The Snow Falcon (2 page)

“A couple of hundred is no good. I want a thousand.”

Tusker had hesitated, but just barely. “That’s a hard bargain, Ellis, but okay, I guess I could go to maybe six hundred.”

Six hundred! That one bird could be worth so much had just about floored him, but Ellis had hidden his surprise. Coming on top of that and almost as quick was the thought that Tusker had never given

a

six hundred dollars for anything in his life without it being worth a hell of a lot more than that. Ellis had stuck to his guns and shook his head, hoping like hell he wasn’t pushing things too far, a nervous lump forming tightly in his throat.

“A thousand,” he’d said emphatically.

Tusker had frowned, pursed his lips, then stuck out his hand. “You got a deal.”

As Ellis had left, hardly able to suppress the grin forming on his face, he’d caught sight of a cage in a dark corner, something moving around in there. He’d paused long enough to recognize a bear cub, which suddenly started snuffling and crying in a high-pitched wail. Tusker had followed his look.

“Guy brought it in a week ago, with this.” He gestured with his thumb to the female grizzly already stuffed and mounted. “He shot the mother, then found the runt. Said he didn’t know what he could use it for, so he brought it in.”

“What you going to do with it?”

“Put it right next to its momma,” Tusker had said, grinning. “Female grizzly protecting her cub. It’ll look good in some city guy’s house. He can tell all his friends about how he just almost got himself killed. Make quite a story, I’d say.”

Ellis had felt bad for the cub. It seemed a sorry fate, and he’d turned away, Tusker’s laughter following him through the door. There was something wrong with a person who could find such a thing amusing.

Now that he’d had time to think about it, it seemed to Ellis that Tusker had accepted his terms a little too easily. Ellis had sold him stuff before, mostly to order, and he knew Tusker wasn’t stupid. That son of a bitch was probably going to make five times what he was paying for that falcon by the time he’d finished.

Just thinking about it got Ellis steamed up. He felt like Tusker had taken him for a sucker and was trying to cheat him. What he ought to do is tell him the price had gone up, that he wanted two thousand for the gyr, maybe even more. Could be he’d underestimated its value altogether. He felt like he should try some other dealers and see what kind of price he could get elsewhere. There were plenty of taxidermists around, though maybe not all of them were as unscrupulous as Tusker.

He reminded himself, however, that before he could do anything,

there was the small problem of finding the damn bird. He stopped again for a breath; the cold air made his lungs ache. He was above the tree line, crossing a broad open snowfield that was getting steeper all the time. He searched the sky, but it was empty.

Ellis wiped his hand across his unshaven jaw. He was beginning to think that if he didn’t find the gyr again soon, the damn thing would just move on. He raised the glasses he wore around his neck and scanned the sky, then swept around to the cliffs ahead. Just as he was about to drop them, something moved, and he swept back until he saw the flick of pale wings.

THE FALCON WATCHED the figure far below, which had stopped moving. The wind coursing across the rock face ruffled her feathers, giving a slight tempting pull to her wings. She turned her attention back across the valley in the direction of the forest, dark green, covering the slopes downward. Hunger pangs gripped her, and she searched for movement. A solitary bird appeared, following the course of the valley slope, coming toward her. She could see the rapid beating motion of its wings rowing it through the air, the turn of its head as it warily surveyed the landscape, itself in search of food and alert for danger. The falcon watched, and turned her body slightly toward it. She felt the pull of the wind and the need to satisfy her hunger, but she was wary, made nervous by the continuing presence of the figure coming from the opposite direction. Something held her back, warning her, a deeply embedded instinct she could not ignore. The approaching bird was closer now; its light gray plumage and the fat-breasted flight that gave it an awkward sculling motion marked it as a pigeon. If she left her perch and rose, she would be poised above and slightly behind it, her descent from the sun giving her cover. The pigeon was unaware of her presence, but soon it would be close enough that it would see her as she left the cliff and would then have time to veer away and drop for the sanctuary of the trees. Again the falcon shifted, opposing instincts compelling her. She looked again to the far figure, uncertain, then hunger drove her forward and she took to the air, leaving her perch with rapid wingbeats until she felt rising air currents sweep her aloft.

10

ELLIS WATCHED THROUGH the scope on his rifle, his finger resting on the trigger, tightening the pressure. He saw the color of the falcon’s plumage clearly against the dark rock as it took to the air and knew he hadn’t been mistaken. He was already thinking about the money and grinning as he followed the falcon in his sight, waiting for the right moment. The falcon was farther away than he would have liked, but he was a good shot. He could have killed it then, but he wanted one clean body shot. Tusker wasn’t going to pay much for a bird with its head blown off.

He watched the falcon stoop toward the pigeon, moving so fast he lost it in his sight, then found it again as it leveled out. The angle wasn’t right and he hesitated, starting to squeeze the trigger.

“Come around, dammit,” he muttered.

He was tempted by an image he imagined: of himself walking into the bar and taking out a roll of bills, buying drinks for everybody. Maybe he’d take Rachel somewhere to eat and this would be a whole new start for them. Things would pick up at the yard, they wouldn’t fight so much, he’d quit drinking the way he’d been. All he needed was one clear shot.

ON OUTSTRETCHED WINGS, the falcon banked and turned. Positioning herself, she waited until the pigeon was closer; then, judging time and distance with effortless precision, she closed her wings and stooped. She gathered speed quickly, her wings folded back into a tight V, and from the ground she was simply a blurred shape, too fast to follow. The sound of rushing air roared in her head as she plummeted earthward; beneath her, the pigeon wavered in its course, sensing danger, but by then it was too late. The falcon came from behind, throwing her feet forward to strike with the long talon on her back toe. As she swept by, there was a split second of impact, a cloud of feathers, and the pigeon dropped limply toward the earth. The falcon turned and came around to catch it fifty feet from the ground, then carried it toward the cover of nearby trees.

RELUCTANTLY, ELLIS DROPPED the sight. The falcon was too small a target and, as he watched, was quickly lost from view. “Damn,” he said bitterly.

THE

His chances of seeing it again that day were remote. Once it had fed, it might not take to the air for hours. He lit a cigarette, then coughed and spat into the snow. His head was pounding now and he was starting to feel dizzy. He turned around and started back on the long walk down to the road.

He’d come out again in the morning. Right now he just needed to get some sleep and maybe a beer to quench his thirst.

11

MICHAEL SOMERS PULLED OVER ACROSS THE

road from the church on the edge of town. It looked just the way he remembered it, small and wooden, painted white, in a cold February landscape of snow, surrounded by a cemetery and a picket fence. Behind it rose the dark green of spruce and cedar that made up much of the forest. He got out of the Nissan he was driving, and went through a gate, and followed the path leading to the porch, hunching his shoulders against the wind that came down from the high ground. In the northwestern corner of the cemetery, a solitary cottonwood tree stood where it had been for as long as he could remember. In the summer its spreading branches provided a shady spot, but now the bare limbs seemed lifeless. This part of the cemetery was being reclaimed, new graves taking over from those so old nobody remembered the people who were buried in them. It was untidy, with lopsided crosses and angels missing limbs, the ground uneven. Here and there, new plots had been created.

He found the grave his parents shared, marked by a polished black gray headstone inscribed with gold lettering. He’d come home from college for his mother’s funeral when he was eighteen, the last time he’d been in Little River Bend. Maybe that was when a thread had started to pick loose in his mind, something that had been sewn there a long time before that. He was living in Toronto with a wife and child of his own when he learned, twelve years later, that his dad had been killed in an accident, and that time he hadn’t returned for the funeral. As his father was lowered into the ground, he’d been

attending a business meeting, pretending his life was functioning normally. Only later did it become clear how rapidly it had already begun to unravel, and how the event of his father’s death accelerated the process, which ended catastrophically with events that had destroyed more lives than just his own. Standing by the grave, he felt it all pressing against the inside of his head, and he thrust his hands deep into his pockets and looked up beyond the fence across the snow, letting the whiteness fill his mind.

Two weeks earlier Heller, the psychiatrist at St. Helen’s, had come out to wish Michael luck as he’d left. He’d shaken the younger man’s hand. Michael had come to like Heller, and had appreciated everything the doctor had tried to do for him. It was Heller who’d put the idea of coming back to Little River Bend in his mind in the first place.

“Three years and you haven’t said a damn thing about where you come from, you know that? What is it you’re afraid of there?”

“Who says I’m afraid?”

“If you’re not, then go back there.”

He’d thought about it for a while. Then, during one of their sessions, he’d asked, “Can you arrange it with the parole people?”

Heller had said he’d already made some inquiries. “You can report to the local RCMP in Little River Bend, or else you can check in with the authorities in Williams Lake. There’s a doctor in Prince George, a guy by the name of Patterson. You can talk to him if you feel the need. I’ll send him your files.”

“You’ve got it all worked out,” Michael had said. “Were you so sure I’d go?”

“I think you know you have to,” Heller had told him.

The day he’d left he’d said, “I’ll miss watching the Blues together.”

“Yeah.” Heller had smiled ruefully. Hockey was about the only thing they talked about. “Call me if you need to.”

“I will, thanks.”

And that had been that.

Michael turned away from his parents’ grave. A dull ache had begun to seep into his skull, and he knew it would migrate to his temples. Sometimes it was like a clamp had been tightened against his head, and it could grow in intensity until it took his breath away. When he reached his car, he breathed deeply, massaging his head with his knuckles until the pain subsided.

14

He drove into town along Main Street. Some things had changed over the years, but mostly things looked the same. Memories started flowing back; he recognized the Apple Market, then the house just off Fourth Street where old man Spencer had once lived, whose habit was to sit on the porch all day nodding and smiling as people went by, calling to everybody by name, even the little kids. He’d been the oldest person in town and had lived there his entire life. Michael wondered about that, trying to think how it would feel for Little River Bend and its surrounding environs to represent a person’s entire experience. He slowed as he passed the corner and craned to get a look at the house. Spencer would be long dead, but the house still looked the same, even to a sagging window shutter that hung lopsided from the frame.

Farther along Main Street, a paint-blistered sign remained over the store his father had run until he’d died. The insides of the windows were covered with black paper, so the building resembled a dark empty hole between its neighbors. It was flanked on one side by a drugstore that had been a lunch bar when he’d last seen it: On the other side, though, Greerman’s Clothing hadn’t changed at all. It seemed as if the same work jeans and checked shirts were displayed in the window alongside a faded poster showing a bunch of guys posing beside big-wheel trucks. Seeing his dad’s store again brought a quick tightening feeling to the base of his throat. Memories shifted and jostled, crowding into focus, and images of his parents leapt and receded. He slowed as he passed by; a sudden swell of emotion rose and brought with it a bitter taste in his mouth, and he bit down, unconsciously clamping his jaw tight. He thought of Louise and Holly, and a deep ache he’d come to live with flared and died like a struck match. He turned away and drove on, banishing his memories to the recesses of his mind.

Along the street he parked outside the office he guessed Carl Jeffrey had taken over after his father had retired. Now Carl, it seemed, was the town’s only lawyer. Michael remembered him from high school, an overweight and unpopular kid who wore thick glasses. He hadn’t been a natural scholar, but his old man had chivied him along mercilessly, grooming him to take over the family firm. As Michael got out of the car, a woman passing on the sidewalk glanced his way, and for a second he felt conspicuous, reading something into her quick scrutiny, but she walked on by, no flare of recognition on her features.

She looked to be in her mid-thirties and could have been, for all he knew, somebody he’d gone to school with. His pulse raced and then went back to its normal rhythm. He wondered how people were going to react to him coming back here. Sometimes during the journey he’d thought that twenty years does a lot to change people; maybe nobody would remember him; and if they did, maybe they wouldn’t care about what had happened seven years ago back East. Maybe it hadn’t even been reported here.