Lark pointed toward the lab report. “Doesn’t this constitute probable cause?”
“It might.” Angela tipped her head back, feeling the stretch in her neck. Then she rolled her shoulders and sat up straight in her chair. “I can ask Kramner to follow up, and he probably would… ”
“You couldn’t prove it by me,” muttered Lark.
“Unfortunately, it would take some time, and the longer we wait, the bigger the risk of having evidence destroyed.” She folded her hands together and rocked them against the table edge. “The bottom line is, there’s nothing in this report, or any report, that proves the corn came from the field next door to the Barr Lake Hunt Club. All Tauer has to do is argue that geese migrate.”
Lark wrinkled her nose. “That reasoning didn’t fly when we wanted U.S. Fish and Wildlife to pay for the necropsy.”
Gertie acted annoyed by the banter. “Do we have any other options?”
It was the opening Angela had been waiting for. “We could collect the samples ourselves.”
“Been there, done that,” Lark said. “Have you forgotten the trouble we ran into the last time we went collecting?”
“No.” It was even more dangerous now.
Harry stroked his chin. “What exactly does collecting samples entail? For all we know, it might be fun.”
Once planted, the seed germinated. The EPOCH members talked it over among themselves.
“Hold on. One at a time.” Lark rapped her knuckles on the table. “Do you have an idea, Angela?”
“As a matter of fact… ”
They hatched a plan and agreed to meet the next morning in the parking lot in front of the Visitors Center at Barr Lake.
Birders were common visitors at all times of the year, and it didn’t surprise Angela to find a few others gathered in the parking lot at seven a.m. The weather, typical of Colorado, was perfect. The sun shone brightly in a cornflower-blue sky devoid of clouds. The temperature hovered near freezing, but promised to reach into the upper forties by noon.
Right on schedule, the Drummond van pulled into the parking lot, and the seven EPOCH members spilled out. Everyone was dressed warmly, with hats or headbands, mittens, and boots, and sunscreen liberally applied. Angela followed suit. In addition, she carried her cell phone, two baggies, and her gun.
“Ready?” Lark asked.
Six people responded by raising binoculars draped around their necks. Angela joined them in their binocular toast.
“I’ll keep the checklist,” Cecilia said, bundled up to her neck in powder-blue Gore-Tex.
“I’ve already got one started.” Dorothy’s outfit matched her sister’s, only in pink, and she held a small, yellow notebook in her hand.
“It’s not fair to have listed a bird, Dot. We haven’t officially started.”
“Oh, please,” Gertie said. “Let’s go already.”
Lark struck out for the trail. Before even leaving the parking lot, she pointed to a black-billed magpie and an American crow fighting over a piece of bagel dropped by someone in one of the other groups. A quick stop at the Visitors Center to retrieve a checklist netted the group four house finches, seven house sparrows, and a European starling. LGBs played around a birdfeeder hanging on the south side of the trail. The starling darted in and out of an air vent on the side of the building.
Dorothy quickly checked off the birds they had seen.
“I don’t think we should count the starling, Dot.”
“For heaven’s sake, why not, Cecilia?”
“It’s not a native species.”
“The same can be said for the house sparrow.”
“Just count them both already,” Gertie said. “Jeesh!”
Lark waved her arm for the group to follow. “Let’s go. We’ll start along the trail to the banding station, then cut through the woods to the lake. After that, we’ll head toward the dam, and the cornfield beyond.”
Angela nodded approval. At least one person remembered what they were here for.
The group struck out, and, within minutes, Andrew lagged behind.
“Just go on without me,” he puffed. “I’m going to stop at the banding station anyway.”
Opal hung back with her husband.
They’d only gone another ten yards when Harry pointed to the sky. “Check it out.”
Above them a red-tailed hawk made lazy circles, it’s creamy breast, red-speckled belly band, and rusty-red tail clearly visible.
The group stopped and lifted their binoculars. Angela fidgeted, anxious to press on. Then she succumbed and raised her binoculars. When in Rome…
The path to the bird-banding station was more of a road than a trail. Wide, graveled, and lightly covered with snow, it curved only once along the canal before reaching the platform. To the northwest, giant cottonwood trees and willows blotted out the view of Long’s Peak and the lake but housed a number of birds.
“Look, there’s a downy,” Gertie said. “Three-quarters up in the snag.”
She pointed to tall, dead-looking tree, and Angela tracked it toward the top. Sure enough, a checkered black-and-white bird clung to the edge of a small tree. It was a male, evidenced by the red spot on the back of its head and nape. Its short bill looked more suited to eating seeds than drilling wood.
“Black-capped chickadee,” Lark said, pointing right.
Two trees over, Angela found the bird. Gray with buff sides, its black throat and cap were unmistakable.
The bird watchers were on a roll. Before long they added the pine siskin, American goldfinch, and hairy woodpecker to the list. The hairy was elusive, hiding in the trees, and once Angela had her binoculars on him, he looked very much like the downy to her.
“He’s bigger, dear,” Dorothy patiently explained. “Plus, it has a much longer bill.”
“Wait!” Harry’s voice came in a stage whisper.
The EPOCH members stilled.
“There. Do you see him? Three trees back, halfway up, maybe two o’clock in the branches.”
Angela squinted in the direction he pointed. She could only see grayish bark.
Then two big, yellow eyes blinked, and the shape of a great horned owl emerged. It hugged the tree, in perfect form. Brown plumage with black barring rose to a white throat. Gold, feathery disks framed its face, and two feathery horns spiked from the top of its head.
Angela lifted her glasses and stared. The owl stared back, capturing her every move.
“That’s rare,” Gertie said, binoculars adhered to her face. “Great catch.”
Angela found herself reluctant to pull away.
“Is that a life bird for you?” Cecilia asked.
“My first in the wild.”
From the meadow behind them, a western meadowlark belted out a congratulatory song. The EPOCH members swiveled in unison, performing the dance of the birders.
It took only a moment for Angela to find the bird. It perched on a fence post, silhouetted by the sun.
The birders expanded the territory to include the meadow, and by the time they reached the banding station, they’d added the dark-eyed junco in gray-headed form, the white-crowned sparrow, and the horned lark to their list.
Cutting down through the woods past the mist nets, the EPOCH members didn’t log any more birds. Angela hadn’t been in this area since the night Ian died, and an uneasy chill crept along her neckline. The banding station looked different in the daylight. The riparian area stood at the edge of a cattail marsh, now dried up from years of drought. Narrow trails wound through an expansive understory of willows, and light dappled off ashen branches. The nets were furled, secured tightly around thin aluminum poles. None appeared large enough to bear the weight of a man. But, that night, the pole had been supported by a nearby tree.
Passing the rock he had stood on, Angela stopped. She climbed up on the rough surface and noticed the top was flat—easy to balance upon. She found it hard to believe an expert climber would have had trouble maintaining his footing, even in a s
torm. Pretending she was falling, Angela stretched for the pole. She was way too short to reach it. But even if she could have, there was no way the pole would have tipped in the direction of the tree. Someone had to have propped it there.
“Angela.” Lark’s voice jarred her from her thoughts. “Are you coming?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“This is where it happened, isn’t it?” Lark asked. “This is where Ian died.”
It took every ounce of effort to push her voice past the lump in her throat. “Yes.”
A few minutes later, they broke into the clearing at the east end of the lake. The brittle grasses crackled underfoot, and fish skeletons dotted the land, braised white with snow. Gertie set up a scope.
“Take a look.”
Angela peered through the scope. She spotted a group of northern pintails. The males’solid brown heads with white stripes were clearly visible, along with the long, black feathers protruding from their tails. The females were a drab mottled brown.
To the right was a northern shoveler. With it’s spatulated bill, it looked like a cartoon duck. Angela named it, then added a redhead, a mallard, and a common goldeneye. Reluctantly she relinquished the scope. “There you go.”
She grew antsy as everyone took a turn. “Lark, we need to keep moving.”
“Oh, look, there’s a ring-necked duck,” cried Dorothy. Uncommon on Barr Lake in the winter, everybody took time to look again.
“She’s right,” Gertie said. “You can see the brown neck ring.”
Finally, Angela couldn’t take any more. “I’m going on without you.”
“Oh my,” Cecilia said. “We should go with her. We can bird it on the way back.”
With that solution in mind, the group packed up and headed further east.
“Stay on the trail,” Angela warned. “And keep your eyes open.”
When they’d gone as far as they could as a group, the bird watchers set up their scopes, and Angela struck out alone.
“If I’m not back here in half an hour, head for the banding station. If I’m not back there in an hour, call for help.”
Picking her way through the cattail marshes and wetlands below the dam was more difficult than she’d imagined. More than once she ended up knee-deep in bog. It took her fifteen minutes just to reach the edge of the field.
The harvest had knocked down the corn plants, but half-chopped ears and scattered kernels lay in the ditch along the edge. The sun beat down, glinting off her jacket, and Angela realized she was a sitting duck out in the open.
With any luck, no one would realize she was there. But if they did…
She quickly picked up several half-ears of corn and stuffed them into plastic baggies. Then she broke off pieces of the plants themselves and stuffed them into another bag.
A crack echoed, then a spit of wind parted her hair, followed by another crack.
A gunshot. Hunters?
Angela turned and spotted someone with an orange cap hunkered down in the field to the north.
“Hey,” she shouted. “I’m not a bird.”
A ring-necked pheasant flushed. Taking off in a whir of rich colors, its plump body sailed just above the vegetation. Another gunshot rang out.
This time the bullet thudded into the ground near her feet. The hunter wasn’t shooting at the bird. He was shooting at her.
Angela started running along the edge of the field. Her only hope of cover was in the willows and cottonwoods bordering the Barr Lake Hunt Club property.
With several hundred yards to sprint, she considered serpentining, like Peter Falk in The In-Laws. Hitting a moving target was harder than hitting a still one; hitting a zigzagging target was harder still.
Another shot split the air, and Angela poured on the power. Moving right, she quickly switched back and moved left. Digging her cell phone out of her pocket, she dialed 9-1-1 for help.
Twenty feet more.
She got low to the ground and zigzagged toward the trees. Another shot fired. This one hit its mark.
CHAPTER 20
The bullet burned a hole into Angela’s right shoulder, and she dropped the phone. Shit.
Diving to the ground behind a tree, she bit her lower lip to keep from screaming in pain.
Don’t give away your position.
She considered reaching for the phone, when another shot pummeled the ground beyond the trees. Were Lark and the others okay? She hoped they had heard the shots and gone for help.
A crackling in the field behind her urged her to move. While she sat there, the shooter was moving into range. She could draw her own weapon and return fire. Or she could conserve her ammunition and go for help.
Pushing herself up with her left arm, she clutched her right arm to her chest and headed for the Barr Lake Hunt Club. There was a phone there, and she needed to get out of the open.
With every step came pain, and her uncertainty grew. She had never completely ruled Radigan out as a suspect. Or Nate, for that matter. She would lay odds it was Donald Tauer firing the gun, but what if she was wrong?
Is this how Ian had felt? The hunter becoming the hunted.
She took the straightest route through the trees. Blood gushed from her shoulder and poured over the hand clutching her elbow. It was warm and sticky, and she wondered if she needed to tie off the wound.
The sound of someone thrashing through the woods behind her propelled her on. The clubhouse loomed into view, and she bolted across the driveway for the front door.
Please let it be open.
Her prayer was granted. She rattled the handle, and the door swung wide. Quickly, she shut and bolted it from the inside. Traveling along the row of windows, she dropped one blind after another. If the shooter couldn’t see inside, it might slow him down.
She bumped her arm on the last window frame, and her knees buckled from the pain. Footsteps on the deck prompted her back to her feet.
Angela reached for her gun, but the holster was designed to draw the weapon using her right hand. But, with her shoulder injured like it was, she only managed to nudge the weapon deeper. The door handles jiggled.
Abandoning the effort, Angela edged her way along the tables to the kitchen. Adrenaline pushed her to run, but logic told her to move slowly, quietly.
She eased open the swinging door.
No one was there.
Making sure the back door was locked, she dropped the back window blinds.
She heard the sound of breaking glass and the creak of the dining room door, then above her head a green light flashed over the doorway. So that was how Radigan’s son knew Coot was there! The light was triggered by the door.
A shuffle of feet spurred her to action. She opened the back door and slammed it shut, then she darted into the next room. With luck, the shooter would think she had fled.
A clumsy retreat, and the front door banged. Yes!
Quickly she moved through the rooms until she found the office. She picked up the phone and discovered the line was dead.
Panic coursed through her. Her breathing quickened. She forced herself to stay calm.
Think. What would Ian do?
Setting down the receiver, her gaze dropped to a paper on the desk. It was a printout on the properties of the shot Radigan had under development. Picking it up, she studied the contents. One of the main components of the shot was a corn-based plastic.
Suddenly the pieces clicked into place, and a cold fear spread through her veins. Donald Tauer was guilty, but not of murder. He was guilty of growing the corn used in the shot Radigan developed. Radigan sharecropped the land. He received payment, or a percentage of the crop in payoff.
“Figure it out?” Charles Radigan stood in the doorway, a rifle cradled in his arms.
Angela startled. Pain wracked her body, and she felt her strength drain. “Why take the risk? The formula doesn’t even work.”
“It can, provided we find the right product. The corn has special properties. The plastic we ma
de was tough enough to withstand the blast of a shotgun, yet it was biodegradable.”
“And poisonous.”
“We could have solved that, given enough time.”
“Why not just get a license to grow it?”
“I was running out of time. Do you have any idea the hoops you have to jump through to grow and/or to use genetically engineered crops? My investors wanted to see results. Tauer never asked why I wanted my share planted with special seed. He didn’t want to know.”
“No,” Angela said. “He needed the land you controlled in order to keep his business going.”
Radigan smiled. “You’re a smart girl.”
“What about Nate Sobul?” She was afraid to find out, but figured the longer she could keep Radigan talking the better.
“The corn Tauer cleared for market was clean. I doubt there were even any traces of contamination. But your partner figured out the corn was causing die-offs.”
“And he tipped off Nate.” That made her feel happy. It meant Nate had been telling the truth.
“He must have reported his suspicions to the IES before I could silence him.”
“Is that the new terminology for murder?” Angela watched Radigan’s eyes. He didn’t care much for the question.
“What do you think?” he asked, waving the gun in the air. “Do you think I would stand by and let some gung ho environmentalist ruin me because a flock of geese died?”
No. Not any more than she would expect him to let her live now that she knew the answers. She dropped her left hand toward the edge of the desk. Radigan gestured with his gun for her to keep her hand on her elbow.
“Don’t do that.”
“I just needed to steady myself.” Her shoulder throbbed. Luckily the bleeding had stopped, and the wound only bubbled now and then when she moved.
“The case was dead without your partner, and Nate’s focus is on Tauer. As long as Tauer stays clean, there’s nothing he can do.”
“You don’t think with me gone, the case will just disappear, do you?” Angela asked, sitting down in the chair. Let him shoot her.
Her gun bumped against her side. If she worked at it slowly, maybe she could maneuver her right hand to extract the gun, all the while keeping it covered by the left.
Death Takes a Gander Page 21