Chasing Thunderbird

by J. Leigh Bailey

I flicked on the lights in the office, now used to the way they hissed and flickered before settling. I gestured the guy in. He sort of hovered in the doorway, hands gripping the straps of his bag.

  I dropped my own bag next to my desk. “Have a seat,” I said, pointing to the visitor’s chair. “What can I do for you?”

  He perched on the edge of the cushion. “This is way more awkward than I’d expected.”

  I raised my brows in question.

  “I guess I should start at the beginning.”

  I tried to squelch the part of me that wanted to answer with a snarky comment about the beginning being a good place to start. Not everyone was as much of a Sound of Music fan as I was.

  “My name is Matthew Jones. This is my first semester here.”

  I cocked my head, and he seemed to read the question in the movement.

  “I just got out of the Army. Decided it was time to get that degree.”

  “Right.” Okay, that made sense. Veterans made up a good portion of colleges’ nontraditional students. Though he seemed strangely naïve for someone who’d spent time in the military. I guessed every serviceman’s experiences were different. “You’re a biology major?” Why else would he track me down?

  “Yeah. Well, I saw the article about you in the college’s e-zine and wanted to meet you.”

  That stupid article was going to follow me around for the rest of my career. “You should know that things were taken out of context—”

  His face fell, losing the earnest expression he’d been wearing. “The thing is”—he stopped to clear his throat—“I’m trying to find thunderbirds too.”

  I fell back into my seat. Not what I was expecting. Not at all.

  Chapter Three

  FORD never did get back to me with the date and time of the birders’ club excursion, so on Sunday evening I took myself, a couple of high-power binoculars, a camera, and my field journal on a bird-watching expedition of my own. I was better off flying solo anyway. While searching the valley for red-breasted nuthatches or trumpeter swans would be pleasant enough, I had more important things on my mind. Like Matthew Jones and his offer to help me with my search.

  Needless to say, I was a little taken aback by his appearance at my office. He wasn’t the first person to approach me, but he wasn’t much like the others who’d done so.

  There were a few of what I’d call “official groups” in the cryptozoology field, and most had approached me at one point or another over the last few years. They had taken a scientist-to-scientist approach, hoping for access to my family’s records or my notes, or they wanted me to join their research teams. I never agreed to work with them. Not that I doubted their sincerity or dedication, but my quest to find a thunderbird was too personal, too close to home. None of those groups would send a student—former military or not—to me. There were also fringe groups, like the ones who made a name for themselves as myth hunters with online channels and websites.

  I couldn’t be tied to one of those groups, no matter how tenuously. The association would be a risk to both my family and my career—one I couldn’t afford.

  Matthew didn’t belong to either category of thunderbird enthusiasts. At least, that’s what he told me. He claimed to just be an individual who had an interest in Native American mythological creatures, particularly thunderbirds. I was always a little leery of those cryptozoologists who actually believed in the myths behind the creatures. They were searching for magical creatures as proof of their system of belief. He seemed sincere, but I told him I’d have to think about it. I didn’t even want my cousins involved with my search, so I didn’t think I was ready to bring aboard a complete stranger.

  It would be nice to have someone to compare notes with, though. I couldn’t go to my family. My parents wanted me to drop it so I didn’t get pulled into the same downward spiral as my grandfather and his father before him. My father—a renowned cultural anthropologist—and my mother—a geneticist—had worked hard to distance themselves from my grandfather’s and great-grandfather’s quest. The whole thunderbird thing was an embarrassment to them, a disgrace.

  They were more than happy to discuss all aspects of my career and education, as long as the word “bird” was never accompanied by the word “thunder.”

  I couldn’t blame them. It couldn’t have been easy having their own academic and scientific successes tarnished with my family’s reputation for fanaticism and delusion. It didn’t help that my great-grandfather was a bit… odd. Not only did he follow the family tradition of chasing down evidence of thunderbirds, he also believed in the existence of bigfoot, werewolves, and, well, the Loch Ness monster. So, yeah, he really didn’t aid our image.

  I shot a look at the digital time display on my Jeep’s dash. I had about half an hour until sunset. A lot of birds were better seen midmorning, when the sun started warming the air enough for insect life to liven up. Others, like hawks, were more active in mid- to late afternoon, where they could hitch a ride on warmer airstreams. But every documented, though admittedly unconfirmed, sighting of thunderbirds—or at least large, unidentified birds that could possibly be thunderbirds—happened around dusk, leading to speculation that thunderbirds were nocturnal.

  I parked in the scenic overlook parking area near Buffalo Bill State Park and took one last look at my map. Based on the buzz I’d caught three months ago, the possible thunderbird sighting had been somewhere between Buffalo Bill State Park and Yellowstone National Park. The overlook here seemed like a good place to start my search.

  For this watch I was going to keep it pretty simple. I took my gear and climbed to the roof of my Jeep. I set my journal and pencil on one side of myself and my high-power night-vision binoculars on the other. I used my regular non-night-vision binoculars to scan the skyline. I was methodical in my search, following a set grid-like pattern. Within minutes I was completely engrossed as I scanned the ridgeline, the tree lines, and the sky. Every time a bird crossed my line of sight, I made a note in my journal with the species and location.

  When the sun had made its descent below the peaks of the Tetons—a stunning sight I intended to catch as often as I could—I switched to the night-vision binoculars.

  It wasn’t unusual for me to lose track of time. I could have perched on the top of my Jeep all night long. And with my focus on my observations and notations, I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to worry about Matthew’s out-of-the-blue request or my completely inappropriate obsession for my TA. But this was February in Wyoming, and when the sun dropped, so did the temperature. Even when there was sunlight to soften the frigid edges of mountain air, I needed to either keep moving to stay warm, get back in my vehicle where I had a perfectly good heater, or freeze into a solid chunk of ice on top of my Jeep.

  I jumped to the ground and shook my arms and legs to work out the stiffness caused by spending two hours on a car roof in the cold.

  Three sets of headlights headed my way, blinding me momentarily. The headlights turned into black SUVs pulling into the small parking lot. The cars surrounded me, one on either side of my Jeep, one behind me, trapping me. There were several open spots in the lot, and they had to box me in?

  My heart tripped even as I tried to convince myself they were just a couple of tourists looking for their way back to Cody. Never mind that it was night. In a state park. In February. In fricking Wyoming. It was dark out; who in their right mind would be coming out to hike or catch the sights?

  Two men exited the car closest to me. There was no movement in the SUV behind me. Either the windows on the vehicle were darkened beyond what was legal in Wyoming, or there weren’t even any lights on the dash to illuminate faces. Either way, it didn’t bode well.

  I put my hand on the door handle of my Jeep, calculating the odds of me getting in and locking the door before these guys could do whatever they intended to do. The answer: not good. I clutched the night-vision binoculars to my chest and decided to brazen it out. “Hey, guys. What’s up?”

 
; It was only 7:00 p.m., but the distance from town and the lack of streetlamps in the park made it dark as midnight. At first I assumed that was why I couldn’t make out their features. Then I realized they were wearing military-style tactical masks I’d only ever seen before in movies. Then I noticed the guns. How I missed two of the dudes brandishing assault rifles, I didn’t know. But now, with the odd clarity brought on by the adrenaline crashing through my body, I could see enough detail despite the dark that I recognized them as AK-47s.

  I threw my hands in the air, releasing the night-vision binoculars, which ended up hanging from their strap around my neck. “What the hell?” I swallowed hard, hoping against hope the action would swallow back my terror as well. It didn’t work. Maybe because there was a lump the size of Idaho in my throat. Or maybe it was because strange men in pseudomilitary gear pointing guns at me was too terrifying to simply swallow back.

  I stepped back, slamming into my Jeep.

  I thought briefly of the bear spray in the glove box. Fat lot of good it was doing me there.

  The man not holding a gun on me stepped forward and grabbed my satchel.

  “Hey!” Instinctively I reached for it, but Gun Guy made a gesture clearly telling me to knock it off. The movement caused the sleeve of his military-style jacked to ride up, showing off a swath of pale skin and a tattoo. Dipping below the edge of the sleeve was a reptilian tail. It could have been a snake or a lizard or a dragon for all I knew. But a snake, lizard, or dragon didn’t make any difference. I doubted any of the images would indicate a warm, fuzzy kind of person.

  I shut up. Nothing in my bag was worth my life. And even my important stuff—like my wallet and computer—were safe. My wallet and all my credit cards were tucked away in the glove box with the bear spray, and my laptop was sitting on my desk at home.

  The gunless guy dug through my bag and pulled out… my journal. He tossed the bag back to me and, without a word, he and his gun-toting friend got into their car and left. Two seconds later, the other two SUVs pulled out of the parking lot.

  Once again I was alone in a small scenic overlook parking lot.

  Holy shit. Without a single word spoken, I’d been mugged. In the middle of Nowhere, Wyoming, I’d been fricking mugged. And not for money either. In what universe did men in fancy tactical gear rob hapless college professors? And what kind of muggers didn’t take money or the night-vision binoculars that cost a fortune? All that firepower and they wanted my fucking notebook? What kind of place was this?

  AFTER shaking in my boots for a good five minutes, I finally jumped into my Jeep and burned rubber getting back to town. I’d come face-to-face with poachers in Romania when I was tracking raptors in the Carpathian Mountains. I’d stayed in a village in Brazil that acted as headquarters for international drug runners. Once, when I was paying more attention to the birds in the sky rather than my surroundings, I’d stumbled into a clearing with a mama moose and her calf. Believe me, even bears with their cubs weren’t as mean as a cow moose who thought her baby was in danger. All that and I’d never been as terrified as I was making my way to the bright lights of Cody.

  I thought I was holding it together pretty well until I pulled into my driveway and couldn’t release my white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. The darkened windows of my side of the duplex seemed ominous somehow. Even the single mom who lived in the other half of the duplex with her two kids didn’t seem to be home. I didn’t want to be alone right now.

  I threw the Jeep into Reverse and drove toward campus. I needed to go somewhere. Somewhere with people so I didn’t have to face being alone and my mind wouldn’t blow up every shadow and sound into something dire. Preferably somewhere with normal, boring people who didn’t have big guns.

  The fluorescent blue numbers on my dash showed me it wasn’t even eight o’clock. How could it be so early still? It felt like days since I’d headed out to the park.

  I kept driving until I hit Main Street. A neon sign in the shape of a steaming cup of coffee beckoned from a storefront window. Someone exited the café, wrapping a scarf around their neck before trudging in the direction of Cody College, and suddenly I’d have given anything for a hot cup of coffee.

  I parallel parked half a block from the café and hustled to the flashing coffee cup. The temperature had dropped even further, now hovering somewhere around the zero mark, but condensation along the window proved that the air inside was likely to be toasty warm. I needed warm at that moment more than I’d needed anything in a long time.

  According to the sign, the place was called Buddy’s. Something about that name prodded my memory, but I didn’t have the brainpower to chase the thought. The bell above the door jangled as I walked in, and, of course, silence descended over the room. It might have been a normal lull in the conversation, or maybe because I was simply a stranger to the place, but my brain came up with dozens of more sinister explanations.

  Coffee-scented air enveloped me as I made my way to the front counter, the smell of it reminding me of Ford. The name Buddy’s finally clicked. Ford had said he worked at Buddy’s.

  The couple in front of me shifted, their hands full of espresso drinks and pastries, and there Ford stood, tall and broad, with a green apron draped over his torso. His brows rose in surprise. “Dr. Coleman.”

  “Oh, hi, Ford.” I tucked my hands into my puffy winter coat.

  “Hey.” He absently tapped on the gleaming glass of the display case. All my attention centered on those long fingers. The soft click of his nails on the glass echoed oddly, even as the rest of the surrounding sounds became muffled, then muted entirely, like the moment was caught in a slo-mo track.

  “Dr. Coleman?”

  My chest ached, and I realized I was holding my breath.

  “Dr. Coleman.” More insistent now. “Simon.”

  The world snapped into focus, sound rushing back. I jerked my head up and met Ford’s eyes. Where I’d expected impatience, I found concern. I blinked. “Sorry.”

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah… fine.” I shook my head to clear it.

  “Can I get you something?” Ford tilted his head, indicating the menu board behind him.

  The chalk-printed words wavered a bit, so I looked away. “Just coffee? Two creams. No sweetener.”

  He filled a forest-green mug and set it in front of me. “Two ten.”

  I reached for my wallet. My left back pocket, the one I always kept my wallet in, was empty. “I just had it. I swear. I had it.” My heartbeat and breathing sped up as I jammed my hands into all four pockets of my jeans, both side pockets of my coat. My hands shook when I yanked the zipper down, searching the inner breast pocket. “Shit. Shit, where’d it go?”

  I pulled the parka off entirely, slapping at my chest and shoulders as though the wallet would have taken up residence under my sweater. The panic I’d held off for the last hour came crashing into me.

  “Hey, relax. It’s just coffee. It’s on the house.” Ford’s voice held a cautious, soothing tone that didn’t seem to fit the brooding guy I’d interacted with the last week.

  “No. No. This isn’t me. I’m not that guy.” I looked around wildly, my eyes not stopping long enough to focus on anything. My reaction was extreme, irrational, but I couldn’t seem to make myself stop.

  The bell above the door chimed as another customer came in. The blast of cold air cleared my brain and calmed my frantic searching, which in turn took the edge off the anxiety attack that had almost claimed me.

  “My car.” I took a deep breath, inhaling for five seconds, holding it, exhaling for five seconds. It helped. “My wallet is in the glove compartment of my car,” I told Ford. “Let me just run out and—”

  Concern crossed his face, drawing his dark brows close together above his nose. “Seriously, Dr. Coleman, it’s fine.” He gestured behind him, and a girl with a slinky blonde ponytail slid over. “Handle this for a while,” he told her.

  I stood there like a moron, still jittery from the
adrenaline dump, head buzzing with white noise. I repeated the deep-breathing exercise. Maybe if I could get the shaking under control, I could take my coffee and get out of the way.

  I didn’t notice Ford coming around the counter, but when I opened my eyes after a deep breath and a slow count to five, Ford had appeared next to me. It had to be my imagination, but I swore I could feel the heat and pressure of his hand more than the thick sweater should have allowed. I focused on that phantom sensation to rein in my out-of-control emotions.

  Ford guided me to a booth partially hidden by a bookshelf full of old newspapers, worn paperbacks, and a couple of ratty board-game boxes. It never occurred to me to object.

  After setting the cup of my coffee on the table in front of me, Ford spun a chair until it faced the wrong direction and straddled it, resting his arms over the top rung of the ladder-back. “What’s got you so shook, Dr. Coleman?”

  I wrapped my still-cold hands around the ceramic mug and let the heat from the coffee seep into my joints. “Jesus, Ford, call me Simon. When I show up falling apart like an emotional mess, you get to call me by my name.” The words—both thinking them and speaking them—cleared the last embarrassing shreds of panic from my brain. They also managed to drive home the fact that I’d pretty much had a meltdown in front of one of my students. No, I corrected myself. It’s a Sunday night and some freaky dudes just mugged me for my journal. If that didn’t give me leave to ignore whatever protocols the logical part of my brain thought should be in place, then nothing would. And honestly, my brain hurt too much to worry about it.

  “Fine. Simon. What’s wrong?”

  I should have resisted. But right at that moment, I didn’t care if Ford thought I’d gone batshit. Besides, he had that whole broody, strong, silent thing going for him. I could use a little strong in my corner right now, even if it came in a broody, silent package. And the bossy tone was just icing.

  “Is there a gang problem in Cody?”