“If Walker’s has to decide between irreparably damaging their reputation and letting Swifty go? My hope is that they’ll let her go.”
Otis turns off the video. “Let’s get a few shots of you with the calf.”
We head outside. Swifty is in the back of the truck. I crawl in beside her. She rests her head on my lap; bottomless brown eyes stare up at me. Flea watches, waiting for me to fix the calf. I don’t know if I can. The shutter clicks as Otis takes photos. “Make sure Flea’s not in them,” I say.
“Why?”
“If your dog is in the photos, your family will know you helped me. And don’t forget to cut your voice out of the video.” I curl my body around Swifty, like she’s the Yin to my Yang. While Otis heads inside to edit the video, create a link and send it to anyone still willing to listen, I pull a bottle of formula from the cooler. “You’re a golden splash,” I tell the calf. She lifts her head and takes a sip.
40
“Lily.”
It takes a minute to remember where I am. Then Swifty’s trunk flops onto my chest. “Hey, sweet pea.” She drank about a pint then wanted to snuggle. We both fell asleep. “How about stretching your legs?” Swifty wobbles to her feet and steps onto the lift. Down she goes to the grass. When she pees, brown urine dribbles down her back legs. Swifty looks back at me like she knows something is wrong. “It’s okay. I’ll see what Otis wants then get you cleaned up.” Flea hops out of the van. “Keep an eye on her?” He chuffs.
I climb the porch steps. Otis holds open the door. It seems impossible that it could be steamier inside the trailer than out. It’s early afternoon, the hottest part of the day. The T-shirt Christine loaned me is stuck to my sweaty skin along with her shorts. There’s a row of mosquito bites down my legs. I hate Florida.
“You need to see this,” Otis says with a nod at the TV. The channel is on CNC. Charlie Hamilton sits at his desk.
“Did you get the video out?”
“Yeah. The Pennington Times, YouTube, Facebook along with fifty other newspapers plus a few magazines.”
“Thank you.” Otis doesn’t look at me.
Hamilton clears his throat. “We continue to follow the story of Tiger Lillian Decker, who goes by Lily, an eighteen-year-old from Oregon, who has stolen elephant calf Swift Jones. Sawyer Thompson, a senior at the Grable, Decker’s high school, has agreed to talk with us via Skype to help us better understand this complicated situation.”
I am the scum on the bottom of a garbage can.
“Sawyer, thank you for speaking with me,” Hamilton says.
“Sure.” Sawyer looks gorgeous, as usual, in a Grable lacrosse T-shirt and jeans, but just like Calvin, his bloodshot eyes reveal that he hasn’t gotten much sleep.
“We’ve been told that you and Lily are best friends?”
“We are.”
A sparkler in my brain goes off like it’s the Fourth of July. We are?
“Have you seen the video she released this morning?”
“Yes.”
“What did you think of it?”
“That it took more balls than most people have to be so honest.”
Hamilton taps his pen on the desk. “Can you tell us a bit about Lily?”
“She’s smart, really funny in a self-deprecating way and she’s incredibly kind.”
“Given her history—”
“Lily Decker isn’t her mother.”
Otis looks at me. “Sure he’s not your boyfriend?”
“Why do you care?” I ask.
He looks away. “I don’t.”
“Point taken,” Hamilton says. “Lily’s father has said that her mental health is at risk. That stress can trigger a life-changing problem. Your friend has broken the law, stolen a sick elephant—she’s hiding out somewhere. Are you worried she’s mentally ill?”
“No.”
Hamilton blinks three times. “Isn’t that naive? She’s high risk, right?”
“I know a ton about schizophrenia,” Sawyer says. “I’ve talked with doctors, done research to make sure I’m educated and aware so I’m there for Lily if she needs me. Right now? She doesn’t need me. She needs people to stand up for Swift Jones, for Swifty. Because if they don’t? That calf is going to die.”
Sawyer did research. Ten percent was a big number for him, too. I’m such a bitch.
“What do you want people to know about your friend?” Hamilton asks.
“That she’s the bravest person I know.”
“Then in your opinion the name Tiger fits?”
“Yes.”
My eyes overflow. Embarrassed, I wipe tears away with the hem of Christine’s shirt.
“I have to ask, are you romantically involved?”
“We’re not. But there’s no other girl in the entire world I’d pick. Not even the real Swift Jones. #SaveSwifty, #FreeSwifty, #GoTigerGo.”
“Thank you for speaking with us,” Hamilton says. “We now join the news conference beginning on the steps of the Pennington Times. Speaking is Mr. Markus Matthews, editor in chief of the Pennington Times.”
There are at least a hundred people gathered in front of the podium where Mr. Matthews stands in a sweater and khakis, flanked by a gray-haired guy in a three-piece suit who must be the Times’ lawyer. Flashes go off; sound techs hold out booms with additional mics. There are a dozen TV cameras filming. It’s hard to believe all of this is because of Swifty. But it’s not about Swifty. It’s about the sensational details of my story. Who I am has ruined everything.
“Thank you for coming today,” Mr. Matthews says. “I’d like to address the articles we’ve recently published by our reporter, Tiger Lillian Decker.” The lawyer leans in, whispers in his ear. “Correction from the shiny shoes beside me,” Mr. Matthews says. “Our unpaid intern, Tiger Lillian Decker. We adhere to the same standards as all legitimate news organizations. Our stories are responsible and vetted. That includes the link we posted of Howard Walker, Wild Walker’s elephant trainer, abusing both his adult male elephant and the calf, Swift Jones.” The lawyer leans in again. Mr. Matthews shakes his head. “We received both the article and the link from an offshore, untraceable site.”
“That’s not true. Whatever email address Christine uses, he has it.”
Otis shakes his head. “He might think he does, but he’s wrong. I set her up on the Tor network. It uses different relay proxies that redirect users along a random path.”
“In English?”
“Her location and privacy are protected. Tor is a system that whistleblowers and abuse victims use. I learned everything I could about it so that I could help Christine disappear.”
“Do you know where Decker is?” A reporter wearing a light gray hijab asks.
“I guess we’ve moved on to the Q and A,” Mr. Matthews says. “I have no idea where she is, but of course the Times has been cooperating with the Florida law agencies investigating the kidnapping of Swifty Jones.”
“It’s Swift Jones,” another journalist corrects.
“I like Swifty,” Mr. Matthews says. “Has a nifty ring to it, dontcha think? Just like Tiger.” The reporter actually nods. “Where was I?” Mr. Matthews asks. “If we receive further contact or correspondence from Tiger, we will turn over all information to the appropriate agencies.”
“What do you, personally, think about what Tiger has done?” asks a hipster writer sporting a slouch hat.
“It makes a helluva story.”
“Whose side are you on?” another reporter demands.
Mr. Matthews glowers at him. “Aren’t we all on the side of truth? Or have we become so jaded that we’re not concerned about saving a baby elephant’s life?”
“Howard Walker plans to hold Tiger Decker responsible if Swifty dies,” notes a journalist whose black beard completely obscures his mouth.
Mr
. Matthews taps his lips like he’s thinking. “Isn’t he the guy who beats elephants with a barbaric weapon?”
“Save Swifty!” a few people shout.
“Aren’t you minimizing the threat that Tiger may have had some kind of psychotic break?” the hipster asks.
I look at Otis. “They’re all calling me Tiger.” He nods but keeps his eyes on the TV.
“As far as I know, that kid isn’t even remotely nuts,” Mr. Matthews says. “To be perfectly honest, up until a few days ago I thought her most outstanding attribute was that she was quick to get my coffee, but after watching her video? I misjudged her. Tiger is willing to risk her future for what she believes in. What we should all believe in, if we’re not callous, inhumane pricks.”
An actual cheer goes up in the crowd.
“Do you feel it?” Otis asks.
I’m stuck on the fact that Mr. Matthews just defended me. “What?”
“The tide is starting to shift. The story is turning back to Swifty.”
“Would you help Tiger evade the police if it meant getting more of her story?” the bald reporter asks.
Mr. Matthews shakes his head. “We will not thwart the law. Thank you for your time.” He walks away from the microphone. CNC returns to its regularly scheduled news.
“Will it be enough?” I ask Otis.
One corner of his mouth tugs upward. It’s not a smile, but it’s a start. “Maybe—”
A coughing sound punctuates the air. I hear it again, strained, rattling. We both move quickly toward the screen door. Swifty stands at the foot of the steps. Her trunk twists into a knot, and she coughs again, harder, longer, harsher, then slowly crumples to the grass.
41
We kneel beside Swifty. As she coughs her trunk spirals like she’s trying to get something out of it. Her stomach rumbles but there’s no diarrhea, just foul smelling gas. Otis runs his hand over her belly.
“What’s wrong with her?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.”
Swifty starts trembling. I grab my backpack from the front seat of the truck, dig until I find Dr. Robertson’s card.
“What are you doing?”
“During her interview, Addie said to call someone if anything went really wrong.” I grab Christine’s cell phone from inside the trailer and dial Dr. Robertson.
“She works for my family,” Otis says.
I sit back down beside him. “I won’t tell her where we are.” The line rings three times before someone picks up.
“Dr. Robertson’s office, how can I help you?”
I push the speakerphone button. “I need to talk to Dr. Robertson.”
“She’s with a patient right now. Are you an existing client?”
“No.”
“I can take your name and number, have her call you back when she’s free. Her schedule is pretty packed today so it’ll probably be after five, or tomorrow morning.”
“This is Lily Decker.”
“Oh.” I hear shuffling, the phone dropped, a door opening then whispered voices.
“Lily?”
“Thanks for taking my call.”
“What’s wrong, other than the obvious?”
“Swifty still isn’t drinking much. She’s had three enemas, but her energy is lower. She’s started shaking, twisting her trunk, coughing—”
“Her stomach is rumbling, plus it’s harder than normal,” Otis adds.
“Ah,” Dr. Robertson says, like a piece of the puzzle has fallen into place. “I thought it was your voice on that video. How’s your family taking that, Otis?”
“Probably not well.”
“What?” I stare at Otis, stomach plummeting because I don’t want him to be a casualty, too. “You didn’t cut your voice out? Otis, there’s no going back!”
“In the past few days you fought harder for Swifty than I fought for Tambor my whole life. I didn’t cut out my voice because this is my fight, too. And for the record, I don’t ever want to go back.”
We glare at each other. Swifty hacks again and both our hands reach to comfort her. “Okay,” I say.
“Okay,” Otis repeats.
“You two have that cleared up?” Dr. Roberston asks.
“Yes,” we say in unison.
“Did you get that application in, Otis?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s hope it’s still an option when all this is done. Now, does Swifty have gas but no diarrhea?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Two things are going on. Calves who aren’t drinking enough formula get hypothermia.”
“How do we treat it?” I ask.
“Pile as many blankets as you have on her. Snuggle against her so she gets your body’s warmth. If you have warm water bottles—”
“We don’t,” I say as Otis grabs blankets from the truck and piles them on the calf, tucking them tightly around her.
“Get some if you can. But that’s not your biggest problem right now.”
“What is?” I ask.
“I’m pretty sure Swifty has colic.”
The calf coughs again. I run my hand along her throat, trying to smooth whatever’s catching. “Is that a disease?”
“It’s a sign, not a disease. Her dehydration has led to an inability to digest the formula. Her stomach is full of gas from the artificial milk fermenting in her gut. That causes a severe stomachache plus painful bloat. Can I convince you to let me come to you?”
“Ellie, we can’t put you in that position,” Otis says. “If you got caught, you’d lose your license.”
“Otis, this is serious.”
He clenches his jaw. “So tell us what to do.”
Dr. Robertson sighs. “Continue the enemas. That will help make her gut secrete more mucus, which moves the gut, forcing the gas to pass, along with the undigested matter. Try to get her walking for fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“She’s weak,” I say.
“Make her, and if you can? Get her Pedialyte.”
“The stuff for babies?” I ask.
“It’s a rehydration solution of sugar, water and salt that will replenish Swifty’s missing electrolytes. It’ll also help her intestines absorb more water. That will prevent further dehydration. Give it to her in half-strength, basically one-to-one with water.”
“Okay. We can do that.”
“Lily,” Dr. Robertson says, “have you considered that your rescue attempt, as noble an idea as it was, may kill Swifty?”
It takes a second to find my voice. “Do you...do you think she would’ve died at Walker’s?”
“That’s not—”
“Psst.”
I close my eyes.
“It’s so thecret, the land of tears.”
The correct quote is “mysterious” not “secret.” I shove the voice into a deep drawer. “Tell me. Please.”
“Yes. Once you and Dr. Tinibu left, my medical opinion is that Swifty would’ve died. But untreated colic will speed up that process.”
My eyes open. “By how much?”
“My best guess? Days. What you two are doing is rash, unadvised. Frankly, it’s insane. Sorry to use that word, given the details of this situation, but it is.” Dr. Robertson clears her throat. “But...”
“But?”
“It might be the calf’s only chance. A slim one, but still.”
“Thank you for taking my call.”
“You both know that I’m legally obligated to report this call to the authorities?”
I didn’t, but it makes sense. “Do what you need to do.”
Dr. Robertson exhales loudly. “Tell me you have a plan.”
“We do,” I say.
“I won’t make that call and neither will my employee, but execute it fast.”
“Thank yo
u.”
“Good luck to all three of you.” Dr. Robertson hangs up.
Beneath my palm, Swifty’s heart thuds. I can’t tell if it’s slower or faster now that she’s so sick. I just know that it has to keep beating. “We need to drive to Texas, to the Sanctuary, now.”
Otis shakes his head. “My family hasn’t given up their claim.”
“But you said the tide had changed.”
“People are questioning Walker’s. They’re starting to focus on Swifty’s plight instead of on you.”
“So if we show up at the Sanctuary with a sick calf, they’ll take her in.”
“We won’t make it there.” Otis rests his chin on his knees. The bruise on the side of his mouth has darkened to purple. “By now my family has given the cops the truck’s license plate number. They’ll know what we’re driving. Duct tape over Wild Walker’s name won’t fool the police. We’ll be stopped within a few hours, maybe sooner. Lily, there’re no more options. We hide out. Hydrate Swifty the best we can. Wait. Hope Walker’s gives up their claim before we’re discovered. Before it’s—”
“Too late,” I say softly. Flea brings over Nibs. Swifty scrunches her trunk, inch by inch, toward the stuffed animal but gives up even though the rabbit’s ear is only an inch away. “We can’t stay trapped.” I dial another number. Put the phone on speaker. It rings one time.
“Tell me it’s you,” Sawyer says.
“It’s me.”
“Are you okay?”
No. “Yes. Are you?”
“Yeah.”
“Sawyer? Seriously. Are you okay?”
“You were right,” Sawyer says. “I’ve been stuck in one place, too. It’s time to start living.”
My eyes fill and overflow. I wipe away the tears. “The silver lining of this whole thing is that I’ll have a ton of time to be a great best friend when I’m in prison.”
“Looking on the bright side,” Sawyer jokes, “nice. So where the hell are you?”
“Near Cedar, Florida. Hidden in the woods. The truck I have is the circus’s. If I drive it, I’ll get caught.”
“You don’t know how to drive.”
“Otis does.”
“Otis Walker?” Sawyer explodes.
When Elephants Fly Page 26