terrified.
“I think it’s a great idea,” said Vulture enthusiastically. “We’re going to have to give a feather anyway. I’ll give a feather! He’ll give a feather! You’ll give a feather!” he yelled at Sarah. “That’s fair. Right? We have a deal. Right?”
“Are you from the police?” asked the raven.
“Yes!” Vulture nodded enthusiastically. “Far Woods Police!”
“Okay,” said Sarah after a minute. “You’ll give a feather. He’ll give a feather. I’ll give a feather. One white raven feather is worth two police feathers.”
“Excellent!” Vulture leaned over, grabbed one of his chest feathers with his beak and pulled. “There’s mine. Now, officer Starling, please allow me to pluck one of your feathers.”
“Feathers,” said Starling, barely audible, and scurried along the bottom shelf of books, cowering in a small space between two tomes.
“How shameful, officer Starling!” criticized Vulture. “I understand that you don’t want to give a feather. But it isn’t even painful!”
“Don’t want to,” squeaked Starling. “Painful!”
“Get a hold of yourself, officer Starling. Chief Badger always spoke of you as a brave and selfless bird, but all I see is a coward. Except I can’t even see you because you’re hiding. What will Sarah think of us?”
“What will Sarah think of us?” Starling poked his beak out from behind a book.
“That the Far Woods Police are a bunch of cowards who can’t even bother to keep their word. We all promised to give a feather.”
“We promised,” whispered Starling hopelessly and stepped out from behind the books. “Give a feather.”
“Good.” Vulture gingerly grabbed one of Starling’s feathers and pulled. “There. That wasn’t painful. Was it?”
The Plucker: A Beastly Crimes Book Page 6