driver?”
“Baseball cap, big sunglasses, and a beard. That’s about all I could tell.”
“You’ve just described over half of the truck drivers in Virginia.”
“I know. I know.”
“How about a plate number?”
“I made out a six and a two, but the rest of the numbers were covered in grease.”
“He might get a citation for that, at least, if the Sheriff doesn’t catch him for speeding.”
“But that’s not really the issue.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You think it was some kind of message?”
“No doubt.”
“But I thought you and Jake were cool with Dr. Clayton and his federal permit for dumping and all that.”
“I thought so, too. But there must be more to it than meets the eye. Obviously, we were mistaken.”
“We could’ve been killed, Dad.”
“I don’t think so. Not yet. If he’d really wanted to run us off the road, he could’ve done so easily enough around those curves. But someone is definitely trying to get our attention.”
“You mean scare us off.”
“That would be the idea.”
Nicole took her sunglasses off and rubbed her eyes. One thing I knew: my daughter didn’t scare easily. She wasn’t about to back down now. “So what are we going to do?” she asked.
I sighed. “Check the load on our guns and make sure we’re ready to go for whatever Jake has planned for tonight. If that guy Wylie wasn’t barking up the wrong tree and Jake’s peregrine getting shot is somehow mixed up in what just happened with that tanker, things ought to be coming together soon enough.”
Nicole shook her head. “I think we may be missing something. Something to do with Maria Andros. She knew stuff she wasn’t telling us.”
“Andros and the Claytons, and even Wylie—I wouldn’t be surprised if they all do.”
16
The female goshawk was only a few months old, Toronto explained, and still in her immature plumage. I’d flown a couple of red-tailed hawks, had a short stint with a Kestrel, and currently flew a Harris Hawk, but I’d never handled a Gos before. Except for her coloring, she looked plenty mature to me. I could feel the power flow through her talons as she squeezed against my glove, her almost orange eyes fixed on mine. She had a rounded back and a bold white eyebrow, and was still mostly brown up top, although Toronto said this would eventually turn a bluish-gray. The grey ghost, as Goshawks were sometimes called. Toronto had named her Jersey.
Earlier, Toronto had taken Nicole and me through a little album of photos he’d taken of Jazzman too. In life his peregrine falcon had been magnificent: huge black eyes, steel-blue head, back, and wingtops, black and white stripes underneath. Peregrines were the fastest creature on earth, and in a vertical dive, called a stoop, could reach speeds well over two hundred miles per hour.
Nicole was still flying an RT, but she’d always longed to have a peregrine. “I can see why you’d be so upset,” she said looking through the photos.
“Jazzy was a good one, no doubt about that.” Toronto closed the book shut as we came to the end of the pictures. He rarely grew emotional, but the hitch in his voice betrayed his feelings over having lost something so precious, especially to someone taking it away violently, a rage tinged with deep sadness.
He slipped on his own glove, took Jersey from me, and carried her back to her perch inside her mews.
“What time we leaving for the mountain?” I asked.
“A little after eight. I want to be in position before dark.”
“And Sheriff Daveys is coming, too?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“You really think someone will show?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m betting. Except for what you told me about Simmons and the shooting club, no one besides the vet school people knows for sure Jazzy was shot and killed. We’ve dropped enough hints with all of our suspects to make them believe we’ll be scouring the mountain tomorrow.”
“Any hard evidence?”
“Not
“Baseball cap, big sunglasses, and a beard. That’s about all I could tell.”
“You’ve just described over half of the truck drivers in Virginia.”
“I know. I know.”
“How about a plate number?”
“I made out a six and a two, but the rest of the numbers were covered in grease.”
“He might get a citation for that, at least, if the Sheriff doesn’t catch him for speeding.”
“But that’s not really the issue.”
“No, it’s not.”
“You think it was some kind of message?”
“No doubt.”
“But I thought you and Jake were cool with Dr. Clayton and his federal permit for dumping and all that.”
“I thought so, too. But there must be more to it than meets the eye. Obviously, we were mistaken.”
“We could’ve been killed, Dad.”
“I don’t think so. Not yet. If he’d really wanted to run us off the road, he could’ve done so easily enough around those curves. But someone is definitely trying to get our attention.”
“You mean scare us off.”
“That would be the idea.”
Nicole took her sunglasses off and rubbed her eyes. One thing I knew: my daughter didn’t scare easily. She wasn’t about to back down now. “So what are we going to do?” she asked.
I sighed. “Check the load on our guns and make sure we’re ready to go for whatever Jake has planned for tonight. If that guy Wylie wasn’t barking up the wrong tree and Jake’s peregrine getting shot is somehow mixed up in what just happened with that tanker, things ought to be coming together soon enough.”
Nicole shook her head. “I think we may be missing something. Something to do with Maria Andros. She knew stuff she wasn’t telling us.”
“Andros and the Claytons, and even Wylie—I wouldn’t be surprised if they all do.”
16
The female goshawk was only a few months old, Toronto explained, and still in her immature plumage. I’d flown a couple of red-tailed hawks, had a short stint with a Kestrel, and currently flew a Harris Hawk, but I’d never handled a Gos before. Except for her coloring, she looked plenty mature to me. I could feel the power flow through her talons as she squeezed against my glove, her almost orange eyes fixed on mine. She had a rounded back and a bold white eyebrow, and was still mostly brown up top, although Toronto said this would eventually turn a bluish-gray. The grey ghost, as Goshawks were sometimes called. Toronto had named her Jersey.
Earlier, Toronto had taken Nicole and me through a little album of photos he’d taken of Jazzman too. In life his peregrine falcon had been magnificent: huge black eyes, steel-blue head, back, and wingtops, black and white stripes underneath. Peregrines were the fastest creature on earth, and in a vertical dive, called a stoop, could reach speeds well over two hundred miles per hour.
Nicole was still flying an RT, but she’d always longed to have a peregrine. “I can see why you’d be so upset,” she said looking through the photos.
“Jazzy was a good one, no doubt about that.” Toronto closed the book shut as we came to the end of the pictures. He rarely grew emotional, but the hitch in his voice betrayed his feelings over having lost something so precious, especially to someone taking it away violently, a rage tinged with deep sadness.
He slipped on his own glove, took Jersey from me, and carried her back to her perch inside her mews.
“What time we leaving for the mountain?” I asked.
“A little after eight. I want to be in position before dark.”
“And Sheriff Daveys is coming, too?”
“That’s what he told me.”
“You really think someone will show?”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m betting. Except for what you told me about Simmons and the shooting club, no one besides the vet school people knows for sure Jazzy was shot and killed. We’ve dropped enough hints with all of our suspects to make them believe we’ll be scouring the mountain tomorrow.”
“Any hard evidence?”
“Not
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