Unflappable

by Suzie Gilbert

  “Are they still in the car with her?” gasped Elias.

  “No, they jumped out and slammed the doors and ran up to the clinic! But the coyote’s in the car and I’m telling you, she’s hopping mad. She keeps falling over, but that doesn’t make her any less mad.”

  Celia wiped the tears from her eyes and rose. “How big is she?”

  “I think maybe thirty-five pounds.”

  “Dad,” said Celia. “Could you talk to the people for me, please? I’ll get the 4-foot catch pole, two pairs of gloves and a crate, and I’ll meet you at the car. I think Don’s in the barn, I’ll grab him too. Wizzie, will you go to the clinic and tell Lauren we need Telazol, then ask Ryan to get the x-ray machine ready?”

  “I don’t see why I can’t get the Telazol,” said Wizzie irritably. “Jeez Louise, I’m eight years old!”

  “It’s a controlled substance, and you know it,” said Elias.

  A small SUV was parked three-quarters of the way up the driveway. The car’s petrified owners stood to the side, hands over their mouths, as a shadow moved erratically back and forth within their car. Celia and Elias conferred as three volunteers hovered behind them, and Wizzie waited by the crate.

  “One, two, three,” said Elias quietly, and opened one of the back doors enough to insert a hollow metal pole ending in a rope snare. The amber-eyed, luxuriantly-furred coyote snarled, jumped over the back seat into the storage area, and crashed to the floor when her balance failed. Elias dropped the snare over her neck and pulled; Celia yanked open the hatch, placed a heavily gloved hand on the coyote’s shoulder, and plunged a hypodermic into her haunch. Within a few moments, the coyote had gone limp.

  “Wow!” cried Wizzie, as several hands transferred the coyote from the car to the crate. “Look how pretty she is!”

  The latest patient had been x-rayed, given medication, and transferred to a recovery area in the clinic. The last volunteer had gone home. Celia sat in a chair in her living room, going over intake records. Elias watched the baseball game from the couch as Wizzie leaned against him, transfixed by an old hardback copy of “The Call of the Wild.” The phone rang, and Celia picked it up.

  “Celia Jenkins?” said the male voice. “This is Officer Erik Gunderman, Department of Law Enforcement for U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. I’m wondering if I might come by your center tomorrow and talk to you about the missing Bald Eagle. I can work around your schedule, if you could give me a time.”

  “Oh,” said Celia.

  “Is there a time that works best for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “What would that be?”

  “Um.”

  “Morning? Afternoon?”

  “There.”

  “Afternoon?”

  “Right.”

  “Two o’clock?”

  “Ah.”

  “Okay, thank you. I look forward to seeing you.”

  Celia hung up the phone, breathless. As Elias and Wizzie looked toward her, she covered her face with her hands and sobbed.

  “Oh, Pop!” sighed Wizzie. “There she goes again.”

  • • •

  Ned opened his eyes, then shut them quickly. But not quickly enough.

  Needles of pain shot through his skull. His mouth was parched. He rolled over and groaned.

  The bedside clock said 7:48 AM. He struggled out of bed, staggered to the bathroom, and stood before the toilet, cursing the inventor of bourbon. Closing the shades against the sunlight, he climbed into the shower.

  Clad in a pair of shorts and his last clean T-shirt, he walked into the kitchen and poured himself a large cup of coffee. Esther’s voice emanated from another room, speaking some kind of gibberish. She must be in even worse shape than me, thought Ned. He sipped his coffee and stared out the window, trying to plan his trip home, prevented from doing so by his grievously wounded brain cells.

  Esther strode into the kitchen in a skirt, blouse, low heels, and a lab coat, immaculately coiffed, holding a phone. “Würden Sie mir Ihre neuesten Testergebnisse senden?” she asked, catching Ned’s eye and pointing to a bottle of aspirin on the window ledge. “Ja, ich würde es wirklich schätzen. Können Sie sich eine Minute halten? Danke.”

  She pressed the phone against her shoulder. “New statistics out of Frankfurt,” she said, nodding encouragingly. “Is Luna up?”

  “I uh, don’t know,” said Ned. “She wasn’t in her room.”

  “She’s probably in the barn. I’ll be done in 15 minutes. Dank für das Halten,” she said into the phone, and disappeared.

  Ned entered the office and looked through the picture window. The barn was bathed in morning sun. Curled on a pair of cushions beneath Mars’s perch was Luna, eyes closed, halfway covered by a blanket. On the floor beside her stood the great dark eagle, delicately preening her hair.

  Ned watched her sleep. She stirred, and a shadow crossed her face. A dream, thought Ned, and wondered if he should be there when she woke up. The problem, of course, was the creature standing guard over her. He’s not that big a bird, Luna had said. Ned wondered if the eagle was like a suburban yard dog, aggressive only when there was a barrier between it and the prospective intruder. Perhaps by now it felt a bit of goodwill toward him, since he’d chauffeured the damned thing at no charge for 850 miles.

  He was returning to Florida this morning. He had to say goodbye.

  He opened the solid wooden door and stepped into the barn, willing his body to convey confident nonchalance. Mars looked up. Ned took two more steps and Luna stirred, then opened her eyes. “Harry?” she said, her voice filled with hope. She sat up and saw the barn, the perch, and the carefully watching bird; she touched its chest feathers, and her face crumpled with grief. The eagle raised every feather on its snowy head, let out a war cry, and launched itself at Ned.

  Ned turned and ran for his life. He hurtled through the office door, slammed it behind him, and a split second later he heard a heavy thud and the ripping sound of claws sliding down wood. They’re not claws, Luna had said. They’re talons.

  He leaned backward on the door, head and heart both pounding. A minute later, or maybe it was an hour, there was a soft knock on the door. “Ned?” came her voice.

  “What?”

  “Can you open the door? He’s back on his perch.”

  Unwillingly, he opened the door a crack. Luna slipped in and closed it behind her. ”Are you okay?” she asked. “Why would you do that?”

  Ned sat down on the edge of the desk. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I’m still drunk.”

  She gave him a sad smile. “Who’s Harry?” he asked, and all trace of emotion vanished from her face.

  “No one,” she said. “Come on. Let’s get you on the road.”

  Esther put down her phone as they walked into the kitchen. “All hell has broken loose,” she said. “Harper says someone took a shot at your husband last night.”

  Ned’s jaw dropped. “With a gun?” he asked.

  “Warren,” whispered Luna, and locked eyes with Esther. Ned looked incredulously from one to the other.

  “You think Warren tried to shoot him?” he demanded. “You do, don’t you? Remember when we were at his house, and he said he was going to take Adam out? I didn’t think he meant on a date, but I didn’t think he was going to try to kill him!”

  “If it was Warren, he wasn’t trying to kill him,” said Esther matter-of-factly. “If Warren wanted to kill him, he’d have done it.”

  “But…”

  “You both need to get out of here,” said Esther. “The hotline’s burning. Carlene said the cops in Florida are looking for you and a long-haired guy with a ’68 Cadillac. It won’t take long before the cops in Georgia start looking for you and a long-haired guy with a ’57 Chevy.”

  Ned hesitated, torn between elation and dismay. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They left the stately plantation house behind, cruising between the line of sweetgums dripping Spanish moss. As they reached the end of t
he driveway, a police car pulled in. It passed them unhurriedly, the two police officers glancing at them and continuing toward the house. Luna turned her face away, and Ned drove on.

  The Saturday morning traffic was sparse. The cover had slipped and Ned could see the eagle in his rearview mirror, perched regally in the crate. BOWLING GREEN, KY, read the sign. 392 MILES.

  “Ugh, do I have a headache,” said Luna, and regarded her phone. “Look, it’s from Warren!”

  PRIVATE CALLER What do you mean, was it me? That’s the way rumors get started.

  “He’ll never admit it,” she said, and texted him back.

  777-222-3800 Seriously, don’t do that again.

  “I’m going to line up my next ride,” she told Ned.

  777-222-3800 Had to leave Esther’s early. On the road to Paul & Anna Lee’s. Can anyone help me from there?

  “I’m not using your name because I’m trying to protect you,” she said.

  “That would be nice,” said Ned, picturing her giant carnivore hurtling toward him. A moment later the phone pinged, and she read it aloud.

  bluestreak@juno.com That Ned is one fine man! Just sayin’.

  Luna’s eyes widened. “My first name on your burner is the least of my problems,” said Ned. Luna continued to read the texts aloud.

  bluestreak@juno.com BTW, cops are going nutty in FL because hunting season just opened on rich bipeds.

  greenplanet@hotmail.com Damn I wish somebody would take a shot at my ex.

  crocodilians@gmail.com Me too, I could pay them good money. NOT!

  toby@eastshorerescue.org Honey come to my place next. I’m three hours north of Paul & Anna Lee’s.

  pacificawild@outlook.com FYI, we’re here outside Portland OR and they just showed up looking for a missing bald eagle.

  rockymtbighorns@gmail.com Here too. We’re near Aurora, CO.

  amphibious632@att.net Ditto, we’re in Alabama.

  “Jesus,” said Ned.

  “They won’t catch us, Ned,” she said. “I know how to do this.”

  Her voice was low, but Ned could actually feel a swirl of adrenaline emanating from her skin. He frowned, puzzled. Mars shifted on his perch and shook his feathers.

  annalee@bluemoonwildlife.org Nothing yet here in KY, so y’all keep heading this way.

  “Here’s something from Harper,” said Luna.

  689-333-2150 Security upswing in the Sunshine State. Haven’t seen Adam yet but Carlos says he’s loading for bear.

  “Can’t you get any of your friends to talk to him?” asked Ned. “Not your rehabber friends, your rich friends.”

  “I don’t have any rich friends. The more money you have, the squishier the definition of ‘friend’ becomes.” She paused, then continued as if the answer were obvious. “If you had to choose between having me as a friend or Adam, who would you choose?”

  “You,” he said, as if he didn’t understand the question.

  A flash of distrust crossed her face, then she gazed at him ruefully. “I must have a hundred years on you,” she said. “If anyone catches up with us, you’re not my friend. You’re my hostage.”

  “I kind of am your hostage.”

  Luna’s expression softened. “You’re my friend,” she said, and went back to her phone.

  Chapter 8

  The sign for the Western Pennsylvania Wildlife Center was nearly hidden by a sea of trees. Erik Gunderman spotted it, slowed his rented sedan, and turned onto a dirt road. The rolling farmland, wooded hills, and stately mountains of Pennsylvania were beautiful, but he felt parched and landlocked. He missed the Loxahatchee’s spongy earth, its slow damp air, and the clattering call of the anhingas as they dried their wings in the sun.

  He had arrived in town the previous afternoon, checked into a motel, and spent part of the evening poring over the Western Pennsylvania Wildlife Center’s website. It was a carefully created combination of inspirational stories, disturbing statistics, and impressive photographs. It contained instructions to follow if one discovered an injured animal, and ended with an enthusiastic invitation to donate time, money, and/or supplies. He knew the names of the founders and the volunteers, and had read two dozen rescue stories.

  “Bunny-huggers,” most of his biologist friends called wildlife rehabilitators dismissively, and many of his Fish and Wildlife colleagues agreed. “Spending time and money on individuals is a waste,” they said. “Only populations matter.”

  But Gunderman liked the rehabbers he knew, and always tried to give them the benefit of the doubt. They were a tough bunch, the odds stacked against them, constantly stressed by too many injured creatures and not enough time or money with which to care for them. They lived in an emotional riptide, caught between compassion and pragmatism. He thought of his friend Beth, who kept two baby squirrels alive for three days, syringing formula into their tiny mouths every hour. When they died she sobbed on his shoulder, then fed them to one of her hawks.

  The problem with rehabilitators, though, was sometimes they just didn’t follow the rules. State and federal laws were meant to protect everyone, especially the wildlife, and there was no excuse for disobeying them. There had been cases of rehabbers simply taking matters into their own hands, and then there was Luna Burke. He understood her situation was complicated, but to actually take a federally protected bird and hide from her own regulatory agency? He shook his head.

  Luna Burke. He still didn’t have a complete picture of her. So far she seemed to be a mass of contradictions, her life before marrying Adam Matheson not well chronicled at all.

  He spotted a mailbox and another sign, and turned onto a dirt driveway leading into the woods. A hundred yards ahead was a young girl, her unruly red hair in a braid, her hands in the pockets of her dirty jeans. As he approached she stood her ground, scowling. She looks like the protester of Tiananmen Square, he thought, and stopped his car.

  The girl didn’t move. Finally he opened the door and stood up. “Hello,” he called. “You must be Wizzie.”

  “That’s Winifred, to you,” snapped the girl.

  “Ah, Winifred. Okay. I’m Officer Gunderman, from U.S. Fish and…”

  “I know who you are,” said Wizzie. “I don’t want you scaring my mother. And you can’t have Banshee, either.”

  “I’m not here to scare your mother or to take Banshee. I’m here to help recover Banshee’s missing mate.”

  Gunderman sat in the center’s office trying not to stare at Celia, who reminded him of the doe who had entranced him when he was five years old. She regarded him from behind her desk, fair-haired, delicately-featured, poised for flight. Don’t spook the wild folk with your predator eyes, his grandmother used to tell him. They’ll think you mean them harm.

  “So you see,” he concluded, “U.S. Fish and Wildlife seeks to implement the safe return of the eagle, and we would like your help.”

  “But return to where?” asked Elias. “Will you bring him back to us? His mate is here. They’re a bonded pair.”

  “I agree that would be the best solution, but ultimately the decision will be up to the agency. I will do my best to reunite the pair. Can you tell me where Ms. Burke is?”

  “No,” said Celia, in her soft voice. “No one knows where she is.” No one, she thought, except the 119 rehabbers who know she’s on her way to the Blue Moon Wildlife Center in Kentucky.

  Outside, a car door slammed and footsteps approached. The screen door opened. Roland Edwards filled the doorway, wearing sunglasses, a perfectly tailored suit, and a look of intense irritation. Jaws dropped, Celia gasped, and Wizzie bolted from her chair.

  “I’ll save you, Mom!” she shouted. She rushed to the door and slid to a stop In front of Roland, hands raised, the top of her head just about even with his waist.

  “Get off our land!” she cried.

  Roland frowned. “You are one rude little girl,” he rumbled. “Somebody ought to teach you some manners.” Unsmiling, he regarded the rest of the crowd. “Where’s Luna Burke?”r />
  Celia swallowed, heart pounding, unable to decide which was worse: the sudden appearance of the nightmarish figure, or the sight of her feral child, snarling and snapping her teeth at a man eight times her size.

  Gunderman rose and extended his hand. “Erik Gunderman, U.S. Fish and Wildlife,” he said. “We met in Florida.”

  “I know,” said Roland, shaking his hand, annoyed at the unexpected presence of a uniformed law enforcement officer.

  Keeping his expression neutral, Gunderman once again assessed Roland’s height, weight, and physical condition, which were formidable, and his simmering expression, which upped the ante significantly. His training had provided him with an arsenal of techniques to use against smugglers, poachers, and illegal traffickers; he hadn’t planned on adding a professional defensive lineman-turned-bodyguard to his list of adversaries.

  “If either one of you think you’re taking Banshee, you’ve got another think coming,” announced Wizzie sharply.

  “Wizzie!” growled Elias, then he turned to Roland. “Are you going to try to take our other eagle?”

  “I don’t want your damned eagle,” said Roland. “I want to know where’s Luna Burke?”

  “We don’t know,” said Elias.

  “She’s in Texas,” said Wizzie.

  “Texas!” said Celia and Elias in unison, as if she’d said “Bulgaria.”

  “How do you know she’s in Texas?” said Roland suspiciously.

  “That’s what the guy who delivers our hay says he heard,” said Wizzie.

  “We don’t have a guy who…ah! The guy who delivers our hay!” said Elias. “Yup, there’s a feed store in town, you might want to ask around there.”

  Roland shook his head. “Here’s some free advice,” he rumbled. “Don’t make me mad.”

  Gunderman glanced at Celia, who was turning increasingly pale. “Mr. Edwards,” he said. “The U.S. Government wants to speak with Ms. Burke. I hope you will respect that and let us do our job.”