The Plucker: A Beastly Crimes Book

by Anna Starobinets

  “Well, thank you for that effective investigative experiment.” Super Bat suddenly stretched her thin mouth into a smile, which Badger found to be much more sinister than her scowl. “Now that we know the dead hamster does not exist, let’s return to our interrogation. Sneaky Sal, are you ready to confess to your crimes?”

  “Me? No! I am not a criminal!”

  “Wait, what are you hiding there? Under your belly?” asked Chief Badger approaching Sal.

  “Where?”

  “Under your belly,” repeated Chief Badger.

  Sal reluctantly moved over. On the spot he had been sitting was eagle owl Al’s radio transmitter. Chief Badger picked it up.

  “Incredible! You were able to steal this while cuffed!”

  “No, I just happened to sit there and didn’t even notice— Fine! Fine, I confess: I’m a thief. But I’m not the Plucker. On the contrary, I wanted to help the police! I was actually trying to catch the Plucker myself. That’s why I was hanging around the oak and here near the clinic. I saw the shadow of the dead hamster and thought it really was a dead hamster. So I attacked him. I was going to turn him into the police. How could I have known that the dead hamster was actually a live penguin?”

  “Why the sudden burst of goodwill?” asked Chief Badger. “Since when do you want to help the police?”

  “Since . . . since . . .” Sal stammered for a split second, then continued. “Since that maniac showed up in our woods I haven’t been left alone! I’ve been caught by one animal after another after another! And they all want to know the same thing: how and where did I get that bird’s milk one year ago? But I don’t have an endless amount of tails to shed!”

  “I also want to know how and where you got that bird’s milk,” said Super Bat.

  “You?” asked Sal and winked at Super Bat. “You want to know?”

  “Why does this surprise you? And why are you winking at me?” Super Bat took off, dropped to the ground like a stone, then up again, grabbed hold of a branch, and hung there, swinging.

  “I wasn’t winking. It’s a nervous tick,” mumbled Sal.

  “Of course you have a nervous tick!” said Super Bat menacingly. “Because you’re always lying! And we’ve caught you in a lie! Normally, when you’re caught, you just shed your tail and run away. But this time we’ve got you good. You weren’t trying to catch the maniac, Sal. You were trying to catch a mystical bird, and you fell for the penguin’s bait. Didn’t you? You wanted to catch a phoenix. Admit it! You’ve been searching long and hard for a phoenix. A year ago you got hold of some phoenix milk, and you knew it was worth a fortune. You wanted more of that milk. But—small hiccup—you don’t know what a phoenix looks like. So you experimented by plucking different birds. And burning their feathers. Am I wrong? Admit it!” Super Bat began shrieking. “And you know what will happen if you burn a phoenix? Yes, you know. I can see it in your eyes! But you wanted the milk. That’s why you burned only its feathers. Admit it!”

  Sneaky Sal looked absolutely tormented. His body convulsed involuntarily, trying to shed his tail. But there wasn’t any to shed. Sal twitched a few more times and then shut his eyes.

  “I refuse to answer any questions without my lawyer-owl present,” he said.

  “What are they talking about?” whispered Badgercat. “Chief Badger, do you understand? What’s a phoenix? And what happens if you burn it?”

  “Everything burns,” Chief Badger responded in a dull, unfamiliar voice. He stared blankly into the sunrise.

  “I guess I’m the only one here who is lost,” said Badgercat in disappointment.

  CHAPTER 27: IN WHICH THERE'S A MIRACLE

  Chief Badger walked silently, trying not to look at Badgercat. In an effort to avoid meeting his eyes, Badger looked down at the path with intense interest, as if he expected to find something truly extraordinary on their way to the police station. Badgercat was also silent. He wasn’t asking any more questions, but Chief Badger knew the unanswered question that remained behind his hurt and surprised gaze. What’s a phoenix? What are you hiding?

  In the slight darkness of daybreak, the path to the police station appeared ashy-gray, like a burnt raven feather. There was nothing extraordinary about it.

  “A phoenix is an explosive and flammable bird,” said Chief Badger finally. “When it dies, it catches on fire. That fire is capable of destroying everything around it. And then the phoenix is reborn from its ashes.”

  “But I thought that was simply beastly folklore?” asked Badgercat, surprised. “How do you know it’s true?”

  “From personal experience.”

  They turned off the main path into the grass and continued silently for a few minutes through the morning dew. Then Badger continued: “I was young back then. Smug and young. I was the most junior police badger, but I’d already received a Medal of Courage from the Beast Czar. I had just married the most beautiful honey badger in the world, and she was about to give birth to our cub. I didn’t safeguard what I had. I made a huge mistake. I risked everything—my burrow, my wife, my future cub, happiness, my career—to help a bird who was completely unknown to me but who was in trouble. I knew the bird was dangerous, but that didn’t stop me. I convinced myself that it was my duty to fight any injustice in our woods. The bird was being treated unfairly. The bird was being chased like a runaway thief. But it wasn’t a thief. It was a phoenix who happened to possess magical powers and who was worth a fortune.”

  “So what happened? This phoenix asked the police for help?”

  “No. He asked me personally. At first I mistook him for a crowned crane because he looked like a crowned crane.”

  “A crowned crane—is that the bird with a golden crown of feathers, steely eyes, and who looks like he’s wearing a little black hat?” asked Badgercat.

  “Yes, exactly. It’s rare to meet an animal that combines otherworldly beauty with impenetrable stupidity. That radiant golden crown. That open fan of black and white feathers. That little hat. Those cheeks. Those empty, senseless button eyes. His descent from the heavens. His ritual dancing. You see, when he first came to me, he began dancing. I thought he was part of a traveling performance troupe and was begging for food. I threw him half a worm, he froze, followed the worm with a dumbfounded look, and then spread his wings and continued dancing. I threw him the other half of the worm, but the same thing happened. So I said to him, ‘If I were you, friend, I’d turn my attention to the worm, before its two halves crawl away in different directions.’ To which he responded that he wasn’t hungry and that he’d come for something else. He said he needed a place to hide. That I was the most honest police officer in these parts. That he didn’t trust a single animal aside from me. That if I didn’t hide him, he would die. And that he wasn’t a crane at all. He was a phoenix.”

  “And you believed him?” asked Badgercat.

  “At first I didn’t. Everyone knows cranes are prone to stupid lies, being dramatic, and showing off. But this bird had proof.”

  “What kind of proof?”

  “A miracle.”

  “The crane performed a miracle?”

  “Yes. The phoenix performed a miracle. He plucked a golden feather from his crown and broke it in two. And the broken feather immediately burst into blue flames. Not just any flames. The fire reached up to the crown of the old oak. When the feather had burned up, a pile of ash was left in its place. I gawked at the ashes, trying to comprehend what I’d seen. And then . . . then something else happened. A new feather appeared from the ashes. But not a golden one—a black one. Right before my eyes. From of the ashes. Do you believe me, Badgercat?”

  “Well . . . Chief . . . I believe you,” said Badgercat uncertainly. “But if I’d heard this story from anyone else . . .”

  “I wasn’t sure I believed it myself,” said Badger quietly. “In all these years since the fire, I’d almost convinced myself that it hadn’t happened. That I hadn’t seen a feather reborn from the ashes. That the crowned crane was just
a crane and not a phoenix. That the fire that happened the night I let the crane into our home happened because of someone’s carelessness, by accident. Psychologist Mouse said that I invented the phoenix out of stress. To explain away the tragedy. To have someone to blame. But I still only blamed myself for everything. Our burrow caught fire at night, when I wasn’t there. I was on assignment. When I came home, the fire looked like the burning wing of a giant bird had covered up the entire sky. Crimson sparks and clumps of sizzling dirt swirled in a cloud of black smoke. The oak’s burning roots popped like firecrackers. I thought they had burned to death—my wife and my unborn cub. I thought the phoenix had been found in my home and killed, or he had killed himself in self-defense and caught on fire . . .”

  “Now I understand why the perpetrator burns feathers,” whispered Badgercat. “He’s trying to see if his victim is a phoenix. If it is a phoenix, new feathers should appear from the ashes! Right, Chief?”

  Chief Badger didn’t respond.

  “But who was after the phoenix?” Badgercat’s mind was swimming.

  “I don’t know. I hid him in my basement and planned on questioning him in the morning. But there was no morning. Well, there was a morning—but the morning of a completely different life . . . without a burrow . . . without a family.”

  “But if the phoenix was reborn from the ashes, didn’t you try to find it?”

  “No, I didn’t. Psychologist Mouse said phoenix don’t exist. At that point I didn’t care. I thought my wife had died in the fire. I didn’t care who had been reborn from it. I lived out in the wild. I stopped going to work. I ate anything I could get my paws on. I was eating away my sorrow. With mushrooms and berries, flowers and leaves, worms and moths. I gained weight and completely let myself go.”

  “But then how did you return to police work?”

  The two had just walked up to the station.

  “One day I found a basket with you inside.” Chief Badger smiled. “You were so little, so wet, and so helpless. I knew I had to take you under my wing. And that I had a family again. I dug a new burrow for the two of us. I returned to police work. And things began to get better.”

  “So that means . . . I wasn’t a burden?” whispered Badgercat.

  “Of course not, Son! You brought me back to life! I was like that worm, torn in two, and you helped put me back together—Hold on. What’s that charred smell?” Chief Badger sniffed the air inside the police station. “Turn on the fireflies, Badgercat. I hate these oppressive bearskin curtains! I can’t see past the end of my snout until my eyes adjust to the dark.”

  Badgercat’s eyes had adjusted instantaneously. So he already had seen what Chief Badger saw only after the fireflies were turned on.

  Signs of a struggle. Ash. Starling, scared to death. And a plucked vulture, laying motionless on the floor of the police station.

  CHAPTER 28: IN WHICH SOME ARE LEFT SPEECHLESS

  “Starling, tell them I was plucked at midnight. I mixed up the feathers. I’m losing consciousness,” repeated Starling in a quivering voice. “Starling, tell them I was plucked at midnight. I mixed up the feathers. I’m losing consciousness.”

  “I’m no criminal expert, only a doctor,” said Doc Hawk. “But from what I can tell, the investigator really was plucked seven to eight hours ago. That is to say around midnight.”

  “If Vulture was plucked at midnight, then Sal isn’t the Plucker. That’s exactly when he attacked Mr. King Ping,” said Chief Badger.

  “After the midnight hour, tune in for the owls!” said Starling, staring fearfully at the immobile vulture.

  “But Sal obviously knows something,” continued Badger. “And isn’t telling us because he’s scared. It’s not just my badger logic telling me this, but my beastly instinct too.”

  “Starling, tell them I was plucked at midnight. I’m losing consciousness.”

  “Vulture is unconscious. He is in critical condition,” said Hawk. “I’ll try beak-to-beak resuscitation. Give me that fuzzy curtain from the window. I’ll cover him up.”

  “With pleasure,” said Chief Badger yanking the bearskin curtain down. Sunlight flooded the station, causing him to squint.

  “I’m such an idiot!” lamented Badgercat. “Once again, the Plucker is one step ahead! Why did I convince you to use King Ping’s services? While we were all trying to bait the maniac with the penguin, the cunning, shameless Plucker walked right into the police station. And plucked Vulture!”

  “You shouldn’t blame yourself, Badgercat,” protested Chief Badger. “You’re suspended from police work. I was the one who made the decision. And I take full responsibility for it.”

  “No! I do! How could I? Why did I read Forest’s ballad so literally? Why was I relying on it to tell me the order of victims? Why was I so sure Hawk would be next? The ending clearly states—not the order of attacks, but the opposite—that there’s no logic to the hamster’s actions. It says the hamster ghost attacks birds without any regard. Any bird can fall victim. Any! The hamster hates all birds. Understand? ‘The hamster’s ghost seeks vengeance. He never forgave the bird. The ghost sneaks around plucking any bird to be found. Be attentive, birds, or else: for years you’ll be left speechless and all your feathers will be lost if you encounter the hamster ghost!’”

  “Left speechless,” whispered Starling, watching Hawk give Vulture beak-to-beak.

  “In our case the hamster, er, I mean the maniac, plucks birds at random, looking for a phoenix,” continued Badgercat passionately. “Badger logic! The Plucker doesn’t know what a phoenix looks like . . .” Badgercat suddenly stammered. “Wait! Why doesn’t he know that it looks like a crowned crane? Is it really that hard to find out?”

  “It is . . . hard. Harder than one might think,” said Chief Badger quietly. He clearly wanted to say more but changed his mind.

  Vulture emitted a brief, hoarse groan.

  “Left speechless,” said Starling.

  “I’ve managed to restore independent breathing,” said Hawk, relieved. “But his life is still in danger.”

  “Lady Cuckoo predicted a long life for Vulture.” Chief Badger tried to make his voice sound optimistic. “And statistically speaking, cuckoo predictions about life expectancy are accurate 99 percent of the time. So we can be fairly confident that Vulture will make it.”

  “The same cannot be said about you,” huffed Hawk. “I’m actually planning on examining you.”

  “What’s going on, Chief?” said Badgercat alarmed. “Are you sick?”

  “It’s nothing,” said Chief Badger waving Badgercat away. “It’s just Lady Cuckoo predicted that I only had three days left to live.”

  “When did she predict that?”

  “Well . . . um . . . the day before yesterday.”

  “So that means today is the third day?” yelped Badgercat. “The day she predicted you’d die!”

  “It’s all cuckoo tales!”

  “Who’s going to die?” suddenly came a gentle, troubled, familiar voice from the window. Chief Badger jumped and looked out of the open window.

  On the other side was Melissandra. Her smooth, shiny fur was styled simply yet elegantly. There was a small leaf and a few blades of grass tangled in the fur behind her ears, as if carelessly forgotten about, but Badger knew that in reality she had gingerly and deliberately braided them there. The aroma of wildflowers coming from her fur tickled his nostrils.

  “Melissandra! I . . .”

  He wanted to fall to his knees. To say he’d been an idiot. To beg her for forgiveness for never showing up at the Tree Knot Tavern. But instead he sneezed loudly—right into her beautiful face.

  “You were busy,” Melissandra finished his sentence. “I understood that after I’d waited for a whole hour and you never came.”

  “Is this your honey badger?” Badgercat whispered loudly.

  “The most wonderful honey badger of all,” whispered Badger.

  “At first I was very upset,” said Melissandra. “But then I
thought: it’s his last case. Yes, it’s boring and, yes, it’s just a formality, but a case nonetheless. He’s dreaming of finishing it as fast as possible, so he can retire. That’s why he can’t get off work to meet me.”

  “What utter nonsense,” began Badgercat, but Chief Badger stepped on his tail with such force that Badgercat immediately stopped talking.

  “I thought: since you didn’t eat dinner last night, surely you need to eat breakfast this morning. So I decided to bring you some sandwiches. And fried larvae. All your favorites!” She showed him a picnic basket. “But the station door is locked for some reason.”

  “Darling!” said Chief Badger and reached for the basket through the window.

  “How rude!” She playfully pulled the basket away. “Aren’t you going to invite me in? I’d like to meet your colleagues.” Melissandra tried to peek into the station through the window, but Chief Badger blocked her view. “We could all have breakfast together. There’s plenty for everyone!”

  “You see . . . we’re a bit tied up right now,” stammered Badger. “We’re . . . going through the archives . . . looking through old bark . . . It’s very boring, you wouldn’t like it.”

  “A bit tied up,” said Starling. “Old bark.”

  “What are you talking about, Chief?” said Badgercat gaping. “What archives? Let her in. I’m starving! Doc Hawk is hungry too. He’s probably tired from all the beak-to-beak—”

  “Now who is the doctor performing beak-to-beak on?” asked Melissandra, narrowing her eyes.

  “No one!” said Badger quickly. “We were simply reminiscing about a former case.”

  “Chief Badger!” Melissandra looked right in Badger’s eyes. “What are you hiding from me?”

  “Me? Hide? No way! I’m just enjoying some fresh air and admiring you. Ah, the fresh morning air and you. What could be more wonderful and—”

  “Badger, please move away from the window.”

  “But—”