Death Takes a Gander

by Goff, Christine

  Not that she blamed him. It had to be hard to be forced to train her—a kid straight out of college, albeit one with a master’s degree—to take over a job he’d been doing for forty years. Had she been in his shoes, it would have ticked her off too.

  The worse part was, while she knew the latest in theory, in the field she had let him down. Hard.

  A cold draft swept the hall, and the hairs on the back of her neck stiffened.

  “Sorry,” she whispered.

  Except for furniture and mounds of paperwork, the office was empty. The clutter didn’t faze her. It didn’t compare to the mess on Ian’s desk.

  Kicking shut the door, she sat behind the desk and breathed in the quiet. The room smelled of wood, leather, and aging books. A large oak desk dominated the center space. Leather-bound chairs squared off on both sides. To her right, a built-in bookcase, crammed with notebooks, lined the inside wall. To her left, a bank of windows looked out toward Twin Owls. The only surprise was the small, framed picture of Lark parked next to the phone.

  Angela picked up the photograph and studied the woman’s face. She was smiling. Laugh lines crinkled the corners of her dark brown eyes. Her blond hair was pulled back and braided.

  How had she missed the connection between Lark and Eric?

  Angela set down the frame. Locating the tape measure, she found a flat package scale on top of the filing cabinets and pulled The Sibley Guide to Birds off the bookshelf. She needed to check the stats on the birds. The common Canada goose—the resident variety—weighed around ten pounds with a wingspan of sixty inches. The lesser Canada goose was smaller, maxing out at six pounds, and the Richardson’s was smaller still.

  Using the figures as benchmarks, she headed to the main barn and started in on the geese. An hour later, she had the results. By her estimations, sixty-three percent of the birds were local, the rest were migrants.

  “Guess what?” she said, returning to the lavage room. “We have migrants.”

  The EPOCH members cheered.

  “Can you take a bird down tonight?” Eric asked.

  Angela shook her head. “I’ve been assigned to the Ice Fishing Jamboree for the weekend. I’m bunking at the Drummond through Sunday. Besides, it’s a holiday. The Wildlife lab is closed until Tuesday.”

  “George Covyduck could do it up here,” Lark said. She and Eric exchanged glances.

  Why not? thought Angela. It would give them some quicker answers. She considered checking with Kramner, then decided against it. She had permission, and he’d never specified which lab to use.

  “Can you arrange it?” she asked.

  Eric bobbed his head. “Consider it done.”

  The job of selecting a bird fell to Angela. Unable to leave the bodies of the dead geese outside for fear of scavengers, volunteers had piled the dead birds in an unheated storeroom in the back of the Protective Custody House. A small space with ambient heat from the hall, the room’s smell—a mixture of rotted flesh, wet feathers, and blood—overwhelmed her. Carcasses stretched along the back wall, stacked like cordwood.

  She sucked in a breath, then pulled out the tape measure. Finding a smallish one near the top of a stack, she checked the wingspan.

  A lesser.

  Gripping its legs, she dragged it from the pile.

  She recognized the bird when it hit the floor. Its other wing was bloodied and bent at an odd angle. The goose appeared to have its hand raised. It was the gander she’d seen hit by the plow.

  Poor thing.

  Gripping its feathers, she straightened the wing, her muscles tensing at the sound of the snap. Maybe she should choose a different bird.

  Then again…

  She gazed down at the gander. His partner had died, and he had paid the ultimate price trying to save her. Now, it was time for the dead to give up their secrets.

  CHAPTER 8

  The fishermen were having a party.

  The first day of the Elk Park Ice Fishing Jamboree was history. The paperwork was done, dinner was eaten, and drinks were being poured at the bar. More than one young fisherman drank a Shirley Temple or a Roy Rogers. More than one old fisherman guzzled a beer. But after the day she had endured, the last thing Angela wanted to do was trade fish stories.

  Instead, she opted for a hot shower and bed.

  Drifting in and out of sleep, she was jarred awake, time and again, by the sound of laughter, glass breaking, and the birds.

  The birds.

  Her mind sharpened. Somehow, amidst all the noise rose the high gabbling and cackling of geese. Remnants of the flock?

  Angela stirred off the bed. Pulling on the thick hotel robe, she groped her way in the dark to the small balcony facing the water. Yanking open the sliding door, the frigid air assaulted her exposed skin, and gooseflesh pimpled her skin under the terry cloth. Gathering the hotel robe more tightly around her, she stared out at shadows. Stars dotted the sky and a new moon hung low over the mountains like a lopsided grin, taunting her inability to see the geese.

  But she could hear them. They were there, lurking somewhere on the hard, flat surface of the lake.

  Retreating inside, she reset the alarm. If she went to work early in the morning, she would have time to check on the birds before Frakus showed up.

  Crawling back into bed, she was lulled to sleep by the warmth of the blankets, and she dreamed of Ian. In a rewrite of history, she had found him alive near the water, and together they had carried the swan.

  The alarm jarred her from the dream at five o’clock, and she grappled with reality. Ian was, in point of fact, dead, and she could no longer hear the geese. With luck, the flock had bedded down safely in a place outside of the fishing area.

  Twenty minutes later, bundled into her winter gear, Angela snatched up the truck keys and headed out to the lake. She had exactly two hours until the Jamboree registration desk opened, exactly two hours to locate the geese.

  Parking near the Visitors Center, she grabbed her binoculars from under the seat, looped them around her neck, then dug out a fishing net from the back of the truck. The sky had brightened, chasing away the shadows, and she felt her spirits lift. The honking and gabbling had returned, but it sounded normal.

  Other bird sounds seeped in as morning broke over the mountains. Frigid cold temperatures tended to make the birding good, knocking the birds down to take cover.

  Crows were abundant in the willow thickets that bordered the path. Perched on the branches like a festoon of large, black ornaments, their caws hammered the daybreak like a nagging alarm clock.

  Near the seventh green of the golf course, she picked out the hoarse, raspy tsik-a-zee-zee of a mountain chickadee. She searched for the small bird, finally discovering it in a small pine tree ten feet ahead. Fee-bee-bee, it sang, peering out from its black mask. And from the ponderosas behind her came the shak shak shak of a Steller’s jay.

  At the juncture to the Paris Mills Bird Sanctuary, a black-billed magpie—black-headed with black and white wings, white underparts, and a long black tail—wrestled with a hot dog wrapper on the ground. As she approached, it yanked its prize out of reach. Its black feathers flashed iridescent in the early morning light as it twisted away from her.

  Angela turned off the path and followed her footsteps from the day before. She wound through the trees until she reached the tip of the promontory. Ahead of her, on the open waters of the lake at the mouth of Black Canyon Creek, bobbed a large number of waterfowl. Lifting her binoculars, she scanned the groupings, picking out thirty-plus mallards, twelve common goldeneye, and a pair of common mergansers.

  The males of all three species were distinctive. The mallards were grayish with shiny green heads, white neck rings, chestnut-colored breasts, and yellow bills. They were one of the first birds she’d learned to identify. The common goldeneyes were just as easy. White with a dark back, greenish-black head, and yellow eyes, they had a prominent white spot behind the bill that was hard to miss.

  The first common merganser
she’d seen she’d mistaken for a goose. Snowy-white with a black back, greenish-black head, and red-orange bill, they sailed the Colorado waters mostly in the wintertime. She’d been out of college before she added it to her life list.

  The females of any species were never as colorful, but of the three ducks, she liked the common merganser the best. Grayish, with a white breast and chin, the female’s reddish head had a ragged crest, and there was a wildness about her that appealed to Angela. A goldeneye looked much like her mate, only with a grayish body and reddish head. The mallard females were downright drab.

  For ducks, wintertime meant courtship. She chuckled as one of the male goldeneyes tried hard to impress his girl. He would swim near, then throw back his head, point his bill toward the sky, and utter a grunting, nasal quack—Brrrt!—kicking his legs back with a splash. The female goldeneye seemed underwhelmed.

  After a time, Angela swept the binoculars to the right and studied the far shore near the mouth of the creek.

  Her heart sank.

  Along the edge of the water, where Black Canyon Creek tumbled into Elk Lake, a small number of Canada geese grazed in the grasses. A few appeared unsteady on their feet, most likely strays from the flock. Beyond them, in the power plant parking lot, someone wearing a dark-colored snowsuit and black cap was loading birds into the bed of a black four-wheel-drive vehicle. An EPOCH member?

  It couldn’t be. The person wasn’t using any carriers. No EPOCH member would transport birds loose in the back of a truck. It was too dangerous for the animals.

  Angela zoomed in her binoculars. Whoever it was stopped loading and looked around. Had he, or she, sensed Angela watching?

  She tried focusing in on the person’s face, but the man—she was pretty sure it was a man from the glimpse she had gotten—looked away, and Angela couldn’t make out the license plate number of the truck from this angle. She needed a scope.

  She watched for a moment longer, then struck out for the Visitors Center parking lot. If she hurried, maybe she could drive around and catch the person before they took off.

  It wasn’t to be.

  By the time she arrived, whoever had been there was gone. A fresh set of tracks marred the snowpack, but it was not enough to ID the truck.

  The remaining geese looked to be in good shape. Camped at the mouth of Black Canyon Creek, they waddled along the shore and floated on the open waters of the river. Not one of them looked sick, which meant the birds could be saved. According to Eric, the best statistical chance of survival came with treating the geese before they exhibited symptoms of poisoning.

  She called the Raptor House and got the machine. After leaving a message on the voice mail, she dialed the Drummond front desk. Lark answered the phone.

  “I’ve found more geese,” Angela said, skipping the preamble. “Do you know where Eric is?”

  “No.”

  “We’ve got nine birds down here. Someone else picked up the others.”

  “Who?”

  “I have no clue.” Angela didn’t elaborate. There would be time for that later. “Right now, I need help corralling the rest of the flock.”

  “Stay there,” Lark said. “I’ll swing by the Raptor House and pick up some carriers. Give me ten minutes.”

  Angela waited for her at the truck, sitting inside with the heater blasting. The day was cold and overcast, a rarity for Colorado, where locals expected sunshine three hundred or more days a year. High, white clouds tarped the sky, blurring the edges of the snow-capped peaks. Green trees stretched upwards in jagged lines, creating their own landscape and the illusion of rolling hills along the horizon.

  About the time Lark showed up, Angela had started to get antsy. “Finally,” she said, climbing out of the truck and stamping her boots on the snow. “What took you so long?”

  “I had to wake Miriam Tanager to get keys to the building.”

  “Eric hadn’t checked in?”

  Lark’s eyes narrowed. “Apparently not.”

  “What kind of truck does he drive?”

  “Why?”

  Angela grabbed a carrier from the back of Lark’s truck and told her about the person she’d seen in the black four-wheel drive.

  “It couldn’t have been him, not without carriers. Besides, he doesn’t own a black truck.”

  Nothing more was said, and they walked in silence toward the shore. If it hadn’t been for the tension that crackled between them, Angela might have enjoyed the quiet. Instead, the air hummed with the strain of what had gone unsaid.

  Unable to take it any longer, Angela said, “You don’t like me much, do you?”

  Lark’s deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression proved it wasn’t a question she’d expected.

  “We just met,” she answered. “I don’t even know you.”

  “But I’m right, aren’t I?”

  Lark’s gaze darted toward Twin Owls and the Raptor House at the base of the giant rock outcroppings.

  So that was it.

  “You know, you don’t have to worry about him.”

  Lark’s eyes narrowed.

  “He’s obviously sweet on you.”

  A blush crept into Lark’s face. “What makes you say that?”

  “For one, he’s got your picture on his desk. It’s a pretty good one, too.” Angela could tell Lark was surprised. “You didn’t know?”

  Lark shook her head.

  “Well, he does. Even if I was interested, I don’t think I’d stand a chance.”

  Lark laughed, looking a little sheepish. “You probably think I’m foolish.”

  Angela thought of Nate and shook her head. “Not at all. I think you’re lucky.”

  As evidenced by her one true love, relationships were not her forte. She had attended her senior prom with the class geek, now a rocket scientist at Martin Marietta, and accepted the occasional dinner invitation. Unfortunately, most of her dates thought paying for dinner bought them a night in the sack. The only man lucky enough to get reimbursed had ended up falling in love with Angela’s college roommate.

  “So what’s our strategy?” Lark asked, surveying the geese on the lake.

  Angela pulled her mind back to the present. “I say the best chance we have is to herd them upstream into the river.”

  “I agree.”

  By coin toss, Lark ended up at the bend in the river holding the net, while Angela slogged through the knee-deep snow on the south shore. The top crust shattered with each step, raising a puff of powdered snow.

  Several yards downstream of the birds, Angela turned and started moving the birds toward the river. Armed with a fallen branch, she beat at the water and yipped like a cowgirl herding cattle. Startled, the geese flapped their wings.

  “Here they come. Go for the big one on the left.”

  “You mean right,” Lark said. Her voice carried, and the geese veered off.

  “Shoot!” Angela reached out and slapped the branch on the water. Stepping too close to the bank, her feet slipped, and she ended up ankle-deep in the creek. Icy water seeped through the worn seams of her boots and wicked up her socks. Damn.

  The geese flapped and squawked.

  The net swung down.

  “Got one.” A triumphant Lark loomed into view. Her expression changed when she saw Angela. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” And wet.

  Angela trudged back to the truck through the water at the creek’s edge. It was shallow, and she found the rocks easier to navigate than the deep snow. Besides, her feet were already soaked.

  Once in sight of the vehicles, she clambered ashore, helping Lark with the bird. The goose didn’t want to go into the carrier. It took both of them to wrestle the bird into the cage: one to hold the goose, one to cram the lid on.

  “Ready to do it again?” Lark asked. “If you want, I’ll take the river.”

  “That’s okay. I’m already soaked.”

  They repeated the process eight times, then, with only forty-five minutes left before Angela ha
d to report in to Frakus, the women headed for the Raptor House.

  By then, Eric had clocked in, and he helped them unload, lugging the carriers past yesterday’s geese and into the lavage area.

  “You better get out of those boots,” he told Angela on the final trip, hefting the last goose out of the back of her truck.

  Snatching up a pair of sneakers from the passenger’s side floor, she followed him inside. “Did anyone bring in some birds awhile ago?”

  Eric shook his head. “Why?”

  She told him about the person with the black truck while she pulled off her socks. Her feet looked bright red and wrinkly. “I figured they headed up here.”

  “They might have gone to Covy’s.”

  There was a thought. She’d do some checking later. She should have time to make a phone call once the fishermen took to the ice.

  Eric disappeared and returned with a pair of dry wool socks. “Here.”

  While she pulled on the warm socks, Eric and Lark inspected a goose from one of the carriers.

  “This bird looks pretty good,” he said. “But we still need to lavage. Dorothy’s here. I think the four of us can handle it.”

  Angela checked her watch for the umpteenth time. It would be tight making the Jamboree, but she hadn’t done all this work to have the geese die for lack of care. “Let’s do it.”

  Her feet prickled as she pulled on her shoes, and she rejoiced when they assigned her the easy job of injecting the water. Eric held the goose’s body, Lark managed the neck and head, and Dorothy handled the effluent.

  The first syringeful produced a gush of half-digested vegetation. Dorothy managed to keep it over the screen and bucket, then after a second and third syringeful announced, “The effluent’s clear. There’s no more vegetation, nothing.”

  “Did we pull any lead?” Angela asked, craning her neck to see for herself.

  “None.”

  “That’s not so unusual,” Eric said. “The lead may already be digested. I talked with Covy this morning. He told me that by the time the birds exhibit outward symptoms of lead poisoning, the material is usually broken down and absorbed, or expelled.”