Читать книгу Night Prey - Sharon Dunn - Страница 10

Jenna placed some live grasshoppers in the rescued hawk’s cage. Though the sense of panic had subsided, she still felt stirred up by what had happened. She tried to calm her nerves by focusing on doing routine things around the rescue center. She could deal with anything a wild bird did, but being shot at was an entirely different story. The hawk picked hungrily at the food. Except for the occasional beating of wings, the rescue center was quiet this time of night. All the volunteers and the one other staff person had gone home.

Outside, she heard Keith’s truck start up. Their encounter with the helicopter and being used for target practice had left her feeling vulnerable. When Keith had seen how shaken she was, he’d offered to follow her in his truck to the rescue center.

She had phoned Sheriff Douglas and told him about the helicopter and being shot at on the King Ranch on the drive home. Even then, as she retold the events to the sheriff, it had been a comfort to look in the rearview mirror and see Keith following her.

She didn’t know what to think about Keith Roland. He seemed like a different person from the one he’d been that last summer, but the memory of his destructive teenage behavior made her cautious. And there was no denying he was more distant now. She thought of how he had jerked away when she’d tried to pull back the cuff on his shirt to check the wound from the hawk’s talons. But he still was able to make her feel safe. She wouldn’t have had the courage to get the hawk without his help.

She grabbed a torn sheet and safety pins from a bottom shelf where medical supplies were stored. As she pinned the sheet onto the cage, the beating of wings and scratching sounds slowed and then stopped altogether. She’d done an initial exam but couldn’t find a reason why the rescued hawk couldn’t fly. It had been a relief not to find any sign that this bird had been shot. Both dark and pale mottling on the bird’s breast and flanks indicated that he was a fairly immature Swainson’s hawk. She had a theory about this bird. Flying was part instinct and part learned skill.

In the morning when her assistant Cassidy came in, they’d be able to do an X-ray to make sure there was no physiological reason the bird was flightless. Cassidy was on call 24/7, but Jenna had decided that the bird had been traumatized enough for one day. The X-ray would go better once the bird was hydrated and had his strength back. And Jenna would do a better job after a good night’s rest let her shake off the last of her jitters. Maybe by morning the sheriff would call with a perfectly logical explanation for the gunshots and helicopter…and even if he didn’t, it would be easier to feel brave in the daylight. For now, she’d just finish up things at the center and head home—hoping that her hands would stop trembling somewhere along the way.

Jenna checked on the bald eagle she had found yesterday, Greta. They had done an X-ray to make sure they’d gotten all the buckshot but that didn’t mean the bird was out of the woods yet. Infection from the wound was still a concern. The eagle didn’t react when Jenna looked in on her. She was still weak.

Jenna skirted the area that housed the cages filled with smaller birds and stepped into the office. An owl sat on a perch by her desk. She made clicking noises at Freddy, who responded by stepping side to side on his perch. Freddy was one of the center’s permanent residents, who served as an ambassador bird when Jenna did her presentations to schools and groups. Only the birds who would die if released in the wild got to stay at the center on a long-term basis. Freddy had fallen out of his nest and been rescued by a boy. The bird had imprinted on humans. As an owlet, Freddy thought he was a person. He was capable of flight but probably wouldn’t last long in the wild.

Jenna filed through the stack of papers on her desk. There was still work to do, but she could do some of it from her house, located just behind the center. She grabbed the camera from a drawer. She had a bunch of photos she needed to transfer to her laptop for the center’s newsletter. Once she had everything she needed to take home with her, she stepped out the back door into the cool evening of late summer. The flight barn to her right and a separate building up the hill that housed the other ambassador birds were silhouetted against the night sky, and she smiled at the sight of them. She loved the world she’d built for herself and her birds—and she wouldn’t let anyone harm it.

Her feet padded on the stone path to her house. The cool breeze caressed her skin, and a handful of stars spread out above her. God had done some nice artwork tonight. Late summer in Montana was her favorite time of year. The center stayed busy, and the weather was perfect. Jenna opened the door and stepped inside her living room. She left the door open to allow the evening breeze to air out the stuffy house.

After retrieving the computer cord for her camera from a kitchen drawer, she shifted a stack of magazines and bills she had piled on her coffee table and flipped open her laptop. The wallpaper on her desktop was of an eagle perched on a tree. Now that people had been shot at, the sheriff seemed more concerned.

He had been dismissive yesterday when she had called him about the eagle. He had theorized that the bird had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and had been shot by accident. She had reported the incident to the game warden, as well, who had expressed a little more concern. She didn’t expect everyone to be as upset about injured birds as she was, but shooting at eagles was illegal even if they weren’t on the endangered species list anymore. Jenna shuddered. She cared about the birds, but after what had happened today, going out into the forest alone would be no easy task.

She wasn’t going to let herself get hopeful. In her experience, poachers were almost impossible to catch unless they were discovered with the dead animal or there were witnesses. Because Greta had been injured with a shotgun, there was no bullet to trace.

Knowing Sheriff Douglas, his looking into the events on the King Ranch would probably not happen until the next afternoon. Finding out who had shot the eagle was probably even lower on his priority list, and she doubted he was giving any weight to her theory that the two shootings might be related—that someone could be targeting the birds.

A crashing noise emanated from inside the rescue center. Jenna jumped to her feet. What on earth was going on? She ran through the open door and raced up the stone path. The sound had come from the side where the birds were housed. Jenna pushed open the back door, and gasped.

The sheets had been torn off all five of the cages. A golden eagle fluttered and bashed itself against the wooden bars. A red-tailed hawk let out its distinctive cry, like a baby’s scream. Medical equipment and the X-ray table had been pushed over. Two small Kestrel hawks flew wildly around the room, making high pitched noises that indicated agitation.

Jenna stepped toward one of the cages, then knelt and picked up the torn fabric that had covered it. Twisting the cloth, she turned a quick half circle. Fear spread through her. It looked like someone had gone through and randomly tossed off the cage covers to stir up the birds. It didn’t look like any of the birds had been hurt, but they had been spooked, and so had she.

She shook her head as her mind raced. Who would do such a thing? And why? And most frightening of all—was the person still there?

The sharp slap of one object slamming against another startled her. It had come from the office. Her heart pounded. Someone was in the next room. She wished she could call for help—she had the sudden memory of Keith from before, sheltering and protecting her—but her house had the only land line. They used cell phones for the center, and her cell was in the Subaru.

Grabbing a pair of surgical scissors for a weapon, she pushed open the door that separated the birds’ cages from the office area. She scanned the room. Freddy’s perch had been knocked over. That must have been the noise she heard. Freddy might have been alarmed and pushed it over himself…or someone could have knocked it over. Her eyes darted from the top of a low file cabinet to her desk, Freddy’s other favorite places to perch.

“Freddy?”

Her stomach twisted into a knot. If someone had hurt or stolen that little bird… She checked several more places before finding Freddy backed into a corner behind an empty bucket. Poor little guy. After settling Freddy again on his perch, she surveyed the rest of the room. Her breath caught. The front door was slightly ajar. Someone had been in the office, too. She raced across the room, slammed the door shut and dead bolted it. Then she grabbed the keys off a hook and exited the rear door, careful to lock it behind her. Was the intruder still around? She was going to have to call the sheriff right now. Her feet pounded the stone walkway. She glanced from side to side. She’d have to check on the birds in the other buildings and clear up the mess the vandals had made later.

By the time she burst through the open door to her house, her legs were wobbly. Her sweating hand fumbled with the lock, and then she turned her attention to the phone. She had just heard the dial tone when she noticed her laptop had been turned around. She walked over to the coffee table and stared at the screen. The photograph of a bird had been replaced by a message.

STAY OFF THE KING RANCH OR THE BIRDS IN THE CENTER WILL DIE, ONE BY ONE.

Keith lifted the cover off the painting he had been working on and dipped his brush in a shade of blue he thought would capture the intensity of the Montana sky. He clicked on a light and positioned it so it shone on the canvas. This attic room in Gramps’s house, which he had set up as his living space, was hardly an ideal artist’s studio. It had small windows. At this hour, there wasn’t any natural light at all. Lack of ventilation made the space hot in the evening. But even with all its flaws, he liked the place for the quiet it provided.

In the corner of the sparsely furnished space, a German shepherd rested on a bed. With only a little brown on his nose and at the ends of his paws, Jet was an appropriate name for the therapy dog the V.A. had provided.

Keith took in a deep breath. It had to be past midnight. He slept on an erratic schedule and when he couldn’t sleep, he painted. Originally, his physical therapist had prescribed painting as a way of getting his dexterity back, but the hobby had proven to be useful for working out emotions, as well.

Seeing Jenna again had stirred him up. Had it been a mistake to come back here? After the death of his mother, it had seemed as though God was leading him back to the ranch to heal things between him and his grandparents since they were his only living relatives. Now he wasn’t so sure.

Grandma and Gramps had long ago turned off the evening news and gone to bed. They had adjusted to their night owl in the attic. The arrangement seemed to be working out well. The attic had a separate entrance with outside stairs, so he could come and go without bothering them. He helped out as much as they would let him. In the two weeks since he had been here, he and Gramps had mended some fence and repaired the dilapidated barn. He had tiled an entryway for his grandmother and weeded her garden. It felt good to make amends for what had happened twelve years ago, and they had welcomed him back with open arms.

The summer he had his first drink, a fellow kayaker who had been like a father to him had drowned on a run that Keith had decided not to go on at the last minute. Keith had spent a week in turmoil wondering if he would have been able to save his friend if he’d been there. At seventeen, he hadn’t known why he’d started drinking. Only when he was in treatment did he realize the alcohol numbed the guilt and confusion. His brush swirled across the canvas. In the left-hand corner, he’d painted an eagle in flight. He’d done that before he had ever run into Jenna Murphy. Jenna with the bright brown eyes. Jenna who had been a skinny-legged ten-year-old the first time he had seen her sitting in the park reading a book. Jenna who had become a beautiful woman.

He angled away from the easel and massaged his chest where it had grown tight. He had kept all those memories behind some closed door. Whenever he allowed the good memories in, the bad ones were bound to follow.

The last time he had seen her, she had been fifteen, standing with her back pressed against the door of her house. The silence of the summer night had surrounded them as she looked up at him. That night, he’d come to her house for a reason. He hadn’t expected her cold response.

“Keith, I heard about what you have been doing…about the drinking.”

“I haven’t had anything to drink for a week.” She had refused to be a part of his drinking life, so they hadn’t seen each other for two weeks. The time apart made him realize how much she meant to him. His grandparents’ lectures hadn’t stopped his craving for alcohol, but he’d quit for Jenna…if she’d help him. He didn’t want to lose her.

“I know about all the bad things you did. Everyone is talking.” Her voice held a desperate pleading quality. “You’re my friend, but we—we can’t stay friends if you’re going to act this way.”

“I’m trying to change here, Jenna. I have changed.” He pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead. “I know this summer has been a mistake.”

Her lips pressed together, disbelief evident in her features, like she didn’t have any faith in him. Didn’t she know who he really was?

“Jenna, I’ve realized something. That’s why I came here tonight. To talk to you. To tell you I don’t want to be just your friend.” He leaned toward her, close enough to be enveloped by her floral perfume. “Please.”

She studied him for a long moment. She turned her head away. “You need to go. You’re scaring me.” Her voice fused with fear.

He had seen his life as being at a crossroads that night. He was looking for a safe harbor to escape the destructive storm he had created. Her friendship had always been a stabilizing force in his life. After two weeks apart, he had thought maybe he knew what she meant to him. He had gone there with plans to kiss her for the first time, to let her see how important she was, how badly he needed her help. Apparently, the friendship had just been about fun to her. She hadn’t been willing to listen to him or weather the challenge he faced. Her rejection had propelled him back to his drinking buddies.

Though he had been angry at the time, he took responsibility for the arrest that had happened later that night. Looking back, he was glad it had happened. It had been a wake-up call. When his legal entanglements had been addressed, he enlisted. By the time he was finished with boot camp, he had gotten help and sobered up.

But the way Jenna had abruptly and completely cut him out of her life was what he could not get past. She hadn’t come to see him in jail and wouldn’t come to the phone when he’d called to say goodbye, as if all five summers together were washed away by one month of bad choices. She didn’t stick around long enough to see that he had changed.

The image of her turning her head to one side was as vivid as if it had happened yesterday. Keith clenched his jaw. He squeezed out more blue paint on the palette. His brush made broad, intense strokes across the canvas.

If Jenna hadn’t cut him out of her life, things would have been different. They would have stayed in touch. She would have known he’d gotten his act together shortly after that night.

Though the death of his friend had triggered his drinking, the emptiness of never having known his father had laid the foundation. If AA had taught him anything, he knew he couldn’t blame Jenna for his life choices. But still, he had been vulnerable with her, revealed his true feelings. And he had been rejected. He would never put himself in a place where she could hurt him like that again.

He had dated other women in the twelve years since he’d left Hope Creek in disgrace. Some had broken up with him and he had ended other relationships, but nothing had hurt as much as her turning away from him that night.

He flexed his fingers to try to work out the ache in them. Even though he had stripped down to his T-shirt, the attic space was still hot. He collapsed in a chair and stared at the work he had done so far. It was an okay landscape, but nothing that threatened Charlie Russell’s reputation.

Apparently sensing Keith’s distress, Jet rose from the bed and padded over to his owner. He rested his head on Keith’s leg, licked his chops and let out a sympathetic whine. Keith stroked Jet’s smooth, soft head, the movement drawing his attention to his wrist.

He ran his fingers along the braided scar that started there and moved up the inside of his arm to the crook of his elbow. He had an identical scar on the other arm, only not as far up. Scars on his chest, as well, showed where the power of the blast had embedded debris.

His life had changed in an instant by a roadside bomb. Both arms had been blown apart by the explosion. The speed at which they had moved him off the battlefield and a skillful surgeon had saved his life and his arms. He had lost some strength and dexterity and the scars would be there forever. But he thanked God every day that he was alive.

He didn’t realize it at the time, but God had brought a father replacement into his life in the form of a caring drill sergeant, who helped him find his sobriety while still in boot camp. But it wasn’t until his tour in Iraq and the accident that his understanding of God had changed. When he was in rehab staring at a hospital ceiling, he had found the faith that his grandparents had modeled summer after summer. Like his grandfather, he didn’t talk much about his faith, though he felt it deeply.

Keith wiped the sweat from his brow and stared at the eagle soaring in the immense painted sky. Despite his attempts to forget, he did remember Jenna; and now every detail of their summers together came at him like a flood. He hadn’t thought he would ever see her again. He had assumed she would leave for college and never come back. There was nothing to keep her in this dinky town. Her mom had died when she was two and though she’d been close to her father, the man had always encouraged her to follow her dreams.

He had come back to Hope Creek for two reasons: to make amends to his grandparents for the damage he had done when he was seventeen, and for the solitude. Iraq had been more than he had bargained for. He needed time to sort through his life and find his bearings again. Jenna hadn’t been on the agenda. How was it possible that with all that had happened, the dormant attraction could be revived just by seeing her?

Keith rose to his feet and picked up his brush. Maybe he should just paint over that eagle. He stood back to examine his work. No, the bird looked right flying up there in the huge sky. He dipped the tip of his brush in the blue and mixed it with white.

Someone rapped gently on the outside door. Who on earth would be knocking at this hour? Keith’s chest tightened. Maybe there had been an emergency with Gramps or Grandma.

He grabbed his long-sleeved shirt and raced over to the door.

When the door swung open, Keith’s jaw dropped, and he took a step back. “Jenna. What are you doing here?”