“Look at the myrtle oak and the gopher apple,” whispered Derek appearing between them and pointing to each tree. “Sweetbay magnolia there, and Atlantic white cedar over there. You’ll find every one within ten miles of here. That woman can paint!”
“Carlene did this?” marveled Luna.
Resting on a long table were a half dozen cages made of black mesh stretched over metal frames. Each one was edged with greenery, contained a small branch for a perch, and held a single adult bird, most sporting a bandaged wing or leg. Carlene stood at a second table, holding a pair of forceps in one hand and a jar with live mealworms in the other. Before her were six plastic containers, each home to a small padded bowl containing several nestlings. She went down the line, plucking mealworms and pushing them into gaping mouths, each tiny nestling squirming and squeaking in its frantic effort to outmaneuver its siblings.
“I don’t talk at all when I’m in the bird room because it’ll scare the adults and I don’t want my babies growing up thinking it’s normal to hear human voices,” said Carlene, when they were back in the kitchen. “I can’t even whisper ‘cause I’m like a bowling ball rolling down a hill, before you know it I’d be yelling my head off. I do know my own pros and cons.”
“I had no idea you could paint like that!” said Luna.
“Well dang,” said Carlene, waving dismissively. “‘Course I can paint, I’m a crafty kind of a gal. And y’know something, Ned, since you’re not a rehabber? If I get an injured or orphaned bird in, I’m not going to drag ‘em into my world. I’m going to take care of ‘em in a world that’s as close to theirs as I can get it.”
“Thanks for the tour,” said Ned. “This is a great place, but I have to go.”
As Luna opened her arms to give him a hug, Carlene reached for the phone chiming on the kitchen counter. “Thanks, Ned,” Luna whispered in his ear. ”I’ll let you know when I get there.”
Ned was so overcome by the feeling of her body against his that for a moment he lost track of his surroundings. “What!” cried Carlene and Luna jumped, wrenching him back to the kitchen. He looked up to find Carlene wearing a thunderstruck expression. “Waxwings!” she bellowed, and rushed from the room.
“This is awesome!” said Derek, close behind her. “We’re releasing five of them!”
“A release?” cried Luna, her face lighting up. “Oh Ned, I’m sorry you’ll miss this! It’s why we do what we do!”
Ned sat in the back seat of Carlene’s small SUV next to Luna, listening to Carlene describe how the five Cedar Waxwings she had just raised needed to be released into a flock of wild ones. Her birder friends had been searching for two weeks for a flock, but the flock always disappeared before Carlene could get there. All five birds rode in a covered crate — a tenth the size of Mars’s, and with a handle — in the storage area behind the back seat. Computer people are so sane, thought Ned, once again regretting his decision.
“So Luna,” said Carlene. “Last October I saw Janie Beckendorf! Did you ever meet her?”
“No, but I’ve talked to her a bunch of times! How is she?”
“Well, she’s just fine! Still flying wildlife around in that old bush plane of hers. Wiscasset Wildlife in Maine had a Cerulean Warbler who hit a window and missed migration, so Janie picked him up in the plane and flew him down here. She hung out with us for a few days while he acclimated, and then we let him go. With any luck he didn’t meet up with any more windows on the way to Costa Rica!”
“What’s a Cerulean Warbler?” asked Ned.
“Gorgeous little blue songbird. You gotta see ‘em to believe ‘em.”
“Are they endangered?”
“Nah, there’s a bunch of ‘em out there.”
“But… you’re saying this woman flew the bird from Maine to Florida and then let him go? Just a regular bird? A common, five-pound bird?”
“Five pounds!” cried Derek, wearing a theatrical expression of alarm. “Can you imagine a five-pound warbler?”
“Oh, mama, that’d scare the bejeebies outta me,” said Carlene.
“A warbler made of lead wouldn’t weigh five pounds,” said Luna.
“They’re, like, ten grams soaking wet,” stated Derek.
Ned regarded his fellow travelers, who did not seem to understand his point. “But how much did it cost in fuel to fly this ten-gram bird in a private plane to Florida?”
“Got me there,” said Carlene. “Sometimes these warblers have secret bank accounts.”
As Derek and Luna chortled, Ned shook his head. “I’m just not getting this. One single ten-gram, not-endangered bird? What does it matter?”
For a moment the car was still, then the others exchanged good-natured smiles.
“Well hell, it sure mattered to that bird!” cried Carlene.
“There! There!” said Derek. He pointed to the edge of a field, where a woman standing between two parked cars waved her arms. Three people stood close by, and four more were halfway across the field.
Carlene stopped the car and jumped out. She opened the back door, grabbed the crate, and, holding it carefully by the handle, took off across the field at a dead run. Ned looked at Luna for some kind of interpretation, but she was already sprinting behind Derek. Ned hustled after the crowd of people, some old, some young, all carrying binoculars, all seemingly beside themselves with excitement. Fifty yards into the field, he heard the sound of tiny bells coming from the top of a tree.
Eight pairs of binoculars pointed in one direction. Ned squinted, and a middle-aged man handed him an extra pair. Lining the branches of a grand old myrtle oak were dozens of striking little black-masked, buff-colored birds, their tails edged with brilliant yellow, a single bright red speck on each wing. Carlene raised the crate into the air, opened the door, and five blurs streaked outward and upward; into the tree, into the welcoming flock.
Ned glanced at Carlene, at the tears streaming down her face. He started toward her, thinking she must have injured herself in her mad dash across the field, only to realize that everyone in the small crowd was in pretty much the same condition. The tough ones were only blinking rapidly; the emotional ones were practically sobbing. Almost on cue, everyone started hugging each other. What fresh hell is this, thought Ned, then Luna turned and wrapped her arms around him.
How have I gone this long without knowing about Cedar Waxwings, he thought.
• • •
Federal Wildlife Officer Erik Gunderman entered the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service building in Falls Church, Virginia, filled with a sense of unease. The previous morning he had met with Adam Matheson, then with Matheson’s far more forthcoming zookeeper. After he returned to his office he wrote a report to his Regional Supervisor, struggling to edit his sarcasm and disgust. Three hours later he received an email from the assistant of Daniel Whittaker, Fish and Wildlife’s Chief of Law Enforcement for the entire United States. It requested he meet with the Big Kahuna himself at 4:00 the following afternoon, with a round-trip ticket to Washington attached.
Gunderman grew up within walking distance of the Loxahatchee, the refuge he now dedicated his life to protect. He snuck into it in his youth, volunteered there in his teens, then attended the University of Miami, only two hours away. He followed his meticulously planned career path with determination. He graduated with a degree in Ecosystem Management and Policy, then spent eighteen weeks of Special Agent training at the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center at Glynco, Georgia, four weeks of Advanced Wildlife Officer training at the National Conservation Training Center in Shepherdstown, West Virgina, and ten weeks of field training in Alaska, Texas, and Vermont. Eventually he returned to the twisted pines of Loxahatchee, this time wearing the uniform of a Federal Wildlife Officer.
For years his supervisor had encouraged him to become a Special Agent, one of the elite team of undercover wildlife officers who crack big-money poaching and smuggling rings and nail major polluters. Gunderman always promised to consider it, then he dismissed it in under fi
fteen seconds. Special agents lived on the move, and he was not about to leave the Loxahatchee.
Gunderman landed, rented a car, and drove to the Fish and Wildlife Service office in Falls Church, Virginia. He rode the elevator to the 10th floor, his thoughts jumping while his demeanor stayed calm. What did Whittaker want? There was no precedent for this.
“I have your report here, Gunderman, and it’s very astute,” said Whittaker, after Gunderman had been seated in his spacious office.
“Thank you, sir.”
“This Matheson mess could be media hell,” said Whittaker, who had crew-cut grey hair, a solid build, and a level gaze. “That arrogant asshole! What did you call the bird? A ‘marital bargaining chip.’ That’s exactly right. Some rich loony on the lam with a Bald Eagle? Jesus Christ! What the hell is going on in this country?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“And of course, the public doesn’t give a shit about permits. All they’ll care about is Mr. versus Mrs. Billionaire fighting over the symbol of America. And then every moron in the country will want an eagle, just like every moron in the world wanted an owl after Harry Potter.”
“I agree, sir.”
“I expect the police will pick her up within a few days, if they haven’t already, but I’m not taking any chances. I want that bird back in the possession of Fish and Wildlife. I want it done yesterday, and I want you on it.”
Gunderman blinked, dismayed. “But why me? I mean, why me, sir?”
“Your Regional Supervisor is a good friend of mine. I told him the problem, he recommended you. Your record is exemplary. You have the instincts and skills of a undercover agent, but you wear a uniform. That’s exactly what I need.”
“But what about my duties at the refuge?”
“I’ll temporarily transfer another officer.” Whittaker leaned forward, arms on his desk, and looked at him intently. “Listen to me, Gunderman. This is way bigger than John Q. Public wanting a pet eagle. You officers are out there risking your lives and what do you get? Couple inches of type. You want to send a message to the lowlifes shooting eagles out of the sky, and to the rich bastards who buy their heads on the black market? To the poachers netting endangered species, and to the rings grinding them up for traditional medicines? Then find and arrest Luna Burke. If she took that eagle, then she has committed a Federal offense. Once we’ve got her, we’ve got a better shot at her fucking husband. This is our chance to show the public that when it comes to environmental crime, nobody is above the law! When the shit hits the media, I want them to report that crossing Fish and Wildlife is a big mistake.”
Gunderman nodded. This was big picture stuff. It wasn’t what people normally thought of when they thought of an environmental crime, so perhaps therein lay its effectiveness. It would mean he’d have to leave the Loxahatchee — at least, temporarily — which did not make him happy. But in the end, it would be worth it. Plus, it didn’t seem as if he was being given a choice.
“Rent a car, book a flight, whatever you need, just keep an expense report. Got it? Since we don’t have a trail on either one of them, I’d start at the wildlife center in Pennsylvania. You on board?”
“Yes, sir!” said Gunderman.
• • •
Warren leaned back in his chair, feet on the deck railing, listening to the occasional lazy snarl. The beer was cold, the sun was warm, and soon Florida’s resident population of panthers would increase by one.
Maybe I should paint a bullseye on him before he leaves, he thought.
Bastards.
He could spend hours, if he let himself, obsessing about all the greedy, rapacious scumbags who had invaded Florida. They felled the trees, fouled the skies, polluted the water, killed off entire populations of wildlife. For what? Another house? Another car? How many did they need? When would it end?
Adam Matheson: one of the worst. Industrial parks. Airport expansions. Golf courses. His lawyers had snatched a ten-acre piece of land next to Big Turkey Swamp right out from under a local Land Trust; instead of open land it was now a cluster of high-end condos, right at the edge of prime panther habitat. Less than two weeks after those yuppy douchebags started moving in a radio-collared panther had been hit by a Lincoln Navigator.
And then there was Luna.
Matheson could have stuck with the socialites and the bimbos, but no. He had to land an orphaned girl who’d never been out of Pennsylvania, whose idea of a heartthrob was an imprinted eagle. And now she’d left him, but he would bet Adam Matheson wasn’t going to take it lying down.
Warren rose and paced smoothly back and forth across the deck, stripping the label from his beer bottle. Basically, her plan was good. The rehabbers would close ranks, and she’d be hard to track. But It was a long way to Canada, and a lot could go wrong. How long before Matheson sent his psycho football player after her? Both of them were nuts, and Roland had guns. Not the type of men he wanted focused on Luna, a child of the wind and sky.
Warren walked through his house, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket, cursing American gun laws. Every pea-brain in the country owned a gun. You didn’t have to know a damn thing about them, you didn’t have to be a decent shot, you didn’t even have to not be a paranoid schizophrenic.
He unlocked the basement door and descended the stairs, feeling the cool stillness rise to greet him. He flicked on the light. Warren stood in the middle of the small room covered with pegboards, stroking his beard, his gaze traveling past the Glock, the pair of .38s, the .45s, the trio of Berettas, the Super Blackhawk, the Ruger, the M-16s, the AK-47s, finally settling on the Heckler & Koch PSG1.
He took it down from the wall. He stroked the barrel, then raised it to his shoulder and squinted through the scope. Finally, he smiled.
The only thing better than a good sniper rifle, he thought, is a wild kitty just set free.
Chapter 5
Police Sergeant Louis Garrity sat at the table in the garden room, eating a caviar blintz. “More coffee, sir?” asked the uniformed maid, and he nodded. She turned to Adam. ”Would you like anything else, Mr. Matheson?”
“No thanks, Carmela,” he replied.
“Adam, at this point there’s not much more we can do,” said Garrity. “We filed a Missing Person Report, issued APBs on the three Caddys, and put it on our Twitter feed. We had to link her with the missing eagle because they both disappeared the same night, and the media got a hold of the police reports. But we’re saying she might have information about the missing eagle, not that she stole it. You don’t know anyone she could be staying with?”
“No.”
“That incident seven, eight days ago, where we responded to an alarm. It was a broken door - in this room, right? Be straight with me, Adam, because it’ll make my job a lot easier. Any connection?”
Adam shook his head. “It would make a better story if I told you we had a fight and I smashed the door,” he said. “But my son was visiting. He’s into skeet shooting, and he was messing around with his new launcher.” He paused. “In a glass room.” He paused again. “I think he’s heading for a career in finance.”
The sergeant chuckled.
“Lou,” said Adam. “She’s young. She’s impulsive. I just want you to find her.”
“Thanks for breakfast, Adam,” said Garrity, rising. “I’ll turn up the heat.”
Adam stood, and offered his hand. “Appreciate it, Lou.”
He returned to his seat, thinking, no woman leaves a man worth ten billion dollars.
How long ago had it been? Back when he actually believed that making a million dollars would make him an undisputed success. Certainly no one in the crappy North Dakota town where he grew up ever dreamed of such wealth, let alone obtained it. But a million dollars, he discovered with dismay, simply opened doors to rooms where he was once again at the bottom of the heap. Just stay out of those rooms, said his mother, who at that point hadn’t left her trailer park.
He gazed through the restored glass door and out over his
perfectly manicured estate, one of six. Fifty million. A hundred million. Five hundred million. Ten fucking billion dollars, and he was still one of many. But then she arrived, and things had changed.
Seventy floors above midtown Manhattan. For the first time, he entered a room filled with men of enormous wealth with Luna on his arm. And she mesmerized them, just as she had mesmerized him. She entered the huge room in a blazing red Dior gown and stiffened, her eyes sweeping the crowd as if assessing its risk, returning admiring gazes with hostility. She smiled tightly, shook hands, and murmured a few pleasantries; she pulled at her rope of diamonds as if she couldn’t wait to be rid of them, her eyes on the door. It was impossible to predict when or how the energy so obviously roiling beneath her straight-backed self-control would erupt, and the men all regarded her with collectors’ eyes.
She had nearly left him that night.
Roland entered the room. “Breakfast?” asked Adam.
“Already ate.”
Roland wore the same tie he’d been wearing the night Luna burst through the glass door, the night they’d gone to Jay Sheinkopf’s party. Adam remembered the way the steel magnate had watched her cross the room in her misty dress, nearly drooling with desire.
“You think she’s at Jay Sheinkopf’s?” he asked.
Roland snorted. “I think there’s a better chance she’s on the moon.”
“What about Joe Montego?”
Silently, Roland shook his head. ”We still going to Atlanta?”
“Yeah,” said Adam, glancing at his watch and rising. “Twenty minutes.”
• • •
Luna, Derek and Carlene sat at the kitchen table by a picture window overlooking the backyard, drinking coffee and eating Danishes.
“I was volunteering at Celia’s wildlife center,” said Luna. “One day the Department of Natural Resources brought us a confiscated eagle. A guy had stolen him from a nest, and kept him in a cage in his garage.”
Ned appeared in the doorway, blinking, crowned by a tangled head of bed hair. “You and I oughtta start a hair metal band,” called Carlene.
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