A Bobwhite Killing (3 page)

Tom and I watched the two women walk out the door, Shana obviously waddling now, with Bernie virtually clucking at her like a mother hen.

“Do you think she’s going to sit on Shana and stuff her under her feathers?” Tom asked.

“I doubt it,” I replied. “Even if she wanted to, there’s no way Bernie could stuff that much Shana under anything. It’s hard to believe she’s only got twins in there.”

“Twins that aren’t going to meet their father,” Tom added sadly. “Shana’s quite a trooper, isn’t she?”

I took a final gulp of water from my glass and tried not to think about Shana’s babies growing up without a dad. “Yes, Tom, she is.” And then I decided I couldn’t think about Shana, her babies, or Jack anymore right now. “So, how shall we spend our afternoon, birding buddy of mine?”

He didn’t hesitate. “We look for that Bobwhite, Bob White. And I know just where to start.”

Twenty minutes later
,
I was pretty sure that, despite his confidence, Tom didn’t have a clue where to start, because he was driving east from Spring Valley instead of south. Back in 2003, the last confirmed sighting of a wild Northern Bobwhite in Minnesota had occurred in Beaver Creek Wildlife Management Area, less than three miles from the Iowa border. When we’d stuffed ourselves into Tom’s ancient Honda, I’d assumed that was where we were heading.

“Okay, I give up,” I said. “Where are we going?”

We passed a mileage sign to Lanesboro.

“It’s the hat emporium, isn’t it? Darn that Bernie, she hit your hot button, Tom.”

Tom laughed as he took a left, and we headed north on County Road 80 to the little burg of Wykoff. The scenery was pleasant—the rolling hills and scattered tree groves of Fillmore County. More than 150 years ago, the area just past Wykoff had a big swath of upland deciduous forest, filled with four types of oak tree, elm, basswood, ash, maple, hornbeam, aspen, and birch. Nowadays, farms have appropriated much of that space, but some pretty pockets of the old forest still remain and can be seen along some of the lesser-traveled back roads.

Like we were doing now.

My head hit the roof of the car as Tom’s Honda sailed up out of a surprise pothole.

“Sorry. My shocks aren’t as good as they used to be,” he apologized.

“Tom, your shocks haven’t been good since I’ve known you, which is about a decade.”

He patted the dashboard lovingly. “Yeah, but this is the birdmobile. Nothing stops this baby when I’m on the chase.”

“And exactly what are we chasing again?”

Tom pulled a crumpled note from his shirt pocket and handed it to me, all the while keeping his eyes on the road to avoid another pothole. “I heard Jack giving directions to the Bobwhites yesterday afternoon when I was checking into the Inn & Suites. He was on his cell phone in the lobby with a Frank somebody, and I jotted down what I heard him saying.”

I looked at the directions on the paper. Wykoff to Fountain, then to County Road 11. There was a turn at Mahoney Creek into some brush prairie.

It was possible, I conceded. Northern Bobwhites liked grasslands with scattered trees. Maybe there was a small enclave of the birds in north-central Fillmore. It would be a surprise, but possible.

And wasn’t that one of the reasons I loved birding? A person took all the cues, all the clues, about the bird sought, then figure out where it might be—kind of like being a detective, in a way. Sure, it’s always nice when the hunt turns out to be easy, and the bird’s right where I expected, but on the other hand, it’s a thrill when a bird is found where I DON’T expect it.

Tom pulled off the road into a turn-out that seemed to be well-used.

But not by birders.

Instead, there were four cars parked, each one with a small trailer attached. In the distance, I could hear the unmistakable roar of the gunning engine of an ATV—All Terrain Vehicle.

We got out of the car and looked across the prairie that rolled up to a wooded area. Dirt trails snaked through the open expanses and disappeared into the trees. While we watched, two ATVs came tearing up over a rise and launched themselves into the air, the riders practically standing upright on their machines as they soared about fifty feet until they hit the ground again. Then, earth spewing up around them, the vehicles spun through a short gully and tore into the woods.

“Are you sure you heard Jack correctly, Tom? This is ATV country, not a happy haunt of a timid little quail.”

Tom looked as confused as I felt. “I’m sure I got it right. I even asked him when he finished his call. He said it was Bobwhite property.”

I drummed my fingers on the hood of the Honda and surveyed the wasted land gouged by the wheels of innumerable ATVs.

“Not anymore,” I concluded. “I’d say it looks more like a three-ring circus. Those riders were flying through the air like trapeze artists. Find them a couple of big jungle cats to roar at a lion-tamer with a chair, and they’ll be open for business.” I shook my head in disappointment. “No, I’m afraid what we’ve got ourselves here is nothing but a wild goose chase.”

I took another look across the prairie. About a hundred years ago, maybe even fifty years ago, Bobolinks, Meadowlarks, and Bobwhites probably covered the area. Once homesteaders began to shape the land to their needs, though, the native flora and fauna were gradually displaced, yielding to cultivated acres of farmland. Then, as family farming operations died out, much of the land was left neglected, victim to the ravages of disrupted ecological cycles and careless human abuse. Now, where lush grasses used to grow, thrill-seeking ATV operators spun their wheels in the dust that had become their unsanctioned playground. Without a doubt, Bobwhites had lost their right-of-way.

Not that I have a problem, per se, with folks who ride ATVs. I understand how much you can enjoy a hobby—I’m a serious birder, for crying out loud. What I have a problem with, though, is when some of those hobbyists enjoy their hobby to the point of going off the designated trails, and in doing so, damage wild land, not to mention natural habitat and entire ecological systems. There’s more than a quarter of a million ATVs registered in Minnesota, and it seems that a lot of those vehicles are regularly violating state laws that protect our natural resources. I’ve still got a few pals who work for the Department of Natural Resources, and they say that enforcing trail regulations for ATVs is the biggest headache they’ve got. Up at Spider Lake Recreation Area in the north-central part of the state, the DNR has poured almost half a million dollars into trying to repair and restore the wetlands, lakeshores and hillsides that have been ruined by trespassing ATVs. What really burns me, though, is when I see riders ripping through agricultural ditches during nesting season because I know it’s destroying prime pheasant nursery spots.

Which was what I was seeing happening right here. I wasn’t sure if these lands were public or private, but either way, serious damage was being done.

I turned back to Tom. “Let’s head south. We can make a run through Forestville/Mystery Cave State Park and still make it back to the Inn & Suites in time for dinner. I saw a posting yesterday in my email about some Acadian and Willow Flycatchers down there. At least then we’d have something to show for today.”

Something besides an ATV track, a murdered trip leader, and his grieving pregnant wife.

For some reason, Shana’s odd confession to me right before the sheriff had shown up this morning suddenly popped into my head. She said she’d killed Jack, but that was impossible.

Wasn’t it?

Tom put the car in gear, and we started back towards the tiny town of Fountain.

Out my side window, I spotted a Red-shouldered Hawk gliding over the rolling plains and hills covered in a profusion of June’s green growth. No ATVs here rutting the slopes or trashing the wetlands. The scene was good enough for a postcard. “Gliding along in Fillmore County,” it could read. “Wish you were here.”

For a moment or two, I could almost forget I’d started the day with discovering Jack’s body. But I couldn’t stay distracted very long.

“Do you know anything about Shana and Jack?” I casually asked Tom. “Before yesterday I didn’t even know they’d gotten married. It’s been years since I’ve seen either of them.”

“You mean besides the political stuff that Jack’s involved in?”

“Yeah.”

Tom rolled his window down and a wave of fresh air blew through the car.

“Not much. It seems like Shana stays out of the spotlight—you never see her in pictures in the papers or on television with Jack. I guess they keep their relationship pretty private. And I expect, with her being pregnant, they liked keeping it that way.” He threw me a glance. “I remember when they got married, though. A bunch of the nurses at work were sure that Shana was a gold-digger. I think they had a problem with the twenty-year difference in Shana and Jack’s ages. Personally, I don’t see what the big deal is. Lots of men marry younger women. Lots of women marry older men. I mean, geez, Jack had been a widower a long time, and if he and Shana could be happy together, why not?”

The hawk put in another appearance, gliding across the road ahead of us.

“Red-shouldered,” Tom said.

“Yeah, I know. I saw it a minute ago, too.” I watched it skim the earth and then lift skywards, a small rodent trapped in its claws. “Late lunch.”

“Shana’s not a predator, Bob. Besides, Jack was nobody’s fool. Just look at the corporations and politicians he’s taken on in the last couple years. Ever since Minnesota passed the Clean Water, Land and Legacy Amendment in 2008, Jack O’Keefe has been knocking heads together in St. Paul to make sure conservation legislation gets passed and implemented. From what I understand, he’s just about abandoned the family business to devote all his time to the environment.”

Tom slowed down to read a mile marker, then turned right onto the next road.

“I almost forgot—there’s a seepage meadow up here on Rice Creek that I birded last year about this time,” he explained. “I found some Upland Sandpipers there. Since we’re in the neighborhood, we might as well check it out. You know, now that I think about it, I bet Jack got so involved with conservation because of Shana. She went to grad school in ecology or something.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said again. I didn’t tell him how well I knew it, either. I didn’t think he needed to hear about my teenage crush and how I nursed a broken heart during my senior year in high school because the older woman of my dreams had tossed me over to go dredging through muck in a graduate program.

Me or muck, Shana?

Gee, when I put it that way, it almost hurt all over again. Except for the fact that I’d finally arrived at the brilliant insight years later that she’d never considered me anything near a romantic candidate, thinking she chose muck over me might really put a dent in my self-esteem.

Good thing I’m a tough old bird, huh?

Of course, having Luce in my life probably made Shana’s early rejection of me a lot more manageable now.

Actually, having Luce in my life made everything more manageable now.

Except for Tom’s driving.

I bumped my head again on the roof of the car as he hit another pothole.

“Sorry,” he said. “These roads aren’t too well maintained, are they?”

“I think we’re on a cattle trail, Tom, not a road.”

“Oh no, this is the road. Look up ahead.”

Sure enough, there was an open wetland situated on what looked to be an old streambed about a hundred yards in front of us. It was bordered on one side by a stand of forest, with a few old oaks scattered across the surrounding hillocks. I noticed some wire fencing along the forest side, with a few “No trespassing” signs hanging along the edges.

Tom parked the car and we got out to walk closer to the meadow. Once we got within forty yards of the wetland, we saw two Upland Sandpipers poking their long bills into the soggy earth. Hoping to not disturb them, we skirted the meadow and slid in close to the forest where a portion of the fencing had been torn down. Then I had the weirdest sensation, like someone was watching me.

Behind me, brush moved.

A lot of brush.

I slowly turned around and there, about twenty feet away, was a cat.

A big jungle cat.

A tiger, in fact.

Oh joy.
I’d apparently found the missing part of the circus, but unfortunately, I’d forgotten to bring my chair and whip.

Hello, kitty
.

Don’t move,” Tom breathed behind me. What? Did he think I was going to tap dance? I wasn’t exactly Fred Astaire on a good day, let alone when I was facing a six-hundred pound tiger. Besides, I’d come to the conclusion at the same instant I’d locked eyes with the beast that I was probably never going to move again.

Except through the digestive tract of a charismatic megafauna.

That’s ecological-speak for a big animal that environmental activists liked to use as a poster child for conservation programs.

Only usually, poster children weren’t prowling around near a seepage meadow in southeastern Minnesota where they could eat birders for an afternoon pick-me-up.

Fortunately, though, I didn’t have the time to imagine myself as an hors d’oeuvre because the tiger jumped straight at me.

And then, as I sucked in what I knew would be my last breath, my death froze mid-air. I thought it was that slowing of time thing that happened sometimes in car accidents when a person saw the truck bearing down and watched kind of in hyperspeed as it sped into the crash. But the huge cat didn’t slowly spread deadly claws and open a gaping, toothed maw. No. Instead it dropped to the ground, unconscious.

“Yes! Works like a charm!” came from somewhere to my right.

Or maybe it was to my left. I don’t know. It could have been God himself calling down from heaven at that point. I was still stuck in that last long gasp, unable to check it out. Then, when it penetrated my petrified brain that I really wasn’t eaten, I was hanging my head between my knees so I wouldn’t pass out or throw up. Or both.