Unflappable

by Suzie Gilbert

  “Oh, Ned,” Stanley sighed, wiping his eyes as Luna tried to control herself. “I’m sure you think we’re terrible people. But there’s this thing called payback.” He turned to Luna. “Thanks again for the pool,” he said. “So that’s it, except for the copperhead. You want to see a copperhead?”

  “You mean the poisonous snake copperhead?” asked Ned.

  Stanley led them to his office, where the thick, four-foot serpent lay coiled beneath a heat lamp in a plant-filled terrarium. Coppery red, with a sand-colored, dark-edged hourglass pattern that ran the length of its body, it flicked its tongue but otherwise remained motionless.

  “Beautiful!” breathed Luna, bending down for a better look. “And where did he come from?”

  “Guy found him in his basement. Local people find snakes, they call my friend Ted. Ted’s my front man, because I’m under the radar. Honestly, people are so stupid about snakes! It’s one thing to be afraid of poisonous snakes, okay, maybe understandable, but they see a little garter snake and immediately want to kill it. Idiots!”

  “What will you do with him?” asked Luna.

  “Northern copperheads are very social. Sometimes they even share dens with timber rattlers or rat snakes! I know of a den about an hour from here, I’ll take him up next week. They’re not aggressive, you know. They’ll defend themselves, of course, but generally they’re pretty laid back. They’re not like water snakes, who can be really pissy.”

  Ned wondered if Luna already knew the personality traits of snakes, or if this was all news to her. “You know what?” said Stanley. “Sometimes if you pick a copperhead up, he’ll release a musk that smells like cucumbers!”

  Ned headed for the door. “How about breakfast?” Stanley called after him.

  The kitchen table was laden with brightly colored pottery bowls, each filled with an assortment of fruits, berries, and cereals. Stanley poured coffee into matching mugs and set down a plate of wheat toast. “Warren left early,” he said. “A friend of mine’s going to fix the Ram. Or try to, anyway. So tell me — are you set with Hélène?”

  “Yes,” answered Luna. “We just need to get to the border.”

  “What a woman! She’s probably readying her army. Well, you’re welcome to lay low here as long as you like. I’m sure all of you could use the rest.”

  “Why aren’t you licensed?” asked Ned, fortified by coffee.

  “I was a model rehabber for 30 years. Everything by the book. Then I got involved in a bunch of bureaucratic bullshit, and I thought…this stinks! There are way too many people pissing me off. So here I am, the hermit in the woods. The only people who know where I am are two wildlife centers. They sneak me all their turtles, plus the occasional raptor if they have no room. And there’s Ted, who calls when he has a snake. And by the way, nothing’s changed — I still do everything by the book.”

  “Stanley wrote the definitive manual on turtle rehab,” said Luna. “As well as four field guides!”

  Stanley smiled, embarrassed. “There are three reasons you don’t have to worry about staying with me,” he said. “One, I’ve set up a program so if any squad cars come within five miles, I’ll get an alert on my phone. Two, Adam is in Texas for a some big meetings, according to The Financial Times and IBD. And three, I have a friend at the Fish and Wildlife office in Titonka, and one at Department of Natural Resources in Des Moines, so that means I know where Gunderman is. Right about now he’s heading for the Fish and Wildlife office for a 10:00.”

  “Gunderman,” said Ned disapprovingly.

  Stanley looked surprised. “He’s one of the best we have.”

  “That’s what Warren says,” sighed Luna.

  “It’s true. You of all people should know that, and not take it personally.” Stanley turned to Ned. “There are two kinds of government conservation officers. One loves the natural world for what it is, and they do their darnedest to protect it. The other loves the natural world for what they can get out of it. That type of ‘conservation officer’ doesn’t give a shit about wildlife unless it’s mounted on a wall or dangling from a hook.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not anti-hunting or -fishing per se, as long as you eat what you take. Hunting and fishing licenses pay to keep a lot of land open that might otherwise be developed. But a good number of these department guys actively work against licensed rehabbers for no other reason than they’re old school, macho assholes. As opposed to someone like Gunderman.”

  He reached for the strawberries and regarded Luna. “He’s after you for all the right reasons. I’ll do my best to make sure he doesn’t catch you, but I’ll go to the mat defending his right to try.”

  Ned puzzled over this. “We live in a moral minefield, my friend,” said Stanley, and handed him the coffee pot.

  • • •

  The afternoon sun shone on the weedy grass, then vanished behind another cloud. Mars surveyed his latest domain from a perch. Luna sat on the ground, fiddling with the silver bead on her necklace. Stanley had given it back to her after breakfast, the broken clasp repaired.

  Ned appeared at the door. “Come in,” said Luna.

  “No way.”

  “Really. Ever since you were stuck in the van together, he’s been all right with you. I can tell.”

  Hesitantly he entered, and closed the door behind him. He hugged the slats and sat on the other side of Luna, his eyes on Mars.

  “What time is the match?” he asked.

  Luna smiled. She kicked the tennis ball by her foot, and it came to rest several inches away. “Stanley was nice enough to find a ball for him, but he doesn’t seem to want to play. I think he’s getting tired.”

  “Where is everyone?”

  “Stanley’s with the turtles. Warren’s waiting for the Ram, then he’ll take it back to Glenn. He said we could sit tight for a few days.”

  “Luna? I’m wondering if we should call it quits before it gets any worse.”

  She lifted her eyes to his. “I can’t, Ned,” she said. “But you can.”

  The perch groaned, and out of the corner of his eye Ned saw the huge bird fly toward him. He tried to scuttle backward but the slats of the flight cage held him fast, so he gritted his teeth and waited for his last moment on earth. He felt a billow of air and heard a thump, like a gust of wind on a heavy sail. He saw a rush of feathers, fierce yellow eyes, and a great hooked beak. The eagle landed next to Luna, reached out a huge, nightmarish foot, and snatched the tennis ball. Hypnotized, Ned watched as two black talons sliced through the small sphere like chefs’ knives through butter.

  “Ha ha, you goofball!” cried Luna, rocking back and forth with delight. “Now what are you going to do, with a tennis ball stuck on your foot?”

  The eagle stomped the ground, knocked the ball off, and grabbed it again. “You’re so funny!” she chortled, then turned her wide grin on Ned. “Remember when you used to be afraid of him?”

  Ned sagged against the flight cage, heart pounding, unwilling to let Luna know he had been sure death was upon him. “Batshit crazy” is what Earl would have called her, after wiping his oil-stained hand on a rag and spiraling a forefinger next to his head.

  Ned pretended to join in on the jocularity, hoping his heart would slow before it gave out. He realized “batshit” was now irrevocably linked with Esther, hard at work in her Southern plantation house, and he could no longer toss off phrases like eagle-eyed, bear-like, squirrely, or turned turtle. He thought of his empty apartment, of his Gamer’s World magazines, and of his neighbor’s shrieking chihuahuas, which, long ago, he had considered the local wildlife.

  I can’t call it quits, he thought to himself. Once this is over, how do I go home?

  • • •

  Roland sat at a bar overlooking Chicago, glaring at Celia’s phone. Adam had climbed aboard the Gulfstream with Paszkiewicz and Ortega, his backup security men, and flown to Houston. I want you to stay in Chicago, he told Roland. She’s heading north. The second a real tip comes in, I want you
on it.

  For fourteen years Adam had factored him into his travel schedule. Fourteen years of mutual respect and camaraderie, working around each other’s idiosyncrasies. Then a year ago Luna had appeared, and everything began to change. Roland’s eyes returned to Celia’s phone.

  annie@friendsofsaltmarsh.org Where is everybody? Can’t find Gunderman or the goon

  reticulatedpython@juno.com How the heck do you lose track of a goon that big

  dorsalfin28@att.net Somebody better tell David Sibley he should write A Field Guide to Goons

  gduncan@bobcathollow.org Somebody better tell the goon the Maltese Falcon is in New Mexico

  Roland did a slow burn. The animal freaks wouldn’t let up, relentlessly going out of their way to insult him, obviously not caring that their personal email addresses were right there in his full view. They bullshitted on about New Mexico, despite the fact that two nights ago local news stations had reported police activity at the compound of a pair of bear rehabilitors outside Madison, Wisconsin. A few phone calls revealed that agents from Fish and Wildlife had been there, too.

  Bear rehabilitators. Roland gave a disgusted sigh.

  He scrolled backward, knowing he should turn the phone off, searching for a particular message like a fingernail searching for a scab.

  envirowacko@gmail.com What’s that bastard doing being a goon when he won the Heisman Trophy

  Roland bit his lip, fury flickering through his veins. His own phone rang, and he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the screen. “Yeah,” he said.

  “There’s a guy trying to get a hold of you, Mr. Edwards,” said a voice. “His name is Dennis Fields. He says he knew you from high school, and has some information for you. Put him through?”

  “Go ahead.”

  After a soft click, a clear voice came through the phone. “Roland,” it said. “It’s Dennis Fields. Do you remember me? I played football with you at Calvin Buckner.”

  “Yeah,” said Roland. “I remember you. Kind of blond. Tall. Skinny through junior year, then you busted out. Played halfback.”

  “That’s right,” said the voice. “I thought I had a shot at the big time, but it didn’t work out. So, I’m a CPA. I do people’s taxes. Y’know, I used to watch you play when you went pro.”

  The voice paused. When there was no reply, it continued.

  “Look, I know your boss is looking for his wife. Normally, I wouldn’t get involved. Especially…I mean, I just wouldn’t do it. But my son’s had four surgeries, and the insurance company’s not paying up. My mother’s got Alzheimer’s, she needs special care. Our savings are almost gone. I know where Matheson’s wife is, but…”

  “I’ll make it worth your while,” said Roland.

  “I hate to rat out the guy she’s staying with, Stanley’s a good guy. He’s got some kind of wild animal hospital back in the woods. Only reason I know is sometimes my cousin helps him out. She was supposed to go this week, but he told her he had guests. And he never has guests.”

  “You get a visual?”

  “Yeah. I had to hike in, but last night I took a picture through the window. It’s her. That guy Harrelson is with her. Here’s the thing. My condition is that Stanley doesn’t get in any trouble.”

  “No trouble. I just want to relieve him of one of his guests. He can keep the other one.”

  “All right.”

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Roland hung up. He looked over the skyline, finished his drink, and tapped his phone.

  • • •

  The boardroom was at the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Houston. Natural light poured through the panoramic windows. Small, discrete spotlights added just enough to showcase the documents resting on the mahogany table. Twelve men sat in leather chairs.

  “We don’t want to do that,” said Adam, sitting at the head of the table. “Not when there’s another option. If you’ll take a look at page 62…”

  The phone in his pocket gave three quick buzzes. “Gentlemen,” he said, rising. “Will you excuse me for a minute?”

  The adjoining room was empty. He raised his phone. “What have you got?” he asked.

  “She’s not far.”

  “Can you get her tonight?”

  “Yup.”

  “Great job, Roland! I’ll fly up as soon as I finish. Now listen to me, don’t go in there busting heads. Just get her, and bring her to the house. Clear? I’ll call you in an hour.”

  He hung up, then scrolled down and pressed another number. “Mr. Matheson!” said a female voice. “How nice to hear from you!”

  “Hello, Gisele. I have to make this quick. I need something stunning in Luna’s size. Silk. Lavender. Floor length. Elegant, lots of lace. Matching robe. Deliver it today to the Chicago house. Okay? Thanks.”

  He smiled briefly to himself, pocketed his phone, and returned to the boardroom.

  • • •

  Roland stood behind a cluster of trees, watching the house. In the living room sat Luna, Harrelson, and Stanley Paxton, all drinking wine after dinner. He had checked out Paxton: the guy wrote books about turtles.

  Another clusterfuck, thought Roland.

  He envisioned how easy it would be to kick in the door, knock both guys out, and grab her. He sure as hell wouldn’t have to hang around in the woods with bugs everywhere, playing this stupid waiting game. But no, because his boss was losing it.

  He watched her through the window. She seemed content, so it could be a haul. But sooner or later she’d get antsy, leave the house, and wander around in the dark, like she used to do in Florida. He remembered spotting her at two in the morning, high on a limb of one of the trees Adam planted in order to impress her. What the hell are you doing? he had called, irritated.

  I’m looking at the ocean! she retorted defensively. Do you mind?

  A half hour later, she rose from Paxton’s couch. Harrelson rose too, but she shook her head and gestured for him to stay seated. Roland watched her leave the house alone, unable to believe his luck.

  482-673-2593 Back up he texted, and a black SUV rolled silently toward him.

  He waited in the shadows. She stood in the moonlight beside the slatted cage, her face tilted upward.

  Little skinny white girl, Lyllis had said, running like Flo-Jo. And every time they cornered her, she turned into you.

  Roland hated when women talked in riddles. You push her too far, Lyllis had added, and she’s going to make you sorry. None of it made sense. Still, better to take no chances, so he made neither a sound nor a move until Luna shut the door behind her and started back toward the house.

  She started flailing the second his arms closed around her. He lifted her off her feet. When she jackhammered an elbow into his stomach and slammed her heels into his shins, he grunted and swung her sideways under one arm. Thrashing wildly, she sank her teeth into the heavy glove he had clamped across her mouth.

  The SUV rolled to a stop. A man slid from the driver seat and opened the back door. As Roland shoved Luna into the car, he glimpsed Harrelson and Paxton rushing from the house. “Move!” Roland shouted, and the SUV rocketed down the dirt road and sped away.

  Chapter 20

  In an anonymous motel room outside Rock Ridge, Wisconsin, Gunderman sat before his computer. The screen framed the scowling face of Daniel Whittaker, Chief of the Law Enforcement Division of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.

  “I gave you this assignment because you were a perfect fit!” said Whittaker, his crew cut seeming to bristle with outrage. “A uniformed officer with the instincts of an undercover agent! Exemplary record — until now! Do you mind telling me what the hell happened?”

  Gunderman swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir. I take full responsibility…”

  “No shit, you take full responsibility! That’s not telling me how you, two department officers, and half a dozen uniformed cops managed to lose two suspects and an adult Bald Eagle after you had them surrounded!”

  “Sir, I…”


  “And then we have this Unidentified White Male, who, according to both the police and your own report, you left hanging in a bear net. I don’t know, but somehow my law enforcement intuition tells me that he should have been considered a person of interest — if not a suspect — and not left alone!”

  Gunderman cleared his throat and met Whittaker’s unblinking stare. “Gunderman,” said Whittaker evenly. “Do you know something you’re not reporting?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I ought to fire you! I’ve got a dozen men arriving in Rock Ridge tomorrow morning, and I want you back in Pennsylvania! It’s bad enough with one missing eagle, I don’t want two! If this crazy goddamned Luna Burke thinks she’s going to grab that female eagle and stash it with another one of her buddies somewhere, she’s got another think coming! Are you listening to me? Do not lose that second eagle. We’re already getting hammered in the press!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “This investigation is doing a nose dive. Pull it up!”

  Gunderman locked his motel room door and walked to a corner bar he noticed earlier in the day. The bartender poured him a shot of Jim Beam, and he downed it in a gulp. He took a breath and closed his eyes. “Another?” asked the bartender.

  “Yeah,” he nodded.

  From his barstool outside Rock Ridge, Gunderman could see miles of gently rippling sawgrass and in the distance, a tree island. The trail ahead of him skirted a swamp. He stopped and squinted, as hovering in the sky was what looked like a Snail Kite. They’re endangered, he thought, and reached for the binoculars in his backpack.

  Gator on your right, came a lazy drawl.

  Gunderman flinched in surprise. He looked down at the alligator’s eyes and nostrils, just visible above the waterline. He backed up a few steps, then regarded the dark-haired man who sat on the ground, leaning against a cypress tree. He’s not big enough to eat you, said the man.

  I know, said Gunderman. But usually I’m better at spotting them.

  Soon he sat cross-legged, engrossed in the mechanics of a tracking device that could follow the route of a collared panther. Young male, said the man. He shouldn’t be this far north, but they don’t always do what you tell ‘em.