Rant of Ravens

by Goff, Christine

  Rachel gripped the shifter, depressed the button on the handle, and yanked back. The indicator needle jumped from third to second to first.

  She was still going too fast, but the engine drag helped prevent her from gaining speed too quickly. She jerked the wheel back and forth, keeping the car on the road. The ruts and potholes slowed her course, and she zigged and zagged her way down the hill.

  The road leveled out past the clearing before plunging toward Raptor House Road. If her memory served, the trees crowded closer through that stretch. If she maintained control until then, she could jump, or at the very least use the trees to slow her progress.

  Either way, she knew she had to do something before that last stretch. Otherwise, she’d end up wrapped around the entrance sign to Bird Haven, swimming in Black Canyon Creek, or communing with an Elk Park telephone pole.

  The meadow clearing whipped by. In the rearview mirror, Black Canyon Creek Ranch loomed on the hill. Ahead of her the road pitched down steeply, then leveled off. She aimed the car for the split in the trees.

  The speedometer read fifty-five as she shot into the narrow corridor. Fifty-four, fifty-three. When the needle hit forty-five, Rachel realized she needed another plan. In a hundred-feet the road dropped again, sharply.

  You need a plan, Stanhope.

  She’d seen stunt drivers scrape the side of a car against a building to slow themselves down, but scraping against the trees seemed too risky. A slight miscalculation, a jutting branch, and she’d be testing the air bag. It might come to that yet, but she preferred to stall.

  Wait! What if she cleared the end of the trees, then, before the road dropped away, made a sweeping turn back up the hill. That way, when she plowed into the forest, she’d be moving slower.

  Rachel braced herself, gripped the wheel, and flipped on the brights as she shot out of the tree-lined corridor. The incline drew closer. Closer. Wait. Wait! Now!

  She yanked the wheel hard to the right. The car lurched onto the shoulder of the road. Rocks and brush battered the undercarriage. The ground broke away sharply on her left. She yanked the wheel harder.

  Her left front tire hit a rock, and the front of the car bounced in the air. The turning, the momentum, the terrain worked against her. The car started flipping.

  Everything slowed.

  The front of the car rose in the air, like a breaching whale in slow-motion. The driver’s-side window dropped toward the ground, and the terrain fell away like the first hill on the roller coaster at Coney Island.

  The car rolled.

  CHAPTER 15

  The car came to rest in a pile of rocks, spewing steam from its chassis like a spouting whale. The airbag protected Rachel from the spray of scalding water, and she unclipped her seat belt and tried the door. Jammed. It figured.

  There was no power, but the window had shattered when the car landed. She pulled off a shoe, banged out the last shards of glass, and squeezed through the opening, finding a perch on a rock several feet from the car.

  Her head hurt. Her shoulder hurt. Otherwise, she seemed to be fine. What had happened?

  She remembered trying to turn the car, hitting the rock, and the car flipping. But why hadn’t she had any brakes? Someone must have cut the brake lines on her car. But who? Igor?

  The night air pierced the thin layer of her black shift, and she shivered. A branch snapped. The car belched. A chill crawled up her spine.

  Was someone stalking her in the dark?

  She shook off the thought. As far as anyone knew, she had already gone home. Otherwise, wouldn’t someone have waited for her?

  The first thing she needed to do was call for help. Her cell phone was in her purse, which was in the car. She approached the vehicle cautiously. Steam still hissed from the radiator, and she thought she smelled smoke.

  Her purse had fallen to the floor on the passenger’s side. She tried the door. Locked. They were all locked, and there was no power. She’d have to go back through the window.

  She squeezed through the opening head first and stretched, trying to reach the strap of her handbag. Finally, she crawled inside. Smoke billowed from the engine compartment as she closed her hands on the cell phone. Fire!

  She scrambled back across the seat. Broken glass slashed her leg.

  Limping a safe distance from the car, she flipped open the cell phone and dialed 911. A message flashed across the digital face of the phone. No Service. She tried again and got the same message.

  Flames now lapped at the seats of the car, melting the vinyl interior. Surely someone in Elk Park would see the flames.

  Heat from the fire drove her back. Dry brush crackled around the car. She had to go for help.

  Rachel stuck to the road, running in spurts. Her head pounded, and the jarring movement sent shooting pains through her shoulder. Her lungs burned from exertion, and the night sounds caused her to keep glancing back over her shoulder.

  When she reached Raptor House Road, she faced a dilemma. Did she head for town or for Bird Haven?

  Bird Haven perched dark on the knoll. The house blocked the view of the Raptor House from this angle, so she had no way of knowing if any lights shone in the outbuildings. She weighed her options.

  If she took off for Elk Park, she was bound to meet emergency equipment on the road, provided someone had spotted and reported the fire. Regardless, there was civilization in that direction.

  On the other hand, Bird Haven was closer, and there was a telephone handy.

  Either way; she might run into Igor and his friend, or Raven.

  She opted for Bird Haven. The road carved through the meadow, and she stuck to the center of the gravel. Stars dotted the sky. An owl hooted. A night creature rustled the grass.

  Rachel broke into a sprint as headlights whipped around the curve from Elk Park. The vehicle turned onto Raptor House Road. A pickup!

  She dived for the ditch by the side of the road. Thistles pulled at her stockings and dress. Her knee came down on a cactus, the needles jabbing into her skin. The truck turned toward Black Canyon Creek Ranch. Rachel stood up and ran for home.

  Bird Haven was locked up tight, and Rachel’s keys were dangling from the ignition of the burning car. She tried the front, then the two back, doors. What now? Maybe there was an extra set of keys in the Raptor House. Rachel ran to the barn.

  The barn door was open! She slowed. Creeping to the entrance, she peeked inside. A light shone from the office. Eric?

  His truck was in the parking lot, but he’d arrived at Black Canyon Creek Ranch with Harry and the others, so it was possible he’d left his vehicle here for the night.

  She debated what to do. Eric was still on her suspect list. He knew what car she drove, and where she had been tonight. Yet Rachel’s gut told her Forest Nettleman was the one to watch, and Lark had concurred. Time to tempt fate.

  She inched forward. What if it wasn’t Eric? What if it was—

  Eric stepped from the office, a notebook in hand. “Who’s there?” He squinted. “Rachel, is that you?”

  “Yes. I, ah, do you have a key to the house?”

  “Ja, I think so. I believe Miriam keeps one out here in a drawer.” He reached for the lights. “Are you okay?”

  The lights flashed on, and Rachel heard Eric gasp.

  “My God, what happened to you?” He moved quickly toward her.

  She glanced down at her torn dress. Cactus needles poked from one knee, and blood caked her legs. Her dress was blood-soaked in spots, covered in dirt and pieces of dried weeds. Her head ached. “I had an accident.”

  The tears came without warning. Eric stared, then took her arm and steered her toward a chair. “Sit down. Did you call the sheriff?”

  Should she tell him the truth, that her stupid cell phone wouldn’t work, or should she lie? Neither, she thought, gripped by an anxiety attack. She’d hyperventilate.

  “Here,” Eric said, grabbing a plastic glove from a box in the veterinarian supply cabinet. “Breathe into this.�
�� Then, while she exhaled and inhaled into the glove, he placed a call to Garcia’s office.

  A sudden calm washed over Rachel. He wasn’t the killer. Otherwise, why would he have called the sheriff?

  “Feel better?” he asked, as he found the key.

  “Much.”

  “Vic’s on his way.” Eric walked Rachel over to Bird Haven. She gimped along beside him, grateful for his solid presence, keeping the shadows at bay.

  Perky attacked her as they walked in the door.

  “Leave me alone!” Another flood of tears made her conclude that she must be in shock.

  What’s your problem, Chicky Baby?

  “Not now, Perky,” ordered Eric. He guided her to her room, then stood awkwardly. “Do you need any help?” He glanced down at her knee with the cactus needles sticking out like cloves in an orange. “Can I get you anything?”

  She shook her head, bringing on a wave of pain. “I’ll be out after I wash up.”

  “Great,” he said, backing out the door. “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.”

  Coffee was brewing by the time Rachel had showered, cleaned her cuts, and changed. She could smell it as she threaded her way down the hall, through the living room, and into the kitchen. Eric and Sheriff Garcia were drinking coffee in the family room.

  “What happened?” Garcia asked with no preliminaries.

  Rachel filled him in on the details. She told him about dinner, the sheikh, Igor, and the car accident. She glanced at Eric, and recounted her suspicion that one of the men who knew about her plan to locate the raven was behind the attack. She omitted the part about finding the disk and giving it to Udall, afraid Garcia would arrest her for tampering with evidence in a murder investigation.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t killed. That car’s burned so badly it could take days to figure out what made your brakes fail.”

  “You think?” Eric said. “I’ll bet they were cut.”

  Garcia left, and Eric insisted on camping out in the family room. Secretly, Rachel felt relieved.

  “Want some breakfast?” she asked, limping into the kitchen the next morning.

  “Ja, but why don’t you let me cook? You sit down.”

  She gratefully accepted, and watched him gather ingredients. “So what brought you to the United States, Eric?”

  “Work.” He told her about growing up in Norway and his love for the outdoors. “Norwegians are born to love nature. When I was eighteen, I read about Rocky Mountain National Park in a magazine and decided to come. I fell in love with the wilderness here, enrolled in school, and stayed. I went back to Norway for a short time after I graduated, but there was no work like here. When I came back, your Aunt Miriam and Uncle William agreed to sponsor my citizenship.”

  “How did you meet them?”

  “I took a class from William while I was an undergraduate. Charles taught there, too. He took a sabbatical to do some research work the year I graduated.” Eric scooped an omelet onto a plate, garnished it with three strips of bacon, and deposited it in front of Rachel. “Charles and William had a real falling out that year.”

  “Was Forest living here at the time?”

  “Ja. Why?”

  “I think Uncle William and Forest were involved in selling peregrines to the Arabs during Operation Falcon.”

  “No way.” Eric stopped what he was doing. “I refuse to believe it.” He resumed shoveling an omelet onto his plate. “It’s just not possible.”

  His second assertion didn’t sound as emphatic as the first. “Why? You remember something, don’t you?”

  Eric swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “The class I took from William was a research class.”

  “Studying the effects of DDT on peregrines?”

  “Ja. How did you know?”

  “I found Bursau’s notes.”

  He raised his eyebrows and joined her at the table. “So you know that we found two eyasses abandoned in the park.”

  Rachel nodded, her heart skipping a beat.

  “Right before the birds were scheduled for release, the department decided to keep them for research purposes, then shortly after that, they died. That was the same time that William and Charles had their row. It was also the same time Sheikh Al-Fassi was in Elk Park, visiting Forest Nettleman.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Ja.” He spread his arms wide. “When you’re twenty and come from a land of kings and queens, you don’t forget royal visits. I was quite impressed, even though I didn’t meet the sheikh.”

  “Then it all fits.”

  “No, nothing fits. All three men were dedicated environmentalists. Not one of them would have sold those birds into a lifetime of captivity.”

  What Eric said was true. Still, she’d seen the pictures of Uncle William, Forest, and Sheikh Al-Fassi. “I have something to show you.”

  Rachel lugged her laptop computer into the kitchen. Setting it on the breakfast nook table, she booted it up and inserted the disk. One click and a command to open the file brought up the picture. Eric looked stunned.

  “Did you show this to Vic?”

  “No. I gave the disk to Udall.”

  “You did what?”

  “We had a deal.”

  Eric worked his jaw, then finally pounded his fist on the table. “You have to show this to Vic. He’s the sheriff. You should have turned the disk over to him.”

  “I know, but how could I, after keeping it a secret?” She pushed back a stray lock of red hair. “I figure that Udall will share the information as soon as he takes what he wants off the disk. And, other than the photographs, there’s nothing there Garcia doesn’t already know.”

  “That’s corroborating evidence.”

  “That substantiates Aunt Miriam’s motive.”

  He rubbed his cheek like he’d been slapped. “Or Gertie’s.”

  “Or mine, or anybody’s that might have wanted to protect Uncle William’s reputation.” Rachel stared at the computer screen. “Let’s go back over it in light of this photograph. Bursau claimed that Uncle William sold the birds to an Arab, using an unknown middleman, right?”

  Eric nodded.

  “And the picture seems to substantiate that fact. Second, William and Charles had a falling out, suggesting that they had disagreed about something, right around the time the eyasses died.”

  “Ja.”

  “I say Charles knows more than he’s letting on. Maybe it’s time we asked him what happened.”

  Eric scooped up a mouthful of eggs and washed them down with coffee. “I’m beginning to see how this could have come together.”

  “Didn’t you say Charles took a year’s sabbatical the semester after the eyasses died?”

  “Ja.”

  “What if Forest negotiated the deal with his friend, Sheikh Al-Fassi, then William says the birds died, and fakes the records.” She paused to let the information sink in. “And now, fifteen years later, Al-Fassi is back and Aunt Miriam, two peregrine eyasses and one gyrfalcon are missing.”

  “There must have been a very good reason. Very good.”

  Rachel connected her laptop computer to the kitchen telephone line, clicked the Internet icon, and asked the driver to search for PETE. The web hit on over a hundred thousand sites. She refined the search to add Raven.

  “What are you doing?” Eric came to stand behind her.

  “You asked why they would sell the falcons to a falconer. Here’s your answer.”

  The PETE web page contained a mission statement, historical data about the organization, and claimed responsibility for a number of costly sabotage projects occurring within the past two years.

  “PETE encourages members to do whatever is necessary to stop the advancement of Homo sapiens pillaging the environment.”

  “How does selling wild birds into slavery accomplish that?”

  “It provides funding, say for an environmental counterattack, or for a political campaign of a candidate who would introdu
ce legislation like the Nettleman Bill.”

  Eric pointed at the screen. “Why Raven?”

  “That’s the name I heard Igor use for the man who ordered them to retrieve the disk and watch me. I thought Johnson was Raven, but now I’m not convinced. There’s a reference to Raven somewhere in these logs.”

  She scanned the material, finally finding a citation under the heading NEWS CLIPPINGS, dated July 1984.

  A PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF THE EARTH (PETE) MEMBER KNOWN AS RAVEN CLAIMED CREDIT ON BEHALF OF THE ORGANIZATION FOR A SERIES OF DEVASTATING ARSON FIRES SET AT DDT MANUFACTURING PLANTS ACROSS THE UNITED STATES. PROPERTY DAMAGE IS ESTIMATED TO BE IN THE MILLIONS. ONE MAN DIED.

  Blah, blah, blah. Further down the page was another clipping.

  RAVEN, CODE NAME FOR A MEMBER OF THE RADICAL ENVIRONMENTAL GROUP PETE (PEOPLE FOR THE ETHICAL TREATMENT OF THE EARTH), IS WANTED FOR MURDER IN CONNECTION WITH THE DEATH OF A SECURITY GUARD AT A DDT PLANT IN EASTERN NEBRASKA. RAVEN CLAIMED CREDIT FOR THE JULY BLAZE, SAYING PETE HOPED TO STOP THE DISTRIBUTION AND USE OF THE DANGEROUS PESTICIDE.

  “So in other words, this Raven fellow is wanted for murder.” Eric said.

  “Right. And, as far as I know, the crime of murder doesn’t have a statute of limitations. Which means Raven can still be tried and convicted.”

  Eric whistled. “That gives someone an incentive for murder.”

  Which explained why Raven had targeted her. She was leading the investigation into Aunt Miriam’s disappearance. She and the others must be getting too close in their quest for information. The question was, how deeply was Aunt Miriam involved?

  “Go back to the picture,” Eric said. “Who do you think is taking it?”

  “Mike Johnson, maybe?” Rachel tried wrapping her mind around the overload of information. “The way I see it, Forest masterminded the sale of the falcons to Sheikh Al-Fassi. The photographs substantiate his involvement. Now, fifteen years later, he’s set up to do it again, and who shows up? Bursau. If word ever leaked out, Forest’s political career would be over.”