Rant of Ravens

by Goff, Christine

  “Maybe you should just run for help.”

  “And let those cowboys get their hands on you? I don’t think so. I’ll use my self-defense training first.” Rachel spoke with more bravado than she felt, murmuring encouragement as she secured the rope around Lark for the second time, and helped boost her onto the rocks. “Now swing your legs over the edge, and pivot around on your butt.”

  Rachel scanned for something to use as a pulley. The nearest tree was too far away, and without leverage she’d never be able to hold Lark’s weight. Her gaze caught a sharp spear of rock that jutted up from the ground several feet to her right. Kicking the granite, she pushed against it hard with the flat of her foot. It didn’t budge. Looping the loose end of the rope around the stone, she flashed a signal. Lark bit her lip, pushed off and dropped over the edge.

  “Move left,” she heard Frankenstein yell to Igor. “You’re almost down.”

  Rachel craned her neck to check Lark’s progress. The rope, stressed from its earlier use, frayed as it played across the sharp edge of the rock. Please don’t let the darn thing snap.

  “Are you getting anywhere close to the ground?” she whispered, working to keep the strain from her voice.

  “It’s still too far down,” answered Lark. “But there’s a ledge about three feet below me.”

  “Can you get to it?”

  “I can try.”

  The rope jerked. Rachel tightened her grip. What was Lark doing?

  “I’ve almost got it. A little more.” The sound of skittering stones filtered up from below. “Okay, I’m on.” Lark moaned. The line fell slack.

  Rachel crawled onto the overhang and peered over. A sheer rock face dropped away below her. “I can’t see you at all. Wave your hand.”

  Thirty feet below, Lark’s hand jutted out from the granite wall. Rachel tried spotting her from several angles; the ledge remained invisible.

  “Can you see anything below you?” Rachel asked.

  “Trees. I can’t see the ground at all.”

  “Good. Stay there. Be quiet! I’ll be back.”

  “Rae!”

  “Shhhh. You’ll be okay. I’m going for help.” Rachel dropped the free end of the rope over the edge, and prayed Lark would reel it in.

  “I’m down,” shouted Igor as Rachel leaped back onto the path.

  “Then go get them,” shouted the other man. “With that one injured, they couldn’t have gone far.”

  Rachel ran, stumbling on the rocky ground. Branches tore at her arms and face, and scratched her skin. Footsteps pounded behind her, vibrating through the ground as they gathered momentum.

  She picked up her speed, sucking in gulps of dusty air, her lungs burning. A cloud of thick brown dust billowed around her feet.

  The steep incline caught her unaware. She stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell, skinning her knees and hands. Rachel scrambled back onto her feet, hearing Igor above her. Ignoring the blood trickling down her leg, she sprinted toward the trailhead. The pebbles under her feet rolled like marbles, causing her to lurch.

  Igor gained on her, his hands reaching out to prevent her escape. She dodged to the right around a tree in the middle of the path, pouring on extra steam. She heard a crunch and figured Igor must have hit the trunk. With luck it bought her just enough time.

  Go. Go.

  At a dead run, she rounded the bend. Bird Haven rose in the distance, and there were people milling around the Raptor House. “Help!” she screamed. “Help!”

  Several looked up with startled expressions. Eric was just pulling into the lot.

  Rachel ran down the access road and made a beeline for his truck. “Eric!”

  The ranger jerked his head around, slammed on the brakes, and leaped out of his truck. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Rachel closed the distance between them, afraid to look back. Reaching his side, she grabbed his arm and pointed toward the Lower Owl. Then she doubled over, clasping the stitch in her side, glancing behind her. No one was there.

  Eric bent down, and placed a warm and reassuring hand against her back. “What happened? What’s going on?”

  A man stepped over and joined them. “Is she okay? Are you okay, lady?”

  “No. I mean, yes, I’m fine, but Lark’s hurt.” Rachel pulled several deep breaths and exhaled, then moved away from Eric’s touch. What if he was the one who had sent the men after the disk?

  More people gathered, and Rachel straightened up. Lark was in trouble. Even if it was Eric, there was nothing he could do with so many witnesses around. “Lark’s injured her ankle. We need help up on the Lower Owl.”

  It took Mountain Search and Rescue several hours to get Lark off the mountain. They used a litter to haul her from her perch on the ledge.

  The clinic took several more hours to X-ray and cast her ankle. Two minor breaks. Six weeks in fiberglass. The doctor called her “fortunate.”

  Sheriff Garcia had been notified by Search and Rescue, so Rachel had been forced to explain Lark’s predicament on the ledge. “You didn’t take me seriously.”

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “You need to leave the investigating to me.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “No buts about it. I should be slapping your butt in jail.” Fortunately, he hadn’t, and Eric had driven the two women back to Lark’s house.

  Watching her friend wince in pain, Rachel squelched the guilt she felt over Lark’s injuries and settled a pillow under her leg. “It could have been worse.”

  “How so?” Lark asked.

  “We could have been arrested.” Rachel repositioned the ice pack draped across Lark’s ankle, and turned up the heat. The Drummond Hotel complex had been built in 1909. It included a concert hall, eighteen-hole golf course, septic system, steam powered generator bank, and thirty-two-room Manor House, known as the “winter hotel.” The carriage house, where Lark lived, had served as the Drummonds’ personal residence. It seemed Mrs. Drummond was a writer who required privacy for her “artistic endeavors.”

  According to Aunt Miriam, James Drummond had spent over half a million dollars building the complex, a lot of money in those days. A lot of money today. He should have spent more on caulking.

  Lark drew a comforter across her body and shivered. “Guess we’re lucky to know a park ranger.”

  “Lucky,” echoed Rachel.

  Eric had gotten them off the hook with Garcia by pointing out that the park restrictions for climbers were being lifted on the Lower Owl tomorrow. And that although technically she and Lark were in violation of park regulations, it seemed a waste of time to press charges. For her part, Rachel had written a large check to Mountain Search and Rescue. The sheriff had grumbled a warning and left.

  “You know, Rae, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’ll be fine.” Lark’s slurred speech signaled that the pain medication prescribed by the doctor was taking effect.

  “After I’ve scoped out the guest bed?” And locked all the doors and windows?

  Lark dozed off, and Rachel fingered the disk in her back pocket. Garcia had never asked about it, and she hadn’t volunteered. She wanted to know what was on the disk and make a copy before turning it over to the Sheriff’s Department.

  Lark’s home office came fully equipped with a computer, and Rachel flipped it on. The disk was in bad shape. Its plastic casing was creased and punctured, courtesy of the raven or the fall down Lower Owl. The metal end was pulled slightly loose, but the rest looked okay. Rachel pushed the end piece back into place, and slipped the disk into Drive A.

  Here goes.

  The computer whirred. She clicked the mouse, and the program menu flashed across the screen.

  So far, so good.

  Using Windows Explorer, she scanned the files. The disk held three pictures and several Word documents. She clicked op one of the pictures and was asked what program to use to open it. After she selected iPhoto Plus, the message Unable to open files using LZW compressio
n popped up. Darn! She’d have to wait until she could open it in Adobe Photoshop on the Macintosh at Bird Haven. Maybe she’d have better luck with the documents.

  She opened the folder marked Tanager and viewed the files. There was one marked Opfalc, one marked Will, and one marked Newleads. Rachel tried opening one in WordPerfect and received the message .

  What other programs did this machine have on it? She scanned the icons on the screen. Microsoft Publisher.

  Opening the program, she realized it was a simplified version of Quark. Not only that, it walked you through the process of setting up a document step by step. She choose the option for a blank page and drew in a text box, using the toolbar displayed on the lefthand side of the screen. Under Insert, she found a command that said Text File. Clicking on the command, she typed in a:Opfalc. Words flowed onto the screen. Yes.

  Rachel repeated the process for the other two files and hit Print, then carried the papers back out to the living room. Two hours later, she set down the final page of the Newleads printout and rubbed her eyes.

  “Learn anything?” Lark was watching her from the easy chair.

  “Only that your theory about Johnson may be right,” Rachel said. “Bursau had three folders of documents and three pictures on the disk. I can’t access the photos, but I did finally figure out how to print the files.”

  “Anything new?”

  Rachel handed the printouts to Lark. “The sections titled Opfalc and Will contained information I already knew. Opfalc detailed Operation Falcon, and was essentially a repeat of Bursau’s published article on the sting operation. Will was a complete biography of Uncle William. It covers his childhood, education, marriage, and career highlights, like the article in the Elk Park Gazette. Newleads is meatier. It covers the angles.”

  “I can’t read,” Lark said, shoving the papers away. “This medicine is making me feel sick.”

  “Want something to drink? Maybe a soda?”

  “Sure.”

  Rachel got up and poured them both a cola. “According to Bursau’s notes, Uncle William supervised a program studying the effects of DDT on peregrine falcons starting in 1978. I guess DDT and DDE, a byproduct of DDT, accumulate in the peregrine.”

  “That’s right. They cause abnormal breeding behavior and thin-shelled eggs, which reduces hatching success.” Lark took a drink, set her glass down on the table beside her, and fidgeted with the blanket covering her legs. “But the United States restricted the use of DDT in 1969.”

  “And Canada did in 1972,” Rachel said. “But apparently analysis of unhatched eggs in the seventies and eighties still showed high levels of DDE present.”

  “That’s because of exposure during migration. Heck, they’re still using DDT in some Central and South American countries.”

  “Anyway, Uncle William’s research focused on the declining population of peregrines in Rocky Mountain National Park. Research team members spent two-week periods in a cabin within the park boundaries, locating active nests. The number of successful nests was documented and unhatched eggs from failed nests were analyzed for DDE levels.”

  “So?”

  “Apparently, records from 1982 indicated that two eyasses were orphaned and taken back to the university lab for care and feeding. The young falcons thrived, but then, shortly before they were ready to fledge, they mysteriously “died.” Uncle William properly documented disposal of the bodies.”

  “But Bursau didn’t think so?”

  “No. According to his theory, Uncle William sold the birds to an Arab falconer through an intermediary.”

  “Who?”

  “The notes don’t say. There’re references to someone named Raven, who’s alleged to have initiated contact with the Middle Eastern buyer. Bursau also mentions pictures he’d obtained to substantiate his claim.”

  “He doesn’t say anything else about this intermediary?”

  “No,” Rachel said, flipping through the papers in her lap. “He just refers to him as someone with ‘local ties and foreign contacts.’”

  “That fits Mike Johnson,” Lark said. “And he’s just the type of scum who would sic those goons on us today.”

  Rachel’s throat went dry. “But how would he have known to send someone? The only people who knew about my raven theory besides us were Eric, Harry, Charles, Forest, and Sheriff Garcia.”

  Lark turned around in her chair. “There’s no way Eric or Harry is involved. I’ll vouch for both of them, one hundred percent.”

  “How can you be so sure? Personally, I don’t want to suspect any of them. But someone ordered those men to go up on the Lower Owl.”

  “I’m telling you, look at the others.”

  Lark was so adamant, Rachel decided not to argue. She’d explore them as possibilities on her own. “Fine. That leaves Charles and Forest… and the sheriff.”

  “Well, it’s obvious Victor’s out.”

  “Why?” Logically Rachel knew Lark was right, but she might as well play devil’s advocate. “He seems awfully vested in pinning the rap on Aunt Miriam. Maybe he’s trying to cover his own rear end.”

  “All Vic Garcia ever wanted to be from the time he graduated from high school was a cop.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Esther Mills, the owner of the Warbler Café, told me. She’s his girlfriend. Apparently he started coming up here from Denver with his Big Brother, one of those police officers who volunteer to buddy up with troubled kids. You know, the bad kid—good role model drill. Anyway, it took on Vic.”

  “What did he do bad?” Not that it mattered, but by now Rachel was curious.

  “According to Esther, nothing. He just had the potential. Apparently he saw his uncle shoot and kill his father when he was sixteen, then had to help raise seven brothers and sisters. He used to get a little wild on his days off. Guess his Big Brother straightened him out.”

  “You said he came up from Denver? How long has he lived up here?”

  “Twenty years? I’m guessing, but I’m sure I’m close. I know he was up here in eighty-four because I heard he’d volunteered to go undercover for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service during Operation Falcon. They turned him down because he was too well known among the locals.”

  Rachel rifled the papers. “Did Esther tell you that, too?”

  The question hung in the air between them. Finally Lark pulled her braid across her neck and studied the split ends. “No. Mike Johnson did.”

  Rachel raised her head and looked at Lark. “Was he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes.” She sighed like a woman resigned to an ugly truth. “When I first moved to Elk Park, I dated him for a while. We even talked about getting married. Then one day, in walks Cindy, and it was out with the old, in with the new. The next thing I knew, they’d tied the knot at the Justice of the Peace, and I was just someone he used to know.”

  Rachel empathized. “Men can be such scum.”

  “Sometimes.” Lark smiled. “Anyway, some of the trials that came out of Operation Falcon were still going or when Mike and I were dating. He told me his take on what happened, and bragged about ‘having the right connections.’ At the time I was young, naive, and in love. I assumed he meant that he dealt only with legitimate operators. Guess I was wrong.”

  Rachel cleared her throat. She didn’t know what to say. The “right connections” could mean law enforcement. Maybe the sheriff decided to investigate on his own, and then chose to keep the money instead of turning Johnson in. If he was the “key player” Bursau had referred to, he’d have a good reason to kill the reporter, and a good reason to pin the rap on somebody else. Plus, he was there when she remembered the raven.

  “What do you know about Charles and Forest?” she asked. “Does either of them have Middle East connections?”

  “They both do.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” Lark took another sip of her cola. “Charles’s are through birding. He’s the one who set up Miriam�
�s Middle Eastern birding tour.”

  “Did he have them in the early eighties?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I know Forest did.” Lark pushed herself up in her chair, wincing as her ankle moved across the footrest. “He grew up overseas. His father was assigned to the diplomatic corps in Egypt.”

  How did Lark know these things? Bursau’s notes didn’t have any of this information.

  “I know because his dad played golf with my father back in Washington, D.C. His family returned to the States when Forest started college at Northwestern.”

  That’s where Uncle William went to school. “Who’s your dad?”

  Lark paused. “Nathan Drummond.”

  “The senator from Connecticut?”

  Lark nodded curtly. “Anyway, Forest’s dad hunted, and he brought Forest out here on vacation. As soon as Forest graduated from college, he moved to Colorado and set up practice. Like most politicians, he’s a lawyer.”

  Lark’s father was Nathan Drummond. That explained a lot of things. Why hadn’t Rachel remembered that?

  “Are you listening, Rae?”

  “I’m sorry. I was thinking about your dad. I’d forgotten that he went into politics.”

  Lark’s face tightened.

  Better leave it for later. “So how soon after he moved here did Forest run for office?”

  “He’d been here a year.”

  With Lark’s answer, Forest Nettleman climbed to the top of Rachel’s unknown-third-party list of suspects. “It takes a lot of money to launch a politician.”

  “But why would he risk a fledgling career?”

  “To fund a fledgling campaign.”

  Lark scrunched and unscrunched the edge of her blanket. “But he’s too much the environmentalist. And he’s been that way forever. I remember hearing my father talk about Forest’s dad having to bail him out of jail for some act of environmental sabotage while he was in school.”

  “They call it ‘monkey wrenching.’ That’s something a pro-environment politician might want to keep quiet.” Rachel stood up and paced the edge of the Navajo rug. “Did you ever read a novel by Edward Abbey called The Monkey Wrench Gang? It was published in 1975, and was the first definitive book about ecodefense.”