Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things (14 page)

Everyone looked up, checking the skies for a really close condor, but saw nothing. And there was definitely no thundering. All we could find was that same stupid crow, perched near the top of a tree in front of us. It cawed down at us, loud and hard. Like it wanted our food and was mad at us for taking so long to leave.

Billy chucked a rock at it, which made it flap awkwardly out of the tree. But instead of flying off, it fluttered down to the dirt a few yards in front of us.

“Can that be the same crow that was in that camp you found?” Casey asked me. “Did you notice how gimpy it was flying? This one's doing the same thing.”

“You're right. That's weird. . . .”

“Brazen beast,” Billy cried. “Quit stalking us!”

But Gabby was staring at the receiver, and her little mouth was shrinking into a teeny-tiny wad of lips, while the tops of her big ears seemed to glow red.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

She picked up a pebble and chucked it at the crow, then played with the controls of the receiver as the crow flapped up into another tree.

She gasped, and now everything except her ears was chalky white.

And that's when I understood what was wrong.

According to Gabby's receiver, Marvin's mother was nothing but an oversized flying cockroach.

FIFTEEN

I whispered, “Cricket, can I have the binoculars?” and when she handed them over, I zeroed in on the crow. “Yup,” I said, passing them to Gabby, “he's got a transmitter on his back, which is why he's flying funny.”

Gabby took the binoculars and checked it out herself. “But
why
?” she said, lowering the binoculars and looking at me. “Why does he have AC-34's transmitter?”

From the look in her eye, I could tell that she had bubble brain. It didn't mean she was being stupid—it meant that her brain was just having a hard time letting in the truth.

I hate bubble brain. It's an awful feeling. A confused feeling. And when something finally does puncture the bubble, your brain tries like mad to patch it over. Tries to keep the truth out. Eventually, though, the bubble cracks and the truth floods in, and when that happens, you're left feeling completely destroyed.

Like when it finally sank in that my mom was not coming back—that being a movie star was more important to her than being my mom. I wanted so badly to go back to believing what I used to believe, but when the bubble finally bursts, there is no going back. All you can do is hobble forward and eventually learn to deal and accept and even understand. But getting there can take a long,
long
time.

So even though she'd been really hostile about the Camo Guys, when Gabby looked at me and asked, “But
why
?” I didn't think, Man is this girl slow, or, Yeah, Snotty, take that! I just felt bad for her because I could tell there was a bubble around her brain. A bubble that was trying to protect her from the truth.

Quietly I said, “I'm sorry, Gabby. I know these birds are very important to you.”

“Crows? I don't give two hoots about crows!”

“No, condors.”

“Of course condors are important to me! Would I have come down here if they weren't?” She squinted at me hard. “What I don't understand is why someone would put a condor's transmitter on a crow!”

So I took a deep breath and said, “Because they didn't want anyone to know what happened to the condor.”

“What do you mean, what happened to the condor?” She turned to Cricket, who caught my eye, then said to her, “Someone down here was poaching condors, Gabby.”

“Poaching condors!? Why would anyone poach a condor!”

Billy had the binoculars now, and from behind them he muttered, “So they could say, Tastes like chicken?”

“Not funny, Billy!” Cricket and I shouted.

“Yeah, it is,” he said, still looking through the binoculars. “You guys just don't appreciate death humor.”

“Death humor?!” Gabby's eyes were enormous. “Are you telling me AC-34 is
dead
?”

The bubble had been penetrated.

But then her brain tried like crazy to patch up the hole. “I don't believe it!” she said. “There's no way!”

“Gabby,” I said gently, “she's either dead or captured. It's the only thing that makes sense.”

“To
you
maybe.”

Cricket nodded. “To me, too.” Then she added, “And I don't know how you'd keep a live condor.”

Gabby stared at us for a minute, then turned to Billy and Casey. And when they shrugged like, Yeah, we agree, the bubble finally burst. “But
why
?” she wailed. “We try so hard to get them to live and someone comes along and
kills
them?”

So while she was coming to grips with that, Billy and Casey tried to sneak up on the crow to catch it and remove the transmitter. But even with the two of them working on opposite ends, they couldn't get close.

After watching them for a little while, Cricket said, “I bet they used the shooting net to trap that crow.”

“Who did?” Gabby asked.

“Whoever broke into the Lookout.” Cricket looked at me. “Don't you think?”

I nodded.

Her voice went up a little with hope. “And if they used it on the crow, maybe they also used it on Marvin's mom.”

I looked at Cricket. “But why catch one condor and shoot the other?”

She looked instantly dejected. “I know. It doesn't make sense.”

“None of this makes sense!” Gabby wailed. “Why kill a condor? Why
capture
a condor? What are you going to
do
with it?”

None of us could come up with an answer, so we just watched Billy and Casey try to catch the oversized cockroach. It was ridiculous entertainment, and I was just about to get up and join the fun when the crow flapped up to the safety of a tree branch.

Gabby was still struggling with things. “But how do you know that the person who broke into the Lookout is the person who killed the boar? And how do you know that the person who killed the boar is the person who shot Marvin? And how do you know that—”

I wasn't sure how long she was going to go on, so I said, “The person who broke into the Lookout stole three things.”

“But you don't know that! Maybe they're just misplaced!”

“Okay. But the three things that are misplaced are a receiver, a shooting net, and an activity log. They used the receiver and the activity log to find Marvin and his mom, and the shooting net to trap a crow to use as a decoy.”

“And maybe also to catch a condor,” Cricket added.

Just then Quinn's pickup truck came around the bend. The instant it stopped, Bella jumped out, and two seconds later she and Gabby were hugging and crying and saying they were sorry.

Then Quinn and Robin piled out of the cab, followed by a short man with a tidy brown and gray beard, khaki shorts, and little wire-rim glasses on his very long, pointy nose. Immediately he glared at Billy, who was tossing rocks at the crow in the tree. “What do you think you're doing, young man?”

Billy sized him up—or, I should say,
down
—quick. And in true Billy fashion, he put on English airs and said, “I'm flushing out a condor, sir.”

The guy's glare became as sharp as his nose. “Flushing out a . . . why, that's no condor!”

“Tut-tut,” Billy said. “My mistake.” Then he pointed over to where Quinn and the others were tending to Marvin. “
That
lad's the condor.” He chucked a rock up at the crow. “This fella's just the wannabe hanger-on derelict ne'er-do-well caw-meister.”

Ol' Needle Nose looked at the tent, then the crow, then Billy. “What
are
you babbling about?”

Billy hitched a thumb over at me. “Perhaps she should clarify.”

Spectacle Schnoz turned to face me. “You? And who are you?”

“I'm with Robin's group.”

His eyebrow arched. “A
name
would be constructive. . . .”

He was being all condescending and hyper-quizzical, so I peered at him down the length of
my
nose as I said, “Yes, it would . . . !” And after we'd stared at each other a minute, I gave an overly exasperated sigh and said, “And you are . . . ?”

“
Me?
I'm Professor Prag. The question is, who are you?”

But just then Cricket comes skidding over, saying, “Get in the truck! Quinn says we need to get Marvin out of here
now
. He's radioed for a helicopter to meet us at the Lookout. They're going to fly Marvin to an animal hospital!”

So I start for the truck, but Professor Pragface actually grabs my arm and says, “First, I demand to know who you are!”

I squint at him. “You
demand
? What are you, the name police? Let go of me!”

He lets go of me, but his eyes don't. And let me tell you, they drill me like he's gonna kill me.

“Come on, Sammy,” Cricket whispers. “Billy! Casey!” she calls. “Get in the truck! We've got to go!”

Mr. Pint-sized Name Police gives me the steely eye. “So it's Sammy.”

“Yeah,” I say, trying to steely-eye him right back.

“Short for Samantha?” he says, like ooooh, isn't he smart.

So I look at him like, Ooooh, aren't you smart.

And yeah, I was being bratty, and no, I didn't care. There was something about his oh-so-superior airs that was totally tweaking my beak. I
hate
oh-so-superior, and I now understood exactly why Vargus Mayfield had hated him as a teacher.

“What about the crow?” Billy called. “Shouldn't we get the transmitter off of him?”

So Quinn produced a mini-bazooka from behind the front seat of his truck, which turned out to be a shooting net.

“I thought that got stolen from the Lookout,” I whispered to Cricket.

“It must be another one,” Cricket whispered back.

So we all stood back while Quinn took aim at the crow, which was now on the ground under a scrub oak about twenty feet away.

“You're going to have to twinkle him out,” Dr. Schnoz whispered.

I pulled a face at Cricket like, Twinkle him out? and she gave a little shrug back like, You got me. . . .

But Quinn said, “Go ahead,” so ol' Pragface starts tippy-toeing toward the crow. I'm not kidding. Here's this angry-looking guy with little round-rimmed glasses
tippy
-toeing toward an oversized flying cockroach.

Billy and I look at each other like, Whoa, is he freaky or what? And then Billy starts pretending he's the professor, squishing his face so his nose is all pointy, putting his hands up like bunny paws, and tippy-toeing in place.

And really, I'm doing my best to not crack up, but it's like holding in a sneeze. You can do it for a little while and then
ka-choo
—it busts out whether you want it to or not.

Lucky for me, the laugh escapes just as Quinn shoots the net. And like a sneeze, the net bursts out
fast
. It's big, too. Big enough to catch a handful of
people
.

Anyway, it sails through the air and traps the crow no problem, and then Professor Needle Nose swoops in and says, “Gotcha!” with way too much glee. He turns to Quinn. “And why are you monitoring
Corvus brachyrhynchos
?”

Which apparently is Oh-So-Superior for
crow.

“We're not,” Quinn says, and starts explaining the situation as he reaches through the netting to remove the transmitter. But even after he's handed Cricket the transmitter and let the crow go, he's
still
having to explain things to the professor because, for such a supposedly smart guy, Mr. Corvus Brachyrhynchos is sure asking a lot of dumb questions. Like, “How did they know the camp was used by someone with a shotgun? Are they sure the hog was slit open? What if it was downed by coyotes? How can they be sure it was a man on a horse?”

He finally shut up when we piled into Quinn's truck. The adults got the cab, while the rest of us
and
the backpacks
and
Marvin crammed into the bed of the truck.

After we'd been driving for a while, I peeked inside the tent to check on Marvin. His eyes were droopy, and I could feel my heart lurch. He was not doing well. Not well at all.

I bit my lip and looked away, thinking that after all this, that big ol' ugly bird had better not die.

SIXTEEN                                                                                                            

On the ride back up to the Lookout, Casey sat close beside me and whispered, “You okay? You've got this gutsy girl thing going on the outside, but on the inside you're upset.” He caught my eye. “I can tell.”

I tried to scowl like, You're full of condor poop, buddy, but my chin kinda quivered and gave me away.

He smiled at me and put his hand on my knee. “He would have died out there on his own, you know.”

“It looks like he's going to die anyway,” I said, and my voice came out all raspy.

“They're helicoptering him out of here, they've probably got some raptor expert waiting for him at that animal hospital. . . . Your big buddy is gonna pull through.”

“He's
not
my big buddy,” I said, because I didn't
want
him to be my big buddy. I didn't
want
to care about him at all. I wanted to go back to thinking he was an ugly oversized turkey vulture who ate guts and bottle caps.

“So why wouldn't you let anyone else carry him?”

My eyes popped. “You think I
wanted
to carry him? That bad boy is heavy! I just thought it was fair since I was the one who was carrying the least.”

Casey just smirked.

It was strange pulling up to the Lookout. It felt like a week since Cricket and I had left camp, but it had only been a day. Everything was pretty much the way we had left it, except for the blue and orange mountain bike leaning against the steps.

“She's back?” Gabby whined.

This time Bella just let it slide. Then, as we were unloading the truck, Robin perked an ear and said, “Listen! They're already here!”

At first it was a distant, choppy sound, but as the helicopter came around the mountain and into view, the noise became thunderous.

“It'll be safer in the Lookout, girls!” Robin called, tossing Bella the keys. Then she realized that her little group had grown since the last time we'd been there. “And boys!” she added. “Go!”

So the six of us ran up the steps, opened a few shutters quick so we could watch, then dove inside. Janey wasn't inside the Lookout, but wherever she was studying bugs and bones—or whatever people who work at natural history museums do—she couldn't have missed the arrival of the helicopter. It put up a huge dust storm and we felt like the Lookout windows might implode from all the wind it was making.

The blades never stopped turning. Quinn held open the passenger door, and we all watched as Professor Prag got in with Marvin, who was still wrapped in the tent.

“Why is
he
going?” I asked. Something about turning over Marvin to the professor just felt wrong.

“Probably because he knows about birds,” Casey said.

Then Billy made me laugh by saying, “Dr. Corvus Brachyrhynchos, at your service.” He had one eye open wide and the other squinting like he was wearing a monocle. “I steal your bird, I steal your tent.” He got a manic look in his wide-open eye. “I am a
fowl
creature!”

“We'll get your tent back, Billy,” Cricket said. “I promise.”

After the chopper was out of sight, Bella let out a big sigh. “I can't believe everybody saw a condor before me. I missed out on
everything
. . . .”

Cricket said, “Be glad, Bella. It was no fun.”

“But you guys had such an adventure. You found a condor, you got lost, you roasted
rattlesnake
. . . .” She sighed again like it was the dreamiest night imaginable. “All we did was worry.”

“How far did you guys hike?” I asked.

“We went over the ravine, through Hoghead Valley,
past
Chumash Caves clear out to Devil's Horn. We didn't get back until dark and we were really hoping everyone was here, but then
nobody
was.”

“Did you go through Miner's Camp?”

“Had to.”

“Were those boar hunter guys there?”

She sort of cocked her head. “What boar hunter guys?”

“The ones dressed like trees?”

She shrugged. “We didn't see anybody in Miner's Camp.”

“Did you
look
?”

“Sure, we looked. We were looking for Gabby, weren't we?”

“But . . . they said Quinn talked to them the day before. So their camp must've been set up. . . .”

“Oh, there was a tent, but no people.”

Just then Quinn and Robin came in. “Well,” Robin said. “What do you say we make something to eat? From what Gabby told us, you must be famished!”

“We are!” Cricket said, heading for the door. “Come on! Let's get cooking!”

But while everyone else was filing out, I took a little detour over to where Quinn was frantically making notes in a new log book. “Excuse me,” I said. “You know those guys dressed in camo gear at Miner's Camp?”

He nodded but didn't look up.

“Are they boar hunters?”

He stopped and looked at me. “Most likely.”

“But you've never caught them hunting?”

He shook his head and went back to writing in the log. “And they always have a camping permit, so there's not much—” He suddenly looked at me with a sharpness in his eye that hadn't been there before. “Maybe they're the ones who shot JC-10! Why didn't I think of that before?”

“Wait a minute! The reason I was asking was—”

But he was already charging out the door.

So I'm left standing there with more questions than ever, and then my eye catches the new log that Quinn had written in. His penmanship is blocky and surprisingly precise, considering how fast he'd scribbled, and right above his writing is an entry made at eleven that morning:
Picked up strong signals from both AC-34 and JC-10 at 280
°
east. D. Prag.

“Hey, Quinn!” I call as I pound down the Lookout steps.

He's leaning inside his truck talking on the radio, and when he's done, he peels his headband off and wipes his brow with it, then flashes me his samurai smile. “I don't know why I didn't put that together earlier! Thank you so much for the tip, Sammy.”

“But . . . wait. So much of this doesn't make sense and I . . .” Between the heat and his blinding smile, I lose my train of thought for a minute. So I jump ahead to “Where'd you guys get another receiver?”

“Another receiver?”

“The log says you guys picked up signals this morning.”

“Oh. I borrowed it from Professor Prag yesterday.”

“So that's where you were yesterday? At the college?”

He hesitates, then asks, “What's this all about?” Again, that smile. That brain-freezing smile. “Gee, Officer, should I call my lawyer?”

Then someone calls, “Quinn!” from over by the fire ring, and there's Janey, with the others, waving and smiling.

Quinn puts his hand on my shoulder like we're chums and steers me toward the fire ring. “Let's see what's cooking.”

Now, okay, (a) I didn't like the way he was treating me like a child, and (b) I wasn't going to waste my time asking him any more questions. First he thought Vargus had broken into the Lookout. Then he jumped all over the idea that the Camo Campers had shot Marvin and switched the transmitter. It was like he wanted to blame someone,
any
one.

Why wasn't the truth more important than the blame?

I let him lead me toward the fire ring, because I've learned that sometimes it's best to just pretend to go along. Besides, I'd already totally alienated Professor Pointy Nose; it probably wouldn't be too smart to do the same with Quinn.

But as we walked, I tried to figure out how all these random scraps of information fit together. Maybe Quinn and the professor were in cahoots. Maybe they'd lured Vargus up to the Lookout and had strewn beer cans around to make it seem like college students had stolen the equipment? After all, Quinn knew when Robin was planning to come up. She'd been surprised that he wasn't there already. So maybe he'd been hanging back, waiting for her to discover Vargus?

And how convenient that the professor had a receiver.

And where'd Quinn get the shooting net?

Where was he yesterday when Cricket and I were waiting and waiting for him to show up?

Anyway, we'd barely made it over to the fire ring when a white four-wheel drive with a giant KSMY emblem on the side comes revving up to the Lookout.

Quinn actually moans, “Oh, no,” when out of the cloud of dust surrounding the SUV emerges Pretty Vegas himself—Grayson Mann. With him, there's a kinda heavyset man wearing cargo shorts and a T-shirt, carrying a big video camera.

“Mr. Terrane, Mr. Terrane!” Grayson calls out to Quinn. “We intercepted some radio traffic about a shot condor. Is it true?”

“I'm afraid so.” Quinn sees the guy in the cargo shorts hoist the big camera onto his shoulder and says, “Mr. Mann, I really don't want to turn this into a media event.”

“I understand, I understand,” Pretty Vegas says to him. Then he nods at the cameraman. “You remember Alton from our earlier coverage, right?”

Quinn and the cameraman give each other familiar nods, and with that formality out of the way, Pretty Vegas asks, “So when did it happen? How's the bird? Is there anything we can do to help you track down the hunter?” He pumps his shirt in and out trying to cool off a little. “Name it and we're on it.”

Quinn says, “I know you mean well, but I'm afraid the exposure from your miniseries might be exactly what led someone to the birds in the first place.”

Pretty Vegas's jaw drops. “Are you saying this is our fault? We were just trying to inform the public of the plight of the condor and help you get the funding you said you so desperately needed to keep the program going . . . !”

Quinn sighs. “I'm not saying this is your fault. We really appreciate your efforts and support. You and Alton did a terrific job putting that series together.” He takes a deep breath and adds, “
But
I think under the circumstances, not turning the situation into a public spectacle would better serve the condor population.”

“We're not talking about making it a public spectacle! We're simply interested in helping you track down the hunter so he doesn't strike again! It's been proven time and time again that if the public is on the lookout for a certain criminal, the public
will
find that criminal!” He fans his shirt again, then scratches his forearm, and I'm actually feeling kinda sorry for him 'cause he's obviously dying in his sweaty, itchy work clothes.

“I still don't think it's a good idea,” Quinn tells him. “Law enforcement is involved, and we've got the best in the field attending to the injured bird. We're hoping he makes a full recovery.”

Pretty Vegas hands him a business card. “Well, if you change your mind . . .” Then he adds, “Just promise me you won't give the story to anyone else. We're the station that's rooting for
you.
. . .”

Quinn nods. “Like I said, we appreciate that.”

“I feel for you,” he says, with a friendly pat on Quinn's shoulder. “Those birds are your pride and joy.” Then he drops his voice and says, “Public outrage is a powerful tool. And your everyday viewer can be very generous. . . .There are all sorts of ways we can help.” Then he adds, “And if it was just an accident, public awareness could prevent future injuries.” He cocks his sweaty, swoopy-haired head a little. “You think it might have been an accident?”

Quinn nods. “That's certainly a possibility.”

I feel like screaming, “
What?
A condor's transmitter got strapped onto a crow by
accident
?” But Quinn shoots me a look, and it hits me that maybe he just doesn't want to give anything away to a reporter. Or maybe he just wants to get rid of the guy.

Then Pretty Vegas's eyes narrow a bit and he says, “What about that group of developers?” He snaps his fingers, trying to remember something. “Luxton Enterprises—that's it!”

“What about them?” Quinn asks.

“They had this grandiose plan for a golf course and estate homes, but their property butts up to the condor sanctuary, so they got denied.”

“Right. But that got nixed in the early stages. And it's been over a year.”

“But it's still real motivation! Trust me, I've got a nose for this sort of thing.” He scratches his arm and fans his shirt. “I'm going to do some checking for you. We'll get to the bottom of this! Come on, man, think about it—if they're the ones behind this, they might not stop until they kill them all!” Then, like he's switching cameras in the newsroom, he turns and flashes his reporter smile around at the rest of us, shaking hands, going, “Grayson Mann, KSMY . . . Grayson Mann, KSMY . . .” Then he hands a
business
card to each and every one of us, saying, “Here's how you can reach me if there's a break in the story. I'm behind you people. Behind you one hundred percent.”