“Is this thing on?” Grandfather’s voice, amplified and distorted by feedback. I followed the squawking sounds and found myself in the mess tent, which also doubled as the general gathering space.
“That’s better.” Grandfather nodded his thanks to the techies who had fixed the portable sound system. I found a place at the very back of the tent where I could slip out if the meeting went on too long.
“Let’s go over what we’re up against here,” Grandfather said.
Clearly the expedition’s work had begun. Or at least the filming. A camera was pointed at Grandfather, who stood on a small raised platform at the front end of the tent, while another was panning the audience for reactions. Grandfather was wearing his expedition outfit. Olive-green cargo pants already stained with mud—or perhaps unwashed since their last outing. Muddy hiking boots. His tan shirt appeared to be clean, but it was hard to tell, since it was almost precisely the same color as the mud on his pants and boots. Over it, he wore a khaki fishing vest whose dozen or so pockets, like those of the cargo pants, bulged with unidentified objects. At least he wasn’t yet wearing his pith helmet—though it was sitting nearby on a table—so he hadn’t yet acquired his usual dramatic case of hat hair.
I noticed Sherry, the blond Valkyrie, standing by clutching her clipboard to her chest, obviously intent on Grandfather’s every word. And she’d added a khaki fishing vest to her white shirt and khaki shorts. Was it entirely an accident that her outfit looked like the feminine version of his standard expedition garb?
“Now here’s the location of the defunct ostrich and emu ranch,” he was saying. He was tapping the map with his well-worn hickory hiking stick. “And this is the approximate location where my operatives spotted an emu yesterday.”
His operatives. The phrase conjured up visions of an army of professional emu trackers beating the bushes, instead of one startled PI and his unobservant passenger.
I heard a brief, quickly smothered chuckle and traced it to Stanley Denton, who was sitting in the audience with his hand covering his mouth and his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Our scouts will start at the ranch and spread out from there,” Grandfather said.
“Will the emus be in a herd?” someone asked. “Or scattered around?”
“Unknown,” Grandfather boomed. “In their native habitat, they tend to travel in mated pairs. But here? We have no idea what to expect. Solo birds, pairs, flocks—who knows?”
As Grandfather continued to dispense emu lore, I sat back and studied the crowd. I recognized half-a-dozen people from Mother’s side of my family. Not surprising; many of my relatives had been involved in environmental and animal welfare projects long before Grandfather had come into our lives, and they’d thrown themselves into his expeditions with enthusiasm. I was a little surprised to see Seth Early, the sheep farmer who lived across the road from us, sitting at a table with Lad, his rescued border collie, at his feet. I wouldn’t have thought Seth cared for any animals apart from Lad and his prize Lincoln sheep. But perhaps it wasn’t the emus that had enticed him but the presence of Rose Noire—he was among the legions of men apparently smitten with her.
My friend Crystal, from the hospital—also a longtime SPOOR member—timidly raised her hand.
“Is this roundup going to be dangerous, Dr. Blake?”
Grandfather beamed. Clearly she had just asked his favorite question. Was she a plant or had she come up with it on her own?
“Dangerous? Of course!” he boomed. “Emus are as tall as we are, with a kick like a mule—and unlike mules, they also have sharp claws. I’ve seen them gut a man in seconds. Moreover—”
Just then a middle-aged man seated a few rows in front of me shrieked and keeled over, splashing several nearby spectators with the contents of his coffee mug. I could see Dad running from the front of the tent, pushing his way through the people clustered around the fallen man. Maybe the man was only panicking at the thought of encountering a rogue emu, but I hadn’t liked the sound of that shriek, so I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 9-1-1.
“It’s Fred,” someone said. “He’s having convulsions!”
Dad and Crystal and several other volunteers who presumably also had medical training had reached the patient, though their efforts were slightly hampered by the onlookers. Someone should make them move back. When I finished calling the ambulance—
“Move back, everyone! Move back, now!” Sherry apparently had the same thought.
The Riverton emergency dispatcher answered.