Some Like It Hawk(10)

“Yes, there were supposed to be twelve, until that damned hawk got one last week,” I said. “Mr. Throckmorton is still inconsolable. That’s why they’re here instead of happily flying in and out of the courthouse basement. We’re supposed to be keeping them safe, but if someone was careless or stupid enough to let one out and the hawk got it—damn! Why don’t the silly things sit still long enough to be counted?”

“You’re scaring them,” she said. “Just sit over there and let me count them.”

I put some distance between myself and the pigeons and fidgeted while Rose Noire cooed softly to them. After a minute or so, the pigeons had settled down and were seated on the rods that ran across the width of the cage, preening their feathers and cooing along with her.

“Eleven,” she said softly. “All safe. I gather that nasty guard is flying his you-know-what?”

“His hawk, yes.”

Rose Noire flinched, and the pigeons reacted as if startled, growing more restless and in a couple of cases, fluttering once or twice around the periphery of the cage before settling down again.

“See,” she said. “Even the word upsets them.”

“They wouldn’t react if you didn’t.” I strolled over to the door of the tent and peered out. Out and up. The hawk was circling overhead, riding an updraft. Now that I knew all the pigeons were safe, I could appreciate how beautiful she was.

Just then she dived, almost too fast to see. I could hear exclamations on several sides and glanced around to see that other people had also been watching the hawk.

“I hear that’s how the hermit is getting his meals,” one tourist said. “By carrier pigeon. And the guards brought in a squadron of hawks to shut down his supply line.”

“Poor man,” the woman beside him said. “I guess he’ll go hungry tonight, then.”

No, actually Mr. Throckmorton would probably be dining well tonight. Rob was supposed to have taken in a care package full of Episcopal pulled pork and Baptist mashed potatoes. And the tunnel was so small that even Rob would have a hard time misplacing the package on the way.

They were wrong about the purpose of the pigeons. They weren’t carrying food, or even messages. After all, Mr. Throckmorton had a phone and a computer with Internet access. He just liked raising and flying pigeons, and for the first year of his self-enforced captivity, a tiny ventilation window near the ceiling at one end of the courthouse basement had let him continue doing so.

But slaying the pigeons was definitely the reason the guards had brought in the hawk. They’d probably call it psychological warfare—yet another tactic aimed at driving Mr. Throckmorton out of the basement. I called it pure meanness. I found myself hoping the hawk had caught a wild pigeon, or a starling—a bird that belonged to an invasive species, or at least one that wasn’t endangered. And wasn’t anyone’s pet.

After all, it wasn’t the hawk’s fault that her handler worked for the bad guys.

I ducked back into my tent, pulled out my cell phone, and turned on the camera function. I moved it around until I had a good, clear shot of the cage from an angle that would let anyone who was so inclined count its occupants. Then I snapped a photo and e-mailed it to Mr. Throckmorton.

“Make sure they stay there,” I said to Rose Noire, as I headed back out.

“I will,” she said. “Trolls! Last week they burgle Mr. Throckmorton’s house, and now this.”

“Vandalized, not burgled,” I said. “Sammy and the other deputies couldn’t find anything missing, remember? Lots of damage, but nothing actually missing.”

“It’s not as if Mr. Throckmorton has had a chance to inspect it himself,” she said. “And anyway, vandalism is just as bad. Maybe worse.”

I nodded my agreement as I left the tent.

Halfway across the town square, I heard the little ding that meant I had an e-mail. Mr. Throckmorton saying “Thanks.”

The lines at the food concessions had grown longer. I could even see two people standing in front of the hamburger stand, trying to get the attention of Hamish’s bored teenaged clerk. Maybe the teenager wasn’t a slacker. Maybe he was trying to be a good Samaritan.

My stomach rumbled so loudly I was sure the nearby tourists could hear it, so I turned and headed for Muriel’s.





Chapter 4




Even as hungry as I was, I knew better than to dash carelessly across Main Street. I had to wait until three tour buses and half a dozen cars full of gawking tourists had passed. Then I crossed to the other side, which contained a small block of businesses. In the center of the block was Muriel’s Diner, a local institution since the fifties. In spite of Muriel’s attempts to make it look like the sort of dive where you risked ptomaine poisoning just by touching the menus, word was getting out, and now on most days the tourists outnumbered the locals.