He wanted to remain on the mountain, in a world of perfect grace, but his inner clock told him an hour had passed. He said a prayer of gratitude, took a deep breath, and opened his eyes.
He rose from the bare floor of his deck, stretched, and bent forward from the waist until his grey hair touched the floor. Holding his arms out to the side, he lifted one leg at the knee, extending it both forward and backward, then repeated it with the other. He walked to one end of the deck, did three backflips, then cracked his knuckles, walked into his house, and put on Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Run Through The Jungle.”
Warren walked down the basement stairs and pulled an oversized black guitar case from a closet. He placed it beside the PSG1, which had been disassembled and lay in pieces on the table. Humming along to the song he opened the lid, picked up the barrel, and carefully fitted it into a customized compartment. That Stu Bechnikoff! he thought, as he snuggled the stock, the recoil buffer, the cheek piece, the sling, the night scope, and the silencer all into their own little travel seats. The man had created a rifle case only the most compulsively discerning would notice was just a bit too large for a bass guitar. A true craftsman!
When the song’s bridge began, Warren seized a harmonica from a shelf and wailed a duet with John Fogerty. Most people thought the song was about the Viet Nam war, but Fogerty himself said it wasn’t: it was about the fact that there were too many guns in America. Amen! Where were the goddamn rules?
At the end of his duet, Warren put the harmonica back on the shelf. He closed the lid of the case, snapped the latches shut, and rested it on the floor by the stairs. The PSG1 was a heavy gun. Unloaded, it weighed almost 16 pounds. The updated versions were far lighter and more portable, but Warren didn’t care; sacrificing one micrometer of accuracy just so some wussie didn’t have to carry a heavy gun was just another example of the insanity of the modern world.
He opened a velcroed pocket and checked the straps which would allow him to wear the case like a very large backpack. Satisfied, he tucked them back in and mentally traced his route, which would begin in a parking lot and end at the top of a 60-foot West Indian Mahogany tree approximately one-eighth of a mile from Adam Matheson’s pool.
Soon he’d have a light dinner, then change into black climbing boots, black track pants, black baseball cap, and a black T-shirt with a darkened image of the Grateful Dead’s American Beauty cover. Should anyone ask, he was just an aging rocker returning from his tribute band gig, and no, after decades of 120-decibel concerts he was practically deaf and hadn’t heard a thing.
For now, though, all that remained was to wait for night to fall.
Chapter 6
Roland turned away from the cockpit, still chuckling over his exchange with the pilot. He started down the aisle of the Gulfstream and spotted Adam sitting by the window, Scotch in hand, staring at the afternoon sky. Roland stopped at the bar, poured himself a drink, and settled in the seat across from Adam. He raised his glass. Unsmiling, Adam raised his in return.
“What’s the matter with you?” asked Roland. “You’ve been working on that deal for a year.”
Adam shrugged. “Got things on my mind.”
“How many times have you been through this?”
“This is different.”
“Yeah, it’s different, this one doesn’t want any money! It’ll be the easiest split you ever had.”
“I don’t want to split!”
“No woman’s ever left you. You need to separate that from the reality of the situation.”
“One, she hasn’t left me. And two, what exactly is the reality of the situation?”
“She’s not cut out for your life.”
Adam drained the rest of his drink. “Zoey!” he called, and held up his glass. He gave Roland a baleful stare. “This isn’t over until I say it’s over. Now leave me alone.”
Roland sighed, rose, and returned to the front of the plane. A smiling blonde took his glass and supplied him with a fresh one. I should have stayed with Vinnie, thought Adam.
He pictured her: dark-haired, dark-eyed, brilliant and beautiful. A sarcastic sense of humor, an encyclopedic knowledge of post-Renaissance art, and an adventurous attitude in bed. He remembered their college graduation, their hurried morning kisses as he left for his job with Goldman Sachs, she for hers with Sotheby’s. Their wedding. The births of Craig and Caroline. The apartment on 57th Street, the estate in Bedford, the sprawling summer house in Maine.
Why didn’t I stay with Vinnie? he thought. But then came Kendall.
He sighed. Kendall, the blonde über-WASP, whose old money, Ivy League, Social Register family looked at him with horror; the ultimate club which had no intention of allowing him to join until the public scandal and ensuing marriage forced their hand. He pictured her, every hair in place, wearing her grandmother’s triple strand of pearls while she performed extraordinary feats of social manipulation, orchestrating dinner parties from which deals would flow and spouses’ friendships would blossom. He remembered her in a white beach dress and a striped visor, building sand castles in Bermuda after the births of Amelia, Blake and Taylor.
I should have stayed with Kendall, he thought. There was no earthly reason for Shannon.
Young and vapid and built like a cartoon. A mid-life crisis on steroids. Why had he done it? The moon in Saturn. Unresolved mommy issues. To prove he could do whatever he damned well pleased, so he could watch important people struggle to appear fascinated by every monosyllable she uttered. Why the hell did he have to marry her? He could have just kept her on the payroll, like Darcy and Kit and whatever the other one’s name was.
Eww, Caroline had said when she met her. Eww. One word, then his own daughter didn’t speak to him for a year.
And the sonofabitching zoo. Out of all the hot babes coming out of the woodwork, he had to pick the one who thought she was some kind of animal whisperer. Monkeys. Camels. Flamingos. He’d finally find an hour to lay on a hammock and suddenly there’d be screaming elephants or a kangaroo stampede and Shannon would appear, angry and disheveled, demanding he replace the animals with more cooperative ones.
And the sex. Her attempts to clinch her position with a pregnancy hadn’t worked, so he’d ended up forced to have scheduled intercourse with a woman most men would have given their left nut to screw once. He winced at the memory. He could still hear the consoling voice of the fertility specialist. I’m afraid adoption is your only choice, he said. Then I want a baby from Sweden! Shannon had screeched.
He called it quits four months later. What about the animals? he asked.
I don’t give a shit about the animals! she shouted. I want half your money!
Despite the pre-nup she had taken a fair amount of cash, the silver Lexus, the black Bentley, two safes crammed with jewelry and 40 metric tons of clothing, then she left her Ark without a backward glance. Unless his kids were visiting, he had simply ignored the existence of the zoo. But then Tom announced he was retiring, and suggested a replacement zookeeper: a young woman his daughter had met at college.
He could still see her waiting in the sunlight, her curly hair auburn, her eyes Caribbean blue, wearing khakis and a white sleeveless shirt. When she turned toward him something he couldn’t identify blazed through his chest so powerfully it stopped him in mid-stride. Hanging from a leather cord around her neck was a silver bead. Eventually he learned that the bead had a clasp, and inside was the small downy feather of an eagle.
He closed his eyes and there she was, beneath a starlit sky. I’m sorry, Adam, she said, but I don’t want to marry you.
He picked up his phone and tapped it. “Garrity,” came the sergeant’s voice.
“Anything yet?”
“Not yet.”
• • •
“You know something, Ned?” said Luna, as they followed a country road toward Esther’s. “Mars isn’t really that big a bird.”
“Oh, please,” said Ned.
“No, really! Most female birds
of prey are bigger than the males. Female bald eagles, about 25%.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I’m trying to make you feel better. How much do you think he weighs?”
“IA hundred pounds.”
“A hundred pounds! You’ve lifted his crate, he doesn’t weigh that much.”
“That’s what he looks like he weighs. At least, that’s what his claws look like they weigh.”
“They’re not claws, they’re talons. And he only weighs about ten pounds! Birds are deceptive. They need to be light so they can fly, so their bones are hollow.”
Ned slowed and turned. Luna looked surprised as they coasted up a long, perfectly tended driveway lined with mature sweetgums dripping Spanish moss. In the distance stood a stately Southern plantation house.
“Nice digs,” said Ned.
“Really,” replied Luna, looking impressed. She touched his arm. “Before we get there, I just want you to know…”
He turned and found her regarding him earnestly: skin glowing, curls shimmering, lips parted as if she were about to say something that would change his life. “I just want you to know,” she finished, “that in some species of soaring birds, their feathers weigh more than their skeletons.”
The front door was opened by a tall, elegant woman wearing an immaculate white lab coat over cream-colored slacks. Her grey hair was gathered into a neat bun. Her dark green eyes were tired but sharp.
“Luna,” she said warmly, and held out her arms.
Luna hugged her tightly. “Esther,” she said. “This is Ned.”
Esther shook his hand with a firm grip. Ned had expected to find her staggering out of a bird cage, shouting expletives, gripping a half-empty bottle of bourbon; instead she looked like the head of Neurology at the Mayo Clinic.
“What a stunning car!” she exclaimed, circling it and beaming in admiration. “Juan,” she added, as a young man appeared behind her. “This is Luna and Ned. Juan will help you with the crate.”
A brick path led around the house, past the patio and the formal garden. To the left, semi-circled by buckeye trees, was a guest house. To the right, surrounded by azaleas and maidengrass, stood a barn with large windows. Beyond them stretched endless fields of rye. The guest house door opened and a dark-haired woman appeared, smiling, flanked by two excited young children. “Isabella!” Esther called, and they all followed.
A one-room structure had been added to the side of the barn. Juan and Luna carried the crate through its door and into an office, passing floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, an intricately carved desk with a matching chair, and several framed landscapes. Facing the desk was a picture window and another door. When Juan opened the door they entered the spotless barn and walked across its polished wooden floor.
“My late husband was an art collector,” said Esther, coming up behind them. “He especially loved large pieces of sculpture. As you can see, from his office he could look through the window at his collection. It’s climate controlled, and there’s a sound system. At the end of each day, we’d meet in the barn and have a drink. If he acquired a new piece, we’d have our friends over. We hosted openings and invited the artists.” She paused. “Two years ago I donated everything to the museum In town, and the barn has been empty ever since.”
Silence fell. “Empty until now,” said Isabella, watching her carefully.
Esther met her eyes, and her smile returned. “Yes!” she replied. “Until now!”
The two large windows were covered with dark strips of duct tape at three-inch intervals, creating what appeared to be a slatted flight cage. A thick standing perch rested on an eight-foot square of Astroturf. One rubber tub was filled with water, the other held a large fresh bass.
“Juan has worked so hard on Mars’s hotel room,” said Esther, patting him on the shoulder.
“This is perfect!” said Luna. “Ned, you and Juan can watch from the office!”
“Why?” asked Juan.
“Mars doesn’t like men,” said Ned. Isabella and the kids regarded him with interest.
“Why does he not like men?” asked Juan, when they reached the office and shut the door.
“He had a bad experience with one,” said Ned.
“Ah, well, then that is understandable,” said Juan, with a shrug. “I have had a few bad experiences myself. I am happy to watch from here. Señora says you have to respect the nature and needs of every living thing.”
They watched as Luna pulled on her glove, opened the crate’s door, and rose with Mars gripping her forearm. He raised his dark wings and glared at his unfamiliar surroundings, and the barn resounded with gasps. “Madre de Dios,” whispered Juan.
Luna circled the barn slowly, talking softly. Eventually Mars spread his wings and lifted into the air, circling the barn twice before settling on the perch.
“Where is your lab?” asked Luna, after Juan and his family had disappeared and she, Ned and Esther were walking toward the house.
“Up there,” she said, pointing to the second floor. She turned to Ned. “Luna texted me that you’re dropping her off, then you have to leave right away. Would you like a tour before you go?”
“Sure,” said Ned, relieved they were all on the same page. “What are you working on? And what kind of birds do you do?”
Esther gave Ned a look of amusement. “The furry mammal kind.”
“Ned is new to wildlife,” said Luna, regarding Ned apologetically. “Somehow I neglected to mention what kind of…”
“Bats,” said Esther. “I do bats.”
Ned gave Luna a long-suffering look. “Of course you do,” he said to Esther.
The lab was bright and spacious. Resting on the desk were two computers, stacks of journals, and an open copy of Captive Care and Medical Reference for the Rehabilitation of Insectivorous Bats. The bookshelf overflowed. A refrigerator/freezer stood in one corner. On the countertops flanking two sinks were microscopes, Bunsen burners, racks of test tubes, and several open notebooks. Pinned to the walls were charts, graphs, maps, and photographs: small bats, large bats, bats with wide eyes and short ears, bats with faces like foxes.
“It’s called White-nose Syndrome,” said Esther. “It’s caused by a fungus, Pseudogymnoascus destructans, which invades their skin when they hibernate. People don’t realize how vital they are to the environment, and we’ve lost millions. The mortality rate of a winter roost can be 90-100%.”
“Esther is our best hope,” said Luna. “She’s a grant-winning machine. Everyone gives her money because she’s brilliant.”
“Including Luna,” said Esther. “My lab is cutting edge, thanks to her.”
Ned watched them exchange warm smiles. “Are there bat caves nearby?” he asked. “Or,” he added, wanting to show his mastery of the lingo, “do you have bat flight cages somewhere?”
“Behind that door over there is the hospital,” she replied “I have two Big Browns, three Grays and two Eastern Small-footeds, all in various stages of the disease. I’d show you, but we’d all have to put on hazmat suits. I take no chances because I have healthy populations — so far — in both the attic and the basement.”
Ned’s eyes flickered to the ceiling and the floor. He imagined a sudden gust of wind hurtling through the house, blowing open doors and windows, and sweeping thousands of bats into a furry, toothy cyclone that engulfed him in their squeaky, flappy midst. He felt a flash of vertigo as they pulled him into the sky, swung him like a lariat, then dragged him into the depths of Esther’s dark, inescapable basement.
“Ned, who is new to wildlife,” said Esther. “You’ve turned a bit pale.”
Luna’s phone pinged. “It’s from Carlene,” she said, and read it aloud.
[email protected] Are you at Esther’s yet? Tell Ned to come back this way and spend the night with us
Esther looked at her watch. “It’s getting late. Why don’t you leave first thing in the morning?”
“Because he’s been trying to leave for days!�
� said Luna. “He was only supposed to take me to Warren’s. I’m his tar pit.”
Esther gave Ned a solemn gaze. “Then you’d better go,” she said. “Because once I break out the bourbon, nobody leaves.”
Esther and Luna exchanged smiles. Ned looked at the lawn, the gardens, and the fields, all bathed in golden afternoon light; at the famous, elegant biologist, deep in conversation with the most beautiful and perplexing woman he’d ever known; and at the classic old plantation house, exquisitely maintained and filled with bats. And he saw with clarity that none of this was sustainable, and the odds against it ending well were astronomical, and once Luna left she’d be gone for good, and that nothing like this would ever happen to him again.
“Excuse me,” he said, interrupting their conversation. “But I’d like to drink some bourbon. Actually, I’d like to drink lot of bourbon.”
Esther stood at the bar in the library, pouring a rich amber liquid from a decanter into three short glasses. “My late husband was a bourbon drinker,” she said. “They used to call him ‘Batman,’ even though he wouldn’t go anywhere near the bats. He was a wonderful man.”
She held up her glass. “May you reach my dear Hélène without mishap.”
“Do you know her?” asked Ned.
“Of course,” said Esther.
The fiery liquid had a rich afterglow. “Yum,” said Luna, looking down into her glass.
Three drinks later they entered the dining room, where Juan’s wife was setting a steaming plate of corn onto a food-laden table. “Thank you, Isabella,” said Esther. “Did Rodrigo finish his homework?”
“Yes, he did,” replied Isabella, nodding. “I told him you would be very disappointed if he does not finish.”
“Good. I am always willing to play the bad cop.” Isabella left, and Esther continued. “So, please, help yourselves. How long can you stay?”
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