Sammy Keyes and the Wild Things (17 page)

I grabbed her by the arm. “Do
not
call Quinn.”

“Why not?”

I decided to go for a half-truth. “Because he's good friends with the professor, and there's something about that guy that I don't trust.”

She quit pulling for the door and looked down. “I don't like him, either. And I have no idea why Quinn does.”

“But the good news is, I really don't think someone's out to kill all the condors on earth or even in the area. I think maybe someone like this Pryze guy wants one for their collection.”

Gary had been checking sites and different combinations of words for the search engine. “There are cleaning companies and golf products and construction equipment and medical companies using the Condor label . . . and there
are
lots of sites about the condor recovery.” He scrolled up to the top of the page. “Locally, the most relevant ones seem to be the Vista Ridge Lookout site and the KSMY site.” His fingers flew across the keys. “Here's the Vista Ridge site.”

Cricket shook her head. “That's mostly just an educational site.”

“Click there,” I said, leaning over Gary's shoulder and pointing to a
contacts
link.

A window opened that showed a picture of the Lookout. It had a letter that started
Dear Friends of the Condor
and went on to ask people to donate time, equipment, and especially money.

One of the links in the sidebar next to the letter was
Condor Information Contacts
. So I pointed to it and said, “How about here?”

A page opened with pictures of six people—one from the Audubon Society, one from the Ornithology Club, the Webmaster-slash-intern, and then pictures of three people I knew: Quinn, Pointy Nose Prag, and Robin.

“Robin's on the site?” I asked. I skimmed the description, which cited all the work she and her Scouts had done repairing and maintaining the Lookout.

“She deserves to be,” Cricket said. “She works up there every chance she gets.”

I thought about this a minute. “Does she always take Bella with her?”

“I think sometimes Bella stays at Gabby's.”

Gary was getting impatient. “Want to go somewhere else?”

I said, “Hang on,” and read the descriptions for Quinn and the professor. Quinn was a zone biologist for the Forest Service, condor archive manager for the Natural History Museum, and dedicated to “the reconstruction and maintenance of the Vista Ridge Lookout, the ecosystem, and the condor.”

Not much new there.

The professor's section listed all his degrees and awards and then tried to make him sound like a nice guy by adding “this celebrated raptorphile has played a pivotal role in the success of the Lookout project by bringing volunteer interns under his wing. A fan of the backwoods, he often roosts in the wild near his feathered friends.”

Not much there, either.

Then something about the whole page hit me. “There are e-mail links for all of these people.”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “So?”

“So if somebody was interested in contacting any of them or if they wanted to set up a meeting with any of them, it'd be easy.”

Cricket's eyebrows went up. “You can't really think one of
them
might be behind this.”

“All I'm saying is that if someone wanted to contact somebody about condors in this area, these would be the people to e-mail.”

“Seen enough?” Gary asked, and before I could answer, he'd clicked over to the KSMY site. “Hey, there's a video stream of the condor story. You want to see?”

“Yes!” I leaned over his shoulder again and watched Grayson Mann come to life. There was the whole pre-story about condors, footage of Quinn and the professor at the Lookout, footage from a helicopter of the canyon where we'd hiked, the bellybutton caves, and then more of Grayson yakking away in front of the Lookout at sunset, trying to look like a rugged mountain man in hiking boots, a long-sleeved Pendleton, and a bandanna scarf. His hair, though, was anything but rugged, and the closing part of the last segment was so Vegas. “. . . So don't let the sun set on this magnificent creature. Anyone interested in volunteering at the Lookout or contributing to the Condor Recovery Fund can simply go to our Web site at KSMY dot-com and click on
Condor Story.
This is Grayson Mann reporting live from Vista Ridge Lookout.”

I guess it was more the delivery than the actual words—the deep, rich voice, the stressed syllables, the e-nun-ci-
a
-tion . . . but he's always like that. Even when he's asking you to help save an endangered species, what he's really saying is, Am I wonderful or what?

Anyway, when the video stream was done, Gary found the
Condor Story
link and clicked on it, and it took us right to the Vista Ridge Lookout home page.

“Hmm,” I said. “So anyone who saw the story on the news is directed to the Lookout site and would contact Quinn, Prag, or Robin.”

Cricket scowled. “I don't like this line of reasoning. I think we should give it a rest, unpack, and take Robin's stuff back to her.”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

But Gary kept typing. “I'm gonna ask my butterfly contacts if they know any bird collectors.” Then he muttered, “Or maybe I can find a black market thread.”

I turned around. “A black market thread?”

He snorted. “Not that half the Internet isn't really just a black market anyway, but—”

“Wait a minute,” I said, going back to the computer desk. “Can you look up something else for me?”

“Sure!” He gave me a smile, and it struck me as more kidlike than teen. Like he was genuinely happy.

“Can you look up horse rentals in the area? Like what's the nearest one to Chumash Caves. Is there a way you can find that out?”

Before I knew it, Gary had a short list, complete with phone numbers and addresses, and a map to go with it. “This would be the obvious choice,” he said, pointing to the location of a place called Trail Riders. “It's the closest, plus most of these others look like they rent stable space or are part of a country club.”

“Awesome. Can you print that out?” I asked.

Again, that smile. “You bet!”

When I had the hard copy, I told Gary, “Thanks!” and headed for the kitchen phone.

Now I just had to figure out who I was going to pretend to be.

NINETEEN

I sat down at the Kuos' kitchen table with a pad of paper and a pencil. “What are you doing?” Cricket asked as I scribbled down notes.

“Shhh,” I said. “Thinking.”

I have to hand it to her—she was quiet. And when I was as ready as I was ever going to be, I took a deep breath and held it for a minute, trying to relax.

It didn't help a bit.

No, the only way I was going to be able to get my heart beating normally again was to just pick up the phone and do it.

So I punched in the number, and when someone on the other end answered, “Trail Riders,” I tried to sound full of confidence as I said, “Yes. My name is Ulma Willis and I'm a marshal for the United States Department of Fish and Wildlife. With whom am I speaking?”

“Uh . . . Thomas Becker, ma'am.”

“And you work there in the capacity of . . . ?”

“I'm the owner, ma'am. You sound like there's a problem.”

I kept my voice low and professional-sounding. “There is, Mr. Becker. From witnesses we have interviewed, it appears you rented a horse to a condor poacher.”

“I . . . I don't know anything about that, ma'am.”

“Hmm. Well, the rental date would have been last Wednesday or Thursday. It was a chestnut mare, probably returned on Friday, quite late in the day.”

“Oh! I know who you're talkin' about! He took out Cherry Blossom on Thursday.”

My pounding heart doubled in speed. The pencil was shaking in my hand. “Who, Mr. Becker?”

“He was a foreigner, ma'am.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I assumed he was a foreigner. He didn't seem to speak English.”

“So what did he look like? Height, weight, distinguishing features . . .”

“Uh . . . not real big. Just average-sized. No moles or scars or nothin'. Clean shaven. If I remember right, he was wearin' jeans and a brown T-shirt, sunglasses, and a cowboy hat.”

“What about identification, Mr. Becker? Surely you don't rent your horses without identification.”

“He didn't seem to understand about the ID, ma'am.”

“How convenient,” I snorted. “So you want me to believe that you rented one of your horses to a man who didn't speak to you and didn't have ID.”

Silence.

“Mr. Becker. The perpetrator is a condor poacher. I think the courts could find you at least tangentially culpable for what's happened if you can't come up with a more credible accounting than this.”

There was a second of silence and then he blurted, “I let him have the horse because he left me a thousand-dollar cash deposit.”

“Ah,” I said. Like, Oh, boy—you're in trouble. “You didn't find that unusual?”

“He was a foreigner, ma'am! I thought it must just be the way things were done in his country.”

I harrumphed, just like an adult. “Really, Mr. Becker.” Then I said, “Surely there's a form you have your customers fill out?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well?”

Gary had come into the kitchen and was sitting next to Cricket, listening to every word. And when he heard me ask about the form, he grabbed a pencil and scribbled a phone number and
Have him fax it
on my pad of paper.

I nodded at him and smiled, while Mr. Horsey Becker rustled through some papers, then said, “I have it right here!”

“I need you to fax that to me right away.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

So I gave him the number, then said, “Did you happen to notice what this man was driving?”

“No, ma'am. I'm sorry. He had a small daypack with him; that was it.”

“When did he return the horse?”

“That's the other thing, ma'am. The horse returned itself.”

“How's that?”

“She just wandered in on her own. We found her waiting at the barn on Friday night.”

“So your foreigner didn't pick up his one-thousand-dollar deposit?”

“No, ma'am,” he mumbled.

“I see. And you're afraid I'll require you to turn it over to the Department?” Before he could answer, I said, “We don't want to deprive you of your windfall, Mr. Becker. Perhaps if you just faxed us that paper and were willing to answer further questions . . .”

“I'll fax it right away! And call me anytime.”

“Very good.”

When I got off the phone, Cricket and Gary just
stared
at me. Then Gary said, “Tangentially culpable? How'd you come up with that?”

I shrugged. “Just heard it somewhere.” My face felt flushed, and my heart was still beating fast. I laughed, “What a trip,” then told them everything I'd learned.

When I was done, Cricket jumped up and said, “We need to tell Quinn!”

I grabbed her by the arm and yanked her back into her seat. “Quit running to Quinn, okay?”

“Yeah,” Gary said. “I'm with Sammy.” He eyed his sister. “I can't stand that dude—thinks he's so smooth.”

“He does not! He's—”

I put my hands up. “Forget Quinn. We need to
think
.”

Cricket seemed to relax a little, so I went on. “Whoever the horse rider is probably parked off the road somewhere so that no one would be able to describe his vehicle, then loaded and unloaded from there. And there must be big money involved in this because you don't abandon a one-thousand-dollar cash deposit unless you're making a lot more, right?”

They both nodded, and Cricket said, “Which supports the developer theory, Sammy.”

“True. But it also supports the theory that someone could get a lot of money for a condor.”

Gary stood up. “I'll check the fax. Maybe that'll tell us something.”

Less than a minute later he was back with a paper in his hand. Cricket and I swooped in to see, and there in big, bold letters was a name we both recognized.

“Vargus Mayfield!” Cricket gasped.

“But why would he fill in his real name? He could've put Joe Smith.”

Cricket nodded. “You're right.” Then she added, “Or Dennis Prag.”

I laughed. “Right.”

“Do you think all this other information is bogus?” Gary asked. “Like this address and phone number?”

I looked at the paper, then dialed Information.

Now while I'm asking for the phone number and address for Vargus Mayfield, the doorbell rings, and when I get off the phone and turn around, there's Casey, standing in Cricket's kitchen.

“Hey,” he says with a grin. “I tried calling, but the phone's been busy.”

Gary snickers, but in an amused way. “She's been burning up the line. This girl and a phone are a dangerous combination.”

“Don't I know,” Casey says with a laugh.

I blush and try not to fall back into freak-out mode while Cricket says, “Casey, meet my brother, Gary. Gary, this is Casey—one of the guys who helped us bring Marvin home.”

They shake hands and do all that hey-dude-what's-up stuff while Cricket asks me, “What did you find out?”

“Someone did their homework,” I tell her. “The information's right.”

“So if it's not Vargus, it's got to be someone who knows him.”

I nod. “Looks like.”

She hesitates. “Are you
sure
it's not Vargus?”

I think about it a minute, then nod. “Unless he's dumber than we think he is.”

She smirks. “That would be tough.”

Casey pulls up a chair across the table from me and says, “So catch me up—what's going on?”

Cricket jumps in with, “Well, the
good
news is that Marvin is doing much better. They did surgery on him and took out all the snake shot—”

“
Snake
shot?” I ask. “What's
that
?”

“It's used for shooting snakes,” Cricket says. Then she adds, “Robin told me that the pellets are smaller than birdshot and that hunters will sometimes keep a handgun loaded with snake shot because snakes are easy to miss with regular bullets.”

“So you'd carry both?” I ask. “Like a rifle with bullets
and
a pistol loaded with snake shot?”

She shrugs. “Or maybe it was two different people.” Then, like it's no big deal that her little throwaway comment might chuck any half-baked theory of mine right out the window, she goes on, saying, “But anyway, they got all the shot out and repaired the damage, and Robin says he's doing great.” Her face clouds over a little. “But even after he's better, they won't release him until they find a mentor bird for him to live with.”

“Is that like a foster parent?” Casey asks.

Cricket says, “Yes. Exactly.”

I'm still stuck on the gun thing, though, so I ask, “When you shoot off snake shot, does it make a big noise?”

Cricket shrugs, but Gary says, “It's not loud like a rifle. It's more a big pop.”

“So you wouldn't hear it up the canyon?”

He shakes his head. “No way.”

Everyone's quiet a second, then Casey asks, “So where are we on Marvin's mom? Is it possible she's still alive?”

So we bring him up to speed on the information we've dug up, and when we're all done talking, he says, “Look. If some guy just wanted the condor dead, he'd kill it and leave it. Or bury it, so no one would know what happened to it. But if he wanted it for a trophy, he'd have to preserve it.”

Cricket nods. “Like they do with the animals at the Natural History Museum.”

“That's called taxidermy,” Gary says.

I sit back a little. “That Janey girl works there, right?” Cricket nods again.

“And it said on the Web site that
Quinn
was their archive manager or something, right?”

“It's not a paying job,” Cricket says. “Mostly he set up the condor display.”

“But wait—if someone wanted a
stuffed
condor, they could just break in and steal it, right? They wouldn't have to go through all the trouble of going out in the woods and shooting one.”

Cricket shakes her head. “That would not be easy, Sammy. That would actually be really hard.”

Then Casey adds, “And they might not know there was one at the museum.”

“Okay. So if someone didn't know, they'd need to go to a taxidermy . . . ologist? Or could you do that yourself?”

Gary laughs. “It's a taxidermist, and there's no way you could do it yourself. It takes a lot of experience to make it look right.”

Cricket lets out a puffy-cheeked breath. “Why are we even going down this road?” She looks at me. “I know you're good at figuring stuff out, but this all seems so far-fetched. The developer theory makes a lot more sense to me.”

I eye her. “I'd agree with you, but who at Luxton Enterprises knows Vargus Mayfield?”

She stares at me a second, then holds the sides of her head like she's trying to keep it from exploding. “This is so confusing!”

I chuckle and say, “Exactly, but I think that's because we don't have enough information. Maybe it would help to find out about taxidermists. Like, who around here does that? I've never seen a taxidermy shop, have you?”

Casey looks through the phone book but finally says, “There's nothing listed.”

So Gary tells him, “Look up the Natural History Museum,” then he hands me the phone. “They would know.”

So Casey tells me the number, I dial, and a lady answers, “Natural History Museum, Janey speaking.”

All of a sudden my heart is hammering in my chest. But I take a deep breath and try to disguise my voice by keeping it low and calm. “Yes, I'm wondering who you use as a taxidermist. They do such an amazing job. . . .”

“That's a man named Lester Blunt. He's located in Santa Martina.”

“Could I get his number? And his address?”

“Hang on, I've got it right here.”

A minute later I'm off the phone with the digits on one Lester Blunt, taxidermist. “He's across town on Blosser Road.”

“What are you going to say to
him
?” Cricket asks, and her voice is kinda breathy. Like she can't believe I'm abusing her phone line this way.

“Actually, I don't think this is something we should do over the phone.” I look around at the others. “Anyone up for a little snoop around?”

Gary breaks into a smile. “I'm game.”

Cricket looks worried. “What if he comes at us with big needles full of formaldehyde? What if he—”

I laugh. “It can't be any more dangerous than hiking through a forest with ticks and scorpions and rattlesnakes and killer trees. It's just one guy.” I give her a wicked grin. “With big needles. And formaldehyde. And rusty saws. And a foaming mouth. And—”

“Stop!” Cricket squeals.

Casey smirks as he scoots back from the table. “No wonder my sister doesn't stand a chance around you.”

And with that we're all off to the taxidermist.