C. Box - Endangered

Dudley narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.

He said, “I know what’s going to happen to you. You’ll either be back here or you’ll be dead. I’m okay with either one.”

Nate reached out and pulled the sets of documents closer and spun them around. He said, “One of the greatest and most mystical things about falconry is that when you release a bird to the sky—even a bird you’ve worked with for years and years—you never know if it’s going to come back. Eventually, that falcon may take off and it’s the last you ever see of it. Years of work and dedication are released to the wind. There’s satisfaction in the partnership, but no certainty. If you’re a person who needs certainty, falconry isn’t an art you should try to master.”

Nate signed the papers and shoved them back to Dudley, who sat back, screwed up his face, and said, “I’m not sure I understand a word of what you’re saying.”

“I’m not surprised,” Nate said, holding out his hands. “Get the key.”

—

AS NATE PASSED BY the armed security guards manning the metal detector in the entry lobby, they nodded at him in a way that suggested they knew much more about him than he knew about them. He nodded back. He was aware from several disparaging remarks from Dudley that a kind of unwelcome (by Dudley) legend had grown about Nate among certain types. Nate had never fostered any admiration or following, and he didn’t plan to start now. But those security guards seemed to admire him in a way he found uncomfortable.

He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when he was taken into custody months before: jeans, heavy lace-up boots, a T-shirt under a gray hoodie, a canvas tactical vest. A leather falcon jess bound his hair into a ponytail.

When he pushed through the double doors of the vestibule’s entrance and stepped outside, his senses were overwhelmed. The sky was cloudless and the spring’s high-altitude sun was intense. The air smelled of leaves budding out, pollen, and car exhaust. He could hear birds chirping, motors racing, and a light din of traffic from downtown.

Idling on the street in front of the Federal Building was a white panel van. A graphic of a peregrine falcon in full-attack stoop had been painted on the side over the words YARAK, INC., lettered in a rough stencil format. In script beneath the graphic it read: Falconry Services and contained a website address.

Liv was at the wheel, and when she saw him come out of the building, her grin exploded. It seemed bright enough, he thought, to cast shadows.

He waved hello, then walked around the back of the van and jumped into the passenger seat and shut the door.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said, still beaming. “I’ve been dreaming of this day.”

Liv wore jeans, knee-high boots, a T-shirt, and a blazer with a sheer violet scarf. She looked good.

Nate overlooked that and said, “We need to talk.”

She shook her head defiantly and pulled away from the curb.

The golden dome of the state capitol building reflected the harsh afternoon sun. Nate thought: Thank you, Governor Rulon. You did me a solid . But he knew to expect a call someday from the governor’s people. Rulon was wily and he’d expect something in return.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” she said.

“Liv . . .”

“Forget about it. I know you. You’re going to try to convince me that I’m in danger being close to you. That we should go our separate ways for my own safety.”

Nate nodded. He said, “It’s a matter of time before Templeton finds me. When he finds me, he’ll find you. I can’t risk losing you. You deserve a better life.”

“That’s nice,” she said, guiding the van north through the blocks of old Victorian homes that once belonged to absentee cattle ranchers who had ranches in the north. The buildings were now law offices or the headquarters of associations.

She said, “I’m not going anywhere. This is a partnership, remember? We’re going straight and we’re doing it together. We’re putting Mr. Templeton behind us and we’re getting right with God and country. It’s a new chapter in our lives. This is where the outlaw falconer and the formerly wayward sister from Louisiana join forces. We’re going to be normal together like we talked about. So save your breath.”

He moaned.

“Forget all that and think about this moment,” she said. “You’re out of jail and back among the living. This is what we’ve been waiting for.”

“I wish it felt better,” Nate said.

She reacted as if he’d slapped her, and he quickly tried to explain. “It’s not you,” he said. “I’d rather be here with you right now than with anyone on earth. But I thought I’d feel free on this day—emancipated. Instead, I feel like a eunuch.”

He lifted his arm to show her the monitor. “There’s one on my ankle, too. They’re tracking every move I make, so they can swoop down on me if I stray or if Templeton finds me. And they didn’t return my weapon.”

“That was part of the agreement,” she said, patting the center console. “But nowhere on that paper did it say I couldn’t carry.”

Nate opened the console to find a deadly looking snub-nosed revolver.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson Governor,” she said. “The man at the gun store said it’s very versatile and a real stopper. You can load it with .410 shotgun shells, .45 ACP rounds, or .45 Colts. Or you can mix and match—three shotgun shells, three bullets. I thought you might like it, and I think even I could hit something with a shotgun shell at close range.”

“Interesting choice,” Nate said. He was proud of her.

“Look over your shoulder,” she said.

He turned. There were no seats in the back of the van. His two peregrines and the red-tailed hawk stood erect and hooded in wire cages on the floor. They looked healthy and still. The ability raptors had for remaining still for hours and then exploding into furious action was a trait Nate had always admired.

A large plastic cooler—no doubt containing dead rabbits and pigeons for feed—was behind the cages. Falconry gloves, lures, and whistles were packed in translucent boxes that had been fixed to the interior side wall of the van. On the other wall was heavy winter clothing and a small desk that would pop down for communications and bookkeeping.

“Just like you described it,” Nate said. “You did a great job.”

“We’re open for business,” she said with a grin. “In fact, there’s some news on that front.”

He waited.

“Our first job,” she said. “It came this morning. A rancher in northern Wyoming named Wells needs to chase starlings out of his horse barn.”

“So that’s where we’re headed?” Nate asked as they cleared the city limits and merged onto I-25 North.

“Only as far as Casper tonight,” she said, looking over and crinkling her nose. “We have a reservation at a hotel—the honeymoon suite. You and I have some catching up to do.”

Nate sat back and smiled.

She said, “Those bracelet monitors can’t hear us, can they?”

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want to scorch some bureaucrat’s ears tonight.”

8

The next day, as they drove north on I-25, near the gnomish dryland formation known as the Teapot Dome, Nate pressed the send button on the BlackBerry that Dudley had given him. His call went straight through.

A woman answered.

“This is Nate Romanowski,” he said.

“I know who you are.”

“Okay, well who is this?”

“That’s not important.”

“How about I call you Olga, then? That’s a good Soviet name.”

“Hmph.”

Her voice was calm and businesslike, and she clipped off her words. There were no background conversations going on or ambient noises. She sounded to be in her mid-fifties, he thought, but it was only a guess. He imagined a hatchet-faced woman with short hair wearing a headset with a computer monitor in front of her. She was divorced but had two adult children who never called her. She’d worked for the federal government all of her life and she knew how many days she had left until retirement. She vacationed in Florida for three weeks every year, but never got tan.