Ned hadn’t even considered his rug. “Listen,” he said. “Remember last night I told you the less I knew, the better? Can you just tell me who the eagle belongs to? And, like, what the penalty might be for stealing it?”
“‘It?’” repeated Luna, with an offended lift of one eyebrow. “His name is Mars.”
“Sorry. Stealing him.”
“He doesn’t belong to anyone. He lives at the Western Pennsylvania Wildlife Center. That’s his home. He has a mate. He can’t be released.”
“Why not? He looks awfully healthy to me.”
“Because some shitty guy took him from his nest and raised him in captivity. He doesn’t know how to be a wild bird.”
“And why would your husband …”
Luna frowned, and Ned stopped. “Never mind,” he said. “Like I said — I’ll get you to Immokalee, but that’s as far as I can go.”
“That’s fine,” she said earnestly. “I really appreciate it. Thank you.”
Ned pulled a plastic bag from the pocket of his cargo shorts. Earlier she had put down her coffee cup, grabbed her wallet, and announced she would be right back. He asked if she would be taking the bird with her; when she said no, he quizzed her and bolted from the apartment.
“Here,” he said, pulling out two burner phones and some change.
“Thank you,” said Luna, and held up one of the phones. “This one’s for Harper. We’ll leave it someplace for her before we get on the highway.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want her calling me from her phone. I’m sure Adam has it tapped.”
“But that’s not legal.”
Luna gave him a look of amusement, then pulled her own phone from her pocket. “You’re an IT guy,” she said. “Can you transfer all the numbers from my old phone to my new one?”
“Because he’s listening in on you, too?”
“Not only that. He tracks me through it.”
“Do you think he’s tracking you right now?”
“Nope,” she said, smirking. “Because when I don’t want him to track me, I turn it off. He put a tracker in my car, too, so I left it at the beach.”
Ned took both phones and disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned Luna had cleaned his kitchen, made a fresh pot of coffee, and was sitting on his couch, intently scanning Gaming World magazine. The eagle sat majestically on its perch in the box.
“Great, thanks,” she said, when he handed her the phones. “I put Mars in his crate, so we’re ready whenever you are.”
“His ‘crate.’ That’s what you call it?”
“Yes. See, the front has that metal grate, and there are little windows on the sides, but the rest is hard plastic. If the whole thing were made of metal, he could hurt himself or damage his feathers. And I cover him with that dark sheet when we’re moving, so he doesn’t get freaked out by the things passing by.”
“Hmm,” said Ned, filing it all away for future reference. The metal screen door, he noted, had a squeeze spring which could only be opened from the outside. He’s not really that scary, he thought, and sidled forward for a closer look.
“You might not want to…” Luna began, as he crouched down and peered inside. There was a rush of feathers, a huge and sinewy yellow foot hit the door with a heavy clang, and what looked like four curved black bayonets burst through the metal grid not far from Ned’s face. He scrambled backward as Luna shot off the couch, grabbed the dark sheet, and draped it over the crate.
“Sorry!” she cried.
“‘Don’t worry, Ned!’” he quoted, his voice filled with outrage. “‘He’s really gentle!’”
“He is! He just…”
“He just what?”
“He just doesn’t like men!”
“He doesn’t like men? What do you mean, he…”
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” she said, grabbing her new phone and beckoning energetically. Once there she faced him, her voice low and urgent. “Ned — it’s not his fault! I promise you I’ll keep him covered all the way to Immokalee, if you can just get us there. Okay? Do you need more coffee?”
For a moment he was silent, struck dumb by her beauty, then he pulled himself together. “Do I look like I need more coffee?” he demanded.
“Let me show you,” she said determinedly, furiously typing on her phone. “Look.” The text was addressed to “Group.”
777-388-0021 Everyone, I need help. This is my new number, PLEASE DELETE last one from your phones/computers. Heading north. Need a bed & a flight cage, or as close as you can get. Details on arrival.
“They’re rehabbers,” said Luna. “Rehabilitators. They’re my friends. They take care of injured and orphaned wildlife, like I did at Starfish Key. They’ll help me.”
“Help you what?”
“Get where I’m going. I can stay with Warren in Immokalee, but that’s just my first stop.”
“Where’s your last stop?”
“Not sure.”
“Doesn’t your husband know your rehabber friends? How do you know he won’t hack their phones?”
“He doesn’t know them. I only know them through the internet. Except for Warren and everyone at Celia’s, I’ve never met any of them in person.”
“You’re like gamers.”
“I guess we are.”
A silent minute passed, and then another. Luna stood holding her phone, staring intently out the window, agitation rolling off her in hot waves. Ned knew he should say something comforting, but for the life of him he couldn’t think what.
“They’re not answering me,” she said finally, her voice increasingly hard-edged. “Maybe they’re busy. It doesn’t matter, I can do it alone. I don’t need anyone’s help.”
She narrowed her eyes, as if daring him to contradict her. Ned quickly looked away and into the living room, where her huge and bloodthirsty bird stood inside its sheet-covered crate. Luna followed his gaze and once again her expression transformed, her icy eyes infusing with color, her clenched jaw softening, her lips rising into a small, devoted smile. Ned watched this facial sleight of hand with fascination, unable to fathom how a creature so terrifying could provoke it.
Her phone pinged.
It pinged again, and kept pinging. She grinned with relief, and held the phone out so he could read along with her.
[email protected] Sending you directions to my place. Let me know, or just show up.
[email protected] What did you do this time? Is it juicy? Door’s always open.
[email protected] You need supplies? Will send interns to meet you.
[email protected] Mi casa es su casa, babe. Bring wine.
[email protected] No flight cage, but can clear out the bigger possum run. Tell me when.
[email protected] Fuck you, Luna, you bitch! Everyone knows you do jack shit for wildlife!
“Oh, that’s just Esther, sometimes she hits the bourbon,” Luna chortled. “She does that to everyone! She’s always really sorry when she sobers up!”
“But …”
“I still haven’t heard from Warren,” she said, looking concerned. “The thing is, if he doesn’t have anyone in rehab sometimes he goes into Big Cypress without his phone.”
“You mean the swamp? Aren’t there alligators in there?”
“He’s a panther rehabber. He likes alligators.”
“Ha ha,” laughed Ned, the sound more high-pitched than he’d intended. “Very funny.”
“No, really. He lives on the edge of the Panther Refuge, and he knows more about them than just about anyone on the planet.”
“Wait a minute! Panthers are mountain lions, right? Cougars? Same thing? He has them walking around his house?”
“Of course they’re not walking around his house! They’re wild animals!”
“Oh, wild animals! You mean like the one standing in my living room?”
The phone pinged. “Warren!” she sighed with relief, and turned the phone toward Ned.
PRI
VATE CALLER Come on up. Got one kitty and a fine collection of dildos to show you.
“No,” said Ned, holding up a restraining hand. “Allow me. ‘Don’t worry, Ned, it’s not what you think.’”
Luna gazed at him in surprise, then slowly she smiled; a big, genuine smile that lit up her face, flashed through her eyes, and sent shafts of light, he was sure, beaming into the dark corners of every swamp in Florida. Ned gazed back at her, thinking, no wonder the guy took her eagle.
“That’s exactly right, Ned,” said Luna. “It’s not what you think.”
Chapter 3
Federal Wildlife Officer Erik Gunderman stood on the porch of his cabin, holding a cup of coffee and watching the mist rise from the Arthur R. Marshall Loxahatchee National Wildlife Refuge. He had done the same thing nearly every morning for the past eight years.
The Loxahatchee was all that was left of the northernmost area of the Florida Everglades. It comprised almost 150,000 acres of wet prairies, sawgrass ridges, tree islands, and cypress swamps. It teemed with white water lily and floating heart, least bittern and great egret, river otter and bobcat, alligator and cottonmouth; all just a tiny fraction of the species trying to co-exist in what little remained of the once-vast River of Grass.
Gunderman protected it from poachers, smugglers, illegal traffickers, polluters, and visitors who didn’t follow the rules. He gave education programs, rescued capsized boaters, and assisted staff biologists battling invasive species. He received awards and citations for the skill with which he dealt with people awed by the refuge, those unwillingly dragged into it by their families, and those who tried their best to plunder it. Surrounded by highways and houses, airports and strip malls, the refuge — like every other refuge in the country — was unique and precious. Gunderman grimaced as his cell phone disturbed his morning reverie.
“Gunderman!” said his Regional Supervisor, who instructed him to leave his post immediately and drive south to the estate of the financier Adam Matheson.
“Sir?” said Gunderman, puzzled.
“Just get going. Sinclair will cover for you. I’ll call you back in half an hour, when you’re on the road.”
Gunderman put on his olive slacks and tan dress shirt, poured the rest of his coffee into a thermos, and lifted his broad-brimmed ranger’s hat from its hook. There were six National Wildlife Refuges closer to Key West; why he was being asked to drive four hours to the house of this infamous environmental hit man was a mystery.
By the time he drove through the gates of Cielo Azul, Gunderman’s mouth was set in a tight line. Two local Florida Fish and Wildlife Conservation Commission Officers waited for him beside their SUV, both clad in tan slacks, shirts, and caps. He parked his vehicle, slid out, and shook their hands.
“We’ll file our state report but you can take the lead, since it’s a Federal case,” said Hayes, the older officer. “It’s just more billionaire bullshit. Whatever he’s actually done, he’ll buy his way out of it.”
“Jesus, look at this place,” said Bianchi, the younger officer, as the three of them followed a suited man down a hallway lined with paintings and covered with Oriental rugs. “I gotta tell you — I’m just hoping Roland Edwards is in there.”
Adam looked up from his mahogany desk as the three officers entered his office. “Gentlemen,” he said, rose, and offered his hand. “My associate, Roland Edwards,” he added, as Bianchi tried and failed to conceal his delight.
“Mr. Matheson,” said Gunderman, his expression deadpan. “According to Elias Jenkins of the Western Pennsylvania Wildlife Center, yesterday afternoon four of your employees removed a Bald Eagle from their facility. Is this true?”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Adam. “Would all of you care to sit down?”
“No, thank you,” answered Gunderman. “Removing a a protected bird from a permitted facility is a violation of both the Migratory Bird Treaty Act and the Eagle Protection Act. The penalties are two years in jail and fines of up to $250,000.”
“Officer… Gunderman, is it?” said Adam, peering at Gunderman’s name tag and looking concerned. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding. My wife has an emotional attachment to an eagle in Pennsylvania, so I had her eagle brought here. I wasn’t aware that I needed special papers, considering I have a state-of-the-art zoo run by professionals.”
“Mr. Matheson,” said Gunderman evenly. “This is not your wife’s eagle. All American wildlife belong to the National Public Trust. Licensed facilities can host them, but only with proper permits. You have broken the law. Ignorance of it is no excuse.”
Adam glanced at the two state conservation officers. Both were listening attentively, the younger one sneaking starstruck looks at Roland. “I see,” said Adam. “I truly regret the situation, and I’ll do whatever it takes to remedy it. I would be more than willing to return the eagle, but as of last night, it’s no longer here.”
Gunderman maintained his impassive expression, but the state wildlife officers were not as skillful. “No longer here,” Gunderman repeated. “Then, where is it?”
There was a knock on the door, and the suited man ushered two uniformed police officers into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Matheson, Mr. Edwards,” said the shorter of the two. “I’m Officer Nichols. I know you usually deal with Officer Reinhardt, but he’s away.” He offered his hand to the three wildlife officers and introduced his partner. “Monroe County Police Department,” he said. “I expect we’ll be working together on this.”
Roland watched them from behind his sunglasses. “To answer your question, Officer Gunderman,” said Adam, “I have no idea where the eagle is. When it was taken last night, I was in my office. The police arrived almost immediately.”
Police officer Nichols spoke up. “Mr. Matheson, last night Officer Peters found your wife’s name, a phone number, and “Starfish Key” written on a pad in your zoo’s office. We made a routine call this morning, and spoke to Starfish Key Wildlife Center’s director Kelly McPhee. She said your wife stayed with her for six days.”
“That’s right,” said Adam.
“She said Ms. Burke left her house last evening, and… ”
“Mrs. Matheson.”
Officer Nichols paused. “Ms. McPhee referred to her as Luna Burke. That’s the name on her driver’s license. Is her legal name Luna Matheson?”
But I don’t want to change my name, she had said.
Her reaction both puzzled and annoyed him. All he had to do was glance in a woman’s general direction, and she started trying to figure out how to change her name to Matheson. It would make it easier for me to transfer funds into your account, he replied.
I don’t need funds, she answered.
“You can refer to her as Mrs. Matheson.”
“All right,” said Officer Nichols. “Ms. McPhee said she didn’t know anything about a missing eagle. She said Mrs. Matheson left her house last evening. She didn’t say where she was going, and Ms. McPhee hasn’t heard from her.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Adam. “You’d have to know my wife. But I spoke to Mrs. Matheson late yesterday afternoon, and she said she was coming home this morning. Are you telling me something may have happened to her?”
The room grew quiet. “I’m not saying that, though it’s a possibility,” said Nichols. He looked uncomfortably at the floor, and then back at Adam. “I’m sorry if this is a sensitive subject, but according to Ms. McPhee, Mrs. Matheson said the two of you were divorcing and she planned to move out of state.”
“Really,” said Adam.
“Are you and Mrs. Matheson in the process of a divorce?”
Adam regarded the five men standing before him. “Officers,” he said, “Mrs. Matheson and I have only been married for six months.” He paused, then smiled. “That would be pretty fast, even for me.”
The police and the state wildlife officers hesitated. Every environmental crime in the book, thought Gunderman, not to mention accusations of securities fraud and insider tra
ding, and all he gets are fines and slaps on the wrist. He watched Nichols and Bianchi smile back at him. And that, thought Gunderman, is how you make a billion dollars.
“Do I have this straight?” asked Gunderman. “Yesterday you removed a federally protected bird from a licensed wildlife facility. Last night the bird — as well as your wife, who has an emotional attachment to the bird — both disappeared. Your wife, who may or may not be in the process of divorcing you. Is that correct?”
“If Mrs. Matheson is in the process of divorcing me, she hasn’t let me in on it yet,” said Adam. “As for the eagle, I made a mistake. Tell me what I can do to rectify it. I’ll write you a check for the fine today. What about a reward? A million dollars for its safe return?”
The state wildlife officers looked alarmed. “Don’t do that,” said the older one. “Every zoo and wildlife sanctuary in the country will get hit. You’ll end up with eight thousand Bald Eagles, and I guarantee none of them will be yours.”
“Do you think your wife took the eagle?” asked Gunderman.
“I’ll know when I talk to her,” said Adam.
“What’s your educated guess?”
“We’re talking about my wife. Legally, I’m not required to give you an educated guess.”
Gunderman pulled out a card. “My office will be in touch with you regarding your violation,” he said, handing it to Adam. “May I speak with your zookeeper?”
The door opened, and the suited man appeared. “Mr. Matheson,” he said. “You have a meeting.”
“Thank you, Lloyd,” replied Adam. “Will you take these gentlemen to see Harper? Officers, let me know if there’s anything else you need.”
The men nodded, filed from the room, and Lloyd closed the door behind them.
“That one with the Smoky the Bear hat is a pain in the ass,” said Adam.
“They’re all a pain in the ass,” said Roland, and tucked his sunglasses into his pocket.
Unflappable Page 3