by Luanne Rice
“What are you talking about?” Shane asked.
Tim quickly finished brushing out the cage. He tried to catch his breath, but something was pressing hard on his heart and lungs. Just trying to remember what to do, he couldn’t help thinking of the care and precision with which the older man had done his work—the attention to detail, the tremendous tenderness with which he’d handled raptors: almost as if he loved them even more for their murderous beaks and claws, their warrior spirit.
“Give me the owl,” Tim said, rising to face Shane.
“You just said it’s not your first priority,” the young man said. His lips were blue; his eyes were filled with rage and hurt. He held the owl just as if it were an infant—he cradled it in his arms. Tim saw him shaking, the small muscles just under his skin working like crazy, trying to keep himself warm, from going into shock.
“Give it to him, Shane,” Mickey said, sounding alarmed.
“We’ll take the owl to someone who cares,” Shane said. “Come on, Mickey—”
“We don’t have a car,” Mickey said. “Tripp dropped us off, remember?”
“My bike,” Shane said, his voice cracking.
Tim took a step toward him, placed a hand on his shoulder. He felt Shane’s tension flood through his palm, straight into his own heart. Shane flinched, pulling back.
“You can’t ride both Mickey and the owl on your bike,” Tim said.
“I can if I have to,” Shane said.
Tim shook his head, didn’t even bother answering. He pried the owl out of his arms. Shane was past resisting, and Tim felt the situation decompress. Crouching down, he moved closer to the cage. Aware of the kids watching him, Tim tried to block out the past and concentrate on the present. Forget the old man and do what had to be done.
He looked into the owl’s eyes—and in that second his attitude shifted. This had nothing to do with his father. This was a magnificent bird, a snowy owl, far from the arctic tundra. He thought of Neve, of how they had stood at the beach staring in awe and wonder. What would she think, to know the bird had been injured?
“A broken wing?” he asked now.
“Yes,” Shane said.
“His left wing,” Mickey said.
“Like your left wrist,” Shane said.
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Knowing which wing was injured helped Tim. He half crawled into the cage, still holding the bird. The cage was big enough to hold a golden retriever, large enough to accommodate the owl’s wingspan. Tim questioned whether it was the right size, but he knew he didn’t have a choice. Gently laying the owl down on its right side—disabling its good wing—he quickly unwrapped the blanket and got out of there before the owl began flailing.
The cries were sharp, visceral, terrible to hear.
Tim looked over his shoulder, saw Mickey sobbing, burying her head in Shane’s side as he held her.
“Help it, please,” Shane said, meeting Tim’s eyes.
“It needs a chance to heal,” Tim said, putting the blanket over the cage, to block the light.
“It needs—” Shane began, but Tim cut him off.
“Come on,” he said, helping Mickey to her feet, marshaling both kids toward the door. “We’re going to the emergency room—again.”
“Getting him stitches,” Mickey said, looking up at Shane. “That’s your top priority, right?”
“You guessed it,” Tim said, pulling on his jacket. “Now both of you—get in the truck.”
The phone call woke her up.
It was Tim calling from the ER, and before she was totally awake, Neve heard him say Mickey’s name and nearly had a heart attack.
“Is she okay?” Neve asked, already getting dressed.
“She’s fine,” Tim said. “It’s just—you’d better come and get her.”
Twenty minutes later, after driving way too fast, Neve flew through the double glass doors and smashed straight into Tim, standing in the waiting room. He grabbed her, held her steady, looked calmly into her eyes.
“We have to stop meeting like this,” he said.
“Don’t joke with me while my daughter’s in the hospital.”
“She’s fine, Neve.”
“Then where is she?” Neve asked, looking around.
“She’s in there, with her friend,” Tim said, gesturing past the triage station.
“Jenna? What happened? They were at her house…”
“Um,” Tim said, leading her over to a chair, “they were at the beach.”
“No,” Neve said. “Mickey is sleeping over at Jenna’s…”
“Maybe that’s true, but before the sleepover, there was a beach party. You remember beach parties, right? Kids, music, blankets? Well, this one went a little off course. Mickey got thrown in the water—”
“Oh my God!”
“She’s fine,” Tim said hurriedly, trying to set Neve at ease. His hand was on her arm, as if he could hold her down, keep her from jumping out of her skin. Oddly, and unexpectedly, it worked. Neve felt herself settling down a little.
“She’s not hurt?” Neve asked.
“No. She was cold—you can imagine—and the doctors checked her for shock and replaced her cast—it was wet. Mostly she’s worried about her friend.”
“Jenna,” Neve said again.
“Shane,” Tim corrected.
“Wait a second…that boy, the one who helped her the last time?” Neve asked, and Tim nodded. Neve glanced around the waiting room. “Where are his parents?”
Tim shrugged. “We called his house, but there wasn’t any answer. Getting the number out of him was a trial in itself. The kid’s been doing community service with me all this past week, and learning anything about his life is more than a whole day’s work. According to the court papers, his father died a long time ago. Do you know his mother?”
“Not really,” Neve said. Shane had started school a year ahead of Mickey; his mother was much younger than the other mothers, and she’d never gotten involved in school things. Neve had the impression she’d had Shane very young, and she’d heard that Shane’s father had died when he was just a toddler.
“Well, she’s missing in action,” Tim said. “Shane’s going to need someone with him when he’s released.”
“What?” Neve asked. “What happened at this beach party?”
At that instant, Mickey came running past the nurse’s station. Neve jumped up, held her tight. “Mom!” Mickey said. “I’m fine, don’t worry, but Shane got hurt trying to help me, and the owl! Oh, Mom…”
Neve held her at arm’s length. Her head was spinning, and she couldn’t even hear. The second emergency room—for Mickey!—in less than a week. This had been her life with Richard. Getting called to pick him up at bars, from the scene of accidents, from the police station. His drinking and lies had turned their marriage, their family, into chaos.
“Mickey, you lied to me,” she said. “You told me you were staying at Jenna’s.”
“I was, Mom! I swear! But there was a party…”
“A beach party—in February?”
“Yes. They had a fire, to stay warm. But—”
“A fire on the beach?” Neve asked, turning toward Tim. “You allowed that?”
“I didn’t know about it,” he said. “It couldn’t have been much of one—I didn’t see any flames or smoke.”
“The wood was wet,” Mickey said, sounding as if she wanted to be helpful. Neve held her, wanting to shake her instead.
“Was there drinking?”
“Yes, Mom—but I didn’t,” Mickey said, blushing so fast and hard, Neve knew she had to be lying.
Neve just stared at her, and Mickey caved.
“Mom, I only had a sip. I swear—don’t be mad. Especially now, because that’s not what matters. We have to help Shane, and we have to—”
“Don’t tell me what matters, and if Shane had anything to do with you getting thrown into the water, I don’t even want to hear his name.”
M
ickey wrenched herself away. Her eyes looked sad and reproachful. “You don’t listen,” she said. “I told you Shane got hurt trying to help me. He saved my life, Mom.”
“He did,” Tim said.
“Then who did it?” When Mickey didn’t reply, Neve shook her shoulders. “Tell me!” Still silent, her lips tight together, Mickey wouldn’t budge, and Neve knew what she had to do, how to get to her loyal, emotional child. “If you won’t tell me for yourself, then tell me for Shane.”
“What do you mean?”
“Your friend is in the ER because someone attacked you. Now I want to know who did it. Give me the name—for Shane.”
“For Shane?” Mickey whispered.
Neve nodded.
“Josh Landry,” Mickey said, turning to run back toward the cubicle where Shane was being seen to. Watching her go, Neve’s blood started to boil.
“I want him arrested,” Neve said to Tim.
“We called the police,” Tim said. “They’re investigating.”
“Investigating? What are you talking about? Why aren’t they here right now?”
Tim shook his head and shrugged. “They wanted to arrest Shane,” he said. “He’s been in so much trouble lately, they wanted to blame tonight on him—instead of Landry’s kid.”
“Why would they do that if it wasn’t his fault?”
“I wasn’t there,” Tim said. “But supposedly Shane punched Josh first, when he saw him pushing Mickey. Who do you think the cops are going to focus on? A surfer who’s already suspended from school, or a rich kid whose father is famous for spreading his money around?”
“I don’t want Mickey involved with kids like that,” Neve said—and she wasn’t even sure whether she meant Josh or Shane. She felt everything slipping away. Her good daughter, so careful and self-protective; she had always avoided trouble, seemed to have great instincts for keeping herself safe. Mickey loved nature, did well in school, had learned from the painful situations in her own life to stay away from bad kids. Even if Shane wasn’t completely responsible, it sounded as if he had played a part.
“Weren’t you ever a teenager?” Tim asked.
“Yes,” Neve said, looking up.
“And didn’t you ever go to beach parties?”
“Yes,” she said, filled with more than a few dangerous memories. “And I liked bad boys.”
“Like mother, like daughter,” he said, smiling.
“I want to save her from the same mistakes I made.”
“You really think that’s possible?”
“I have to think it,” she said. “Or I’m not sure I could get through some of what I have to get through.”
“Like being called to the ER to pick up your daughter.”
Neve nodded. “There was one time in particular,” she said, remembering one post–beach party night, sitting in a seat right across the room, waiting for Richard to get stitched up. Gazing at the chair, she could almost see the ghost of her younger self: so wild, exuberant, in love…. The thought made her look up, fast, at Tim. Was Mickey in love with Shane?
“Tell me exactly what happened,” she said, calming down. “How did Shane get hurt? What did Mickey mean—that he saved her?”
“From what I can gather, the other kids were partying. Cole Landry’s son, Josh, put it on. Celebrating the plans Landry has for the U-boat, something like that. Mickey and Shane were there to watch over the snowy owl, make sure they didn’t disturb it.”
“The owl,” Neve said, remembering that Mickey had mentioned it first thing.
Tim nodded. “Josh attacked the owl, and Mickey went to help it. I’m not sure about the sequence here—both Mickey and Shane were too worried about the owl to tell it straight. All I know is, Mickey tried to stop Josh, and when Shane went to help her, a fight broke out—and someone, Josh I think, threw Mickey in.”
“I need to see Josh Landry,” Neve said. “So I can kill him. He threw her into the water—in February? She could have drowned.”
“Yeah,” Tim said, nodding. “I know. I’m glad Shane was there.” His gaze slid toward the cubicles. “Just when I’m ready to throw that kid out, he does something like this.”
“Surfer-slacker. That’s what Mickey’s friend Jenna says about him. Did she have some part in all this?”
“She and her boyfriend dropped Mickey and Shane off with the owl. From what I gather, Jenna’s pretty upset at the other kids. Mickey said Jenna would have waited, but her boyfriend wanted to get her home.”
Neve nodded, reassured to hear that. Jenna and Mickey had been friends since they were five. They had learned to read together. Richard had built them a tree house in the backyard, and they’d called it “The Up-in-the-Sky Club.” That’s where they had learned their love of birds, hiding in the tree house as if it were a nest, observing birds as they landed on branches or flew through the sky.
“The owl,” she said again, finally ready to focus on something other than the here-and-now of Mickey.
“It has an injured wing,” Tim said. “At least. I didn’t spend much time examining it, but I think part of its beak is torn, too. I’m not sure what else.”
“Oh no,” Neve said. Looking up into Tim’s blue eyes, she remembered being with him at twilight, watching the owl’s fly-out. She thought of the beautiful pictures she’d captured—of the magnificent raptor, pure white, flying through the violet sky, into the dark pines. And of the park ranger, so tall and hard, both in his posture and the cast of his eyes. “No wonder Mickey’s so upset.”
“Well, I think that has at least as much to do with Shane being hurt.”
“Where’s he going to stay tonight? If they can’t locate his mother?”
“He could stay with me,” Tim said.
Something in the way he hesitated made Neve look up. “Do you have enough room down there?” she asked.
“Not really,” he admitted. “There’s just one bed. But I could sleep on the floor.”
Neve shook her head, made up her mind. It wasn’t ideal, but she couldn’t think of another solution. “He can stay with us. On the couch. Just for tonight; I can’t have him going home alone.”
“That’s nice of you.”
She shrugged. “I don’t like the idea of her spending a lot of time with him…but he did save her, and I’ll never forget that. He can stay tonight, just until we find his mother.”
“After having him work with me these last days, I’m not sure how easy that will be,” Tim said.
Neve met his eyes. Was he warning her—telling her that Shane came from a bad family, that she shouldn’t get involved? Neve swallowed. She wanted to teach Mickey to respect herself, choose wisely—in what she did and said, and in whom she befriended. Neve had always taken in strays: dogs, cats, birds fallen out of their nests. Richard. When she’d met him, he had just dropped out of college. His father had died, and he couldn’t afford tuition. He’d gotten a job, and he’d become a wild partyer, drinking so he wouldn’t have to feel his loss. Neve had wanted to save him.
“What should I do?” she asked now.
“Let Shane sleep on your couch,” Tim said.
“He’s a good kid?”
“I’m beginning to think so,” Tim said.
Neve nodded. Decision made; she always felt better once she’d made up her mind. She still had doubts about Shane, but letting him stay this one night wouldn’t hurt. Meanwhile, she hoped the cops would do the right thing, and arrest Josh Landry.
“I’m just so glad they got the owl to you in time,” she said.
“In time?” he asked.
“To save its life,” she said.
He shook his head. The expression in his eyes was grave—right on the edge of something close to grief. The lines around his eyes and mouth had never looked deeper to her, and she saw the light go out of his face.
“Its life wasn’t saved,” he said. “Not for long, anyway. The injuries are too severe. The owl will be dead by morning.”
9
Bu
t the next morning, the owl was still alive. Tim hadn’t slept much during the night, listening to the rustling in the cage beneath the blanket. He kept expecting the sound to stop, and he came to dread every stretch of seconds without movement, without the owl shrieking. Silence would have meant death, so he stayed vigilant, hoping for noise.
He waited until dawn. He didn’t want to keep checking—knew he shouldn’t get attached to the bird in the cage. He’d learned the hard way, early on, that things he loved died—or left. Remembering the barn—out behind the house, where his father had taken up his brother’s early work, taking care of raptors—Tim thought of the baby screech owls. He didn’t think of them often, but right now the memories came flooding back.
He climbed out of bed at first light, walked over to the cage, and pushed the blanket back. The bird sat erect, tilting to one side. Tim crouched beside the cage, looking it straight in the eye. The owl returned his gaze with yellow eyes, glaring like two suns. The directness sent a jolt down Tim’s spine.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
The owl didn’t flinch.
Trying to remember what to do, Tim left the living room, went to the sink, and filled a bowl with water. He rummaged through the refrigerator, took out the winter flounder he hadn’t yet cleaned. When he returned to the cage, the owl had changed position, just slightly, as if to watch what Tim was doing in the kitchen.
Tim opened the cage door. He reached in slowly, expecting aggression. But the owl stayed still, letting him put his hand close, holding the bowl of water. He kept his arm rock solid, waiting for the owl to drink. Keeping still so long, his arm began to ache, but he didn’t move. He had seen his father doing this—wanting an injured hawk to drink, the older man had held the bowl of water still for so long, Tim had begun to wonder if he’d turned into a tree. Or if he wanted the hawk to think that he had…
It had been a red-tailed hawk, who’d gotten caught in electrical wires. The bird had a broken wing, and Tim’s father had been determined that it would survive. Even then he’d started getting a reputation as someone who could help raptors. And Tim had learned that if he wanted to be close to his father, he had to get close to the hawks, eagles, and owls, too.