Over the Edge (4 page)

“Well, maybe you'd like the other method better. Guess how we attach the transmitters when we put them on the tails.”

“I don't know. How?”

Shawn grinned at her in the SUV's rear-view mirror. “With dental floss and Super Glue. Real high-tech.” That made all of them laugh, even Morgan.

“If you've got transmitters, can't you track where they're eating the poison meat?” Jack asked suddenly.

“I wish we could. These transmitters are accurate only within a limited range and only if the signal is aimed at the antenna. We're researching a new kind of tracking device that bounces signals off orbiting satellites. This system would tell us not only where a bird is but also give a record of where it has been. Once we're sure the system will work, we'll begin using it to track our condors.”

When Shawn finally stopped the vehicle, he told them, “This is as far as we ride. The last quarter mile, we hike.”

The hike was easy enough, winding through low-to-the-ground, fresh-smelling juniper and piñon trees. A breeze cooled them as they crossed the wide plateau at the top of the cliffs. “This is where you guys will stay,” Shawn told them, pointing to a pen constructed of plywood and wooden two-by-fours. Green, military-type netting draped across juniper branches camouflaged the pen like a hunting blind. Until they were practically on top of it, Jack hadn't even noticed it.

“You'll be able to get good pictures from here, Steven and Jack. This is where we always put photographers when we're doing a condor release,” Shawn explained.

“Where will you be?” Steven asked.

“Olivia and I will go to the release pen. It's about 50 yards from here, close to the edge of the cliff.”

“Why can't we go?” Ashley wanted to know.

“Too many of you. It's not that you would scare the condors—it's just that we don't want them getting used to being around groups of people. Then they start landing near tourists at the Grand Canyon, looking for handouts—it's a bad scene. Understand?”

Jack shrugged and nodded. Under his breath, Morgan said, “Bummer.”

“We'll see you later,” Olivia called back to them, keeping her voice soft so she wouldn't disturb the condor up ahead.

Inside the cover of the green mesh netting, Steven set up his tripod. “Better attach your telephoto lens,” he instructed Jack. “And be alert. Seeing a condor is a rare treat, so don't try to conserve film. Just aim and shoot.”

“Calling a bird Number 87 is lame,” Morgan said. “You know what I'd name a condor if I owned one? Flip. Flip the Bird.”

“Ha ha,” Ashley said, giving Morgan a withering look. “You are
so
not funny.”

Steven, busy with his cameras, told Jack, “Look sharp, now. You don't want to miss this.”

Through his telephoto lens, Jack could watch everything happening in the flight pen. Shawn, followed by Olivia, approached Condor 87—the number was clearly visible on the bird's wing. The bird cocked his bald, orange head as though wondering what these humans were up to. Slowly, Shawn reached out; 87 seemed to know him. The condor waited, unmoving. Shawn knelt and put an arm around 87, holding him close in a man-to-bird hug.

“I think Shawn's checking 87's transmitter now,” observed Steven, who was watching through his own telephoto lens.

Then, carefully, Shawn stood up, still holding 87, allowing Olivia to examine the bird. Jack could see his mother enjoying the rare opportunity to handle a creature only a heartbeat away from extinction. As Jack snapped a flurry of pictures, the condors' fight somehow became his.

There had to be a way to save them.

J
ack knocked on the door that connected the room he shared with Morgan to the room occupied by his parents and Ashley. “Mom, can I borrow your laptop computer?” he asked through the door.

“What for?”

“I have to write a paper about the condors. For science class. The teacher told me the only way she'd excuse me from class was if I wrote a paper—

The door opened.

“And I want to put down all the stuff I learned from Shawn today before I forget it,” Jack added, lowering his voice, liking the way it sounded when he didn't have to yell. His voice seemed to be getting deeper lately.

“Are you sure?” Olivia asked, throwing a glance toward Morgan, who was sprawled on his twin bed reading one of the Grand Canyon newspapers. Jack knew what his mother really meant: “Are you sure you want my laptop for homework, and not so Morgan can play on it?” She didn't say that out loud, but Jack read her thoughts.

“Homework. Honest.”

“All right, then. Don't use the battery—use the adapter and plug it in.”

The motel room was small. Its only surface other than the two beds and a dresser top was a small round table, and Morgan had thrown his clothes all over the tabletop. Jack removed them and put them on the dresser, which was already cluttered with Morgan's shoes and backpack.

He sat down to work on his paper. “The Use of Lead Shotgun Pellets Endangers Condors,” he wrote for a title, and then he tried to remember that morning—the x-rays showing lead, the drive up the rutted road to the release pen, the thrilling sight of Condor 87, alive and well now.

Morgan stayed silent as Jack grew absorbed in his writing. When Jack finally glanced at the other bed, Morgan had fallen asleep. After Jack turned off the computer, he pulled off his jeans and crawled into bed. It was late—past eleven—and he fell asleep quickly.

When he woke up, dawn had just begun to seep over the trees and through the window. Morgan was sitting at the round table, hunched over the laptop.

“How long have you been awake?” Jack asked.

“Who needs sleep?” Morgan answered. “Want to take a look?”

Without moving his eyes from the screen, Morgan said, “I had to get back into the game. The other gamers thought I'd quit because it was too tough. Crazy! No game ever beat me yet, and Splatterfest II isn't going to be the first.”

Splatterfest II. Jack had never heard of it until Morgan mentioned it the day before. He watched wide-eyed. These graphics were as sizzling as Morgan had described, and even more heart-pumping than his hype. Morgan was playing with another online friend named Dragon; even though more than a thousand miles separated them, Morgan played intensely, and Jack began to get drawn into the action as if the fight were taking place in real time and space. Whooping whenever Morgan made a kill, Jack got so involved he almost forgot where he was; their room at Yavapai Lodge practically melted from his consciousness.

It wasn't until he heard his mother's voice that he mentally snapped back into the dim room, with its striped carpet and air that smelled of fresh sheets and disinfectant. Morgan seemed startled as well, nearly knocking the laptop onto the floor.

“Morgan! What are you doing with my laptop?”

“I—I'm showing Jack some totally crackin' graphics,” Morgan answered. “I just hooked it up, and here we are. Your man Jack seems to like it.”

That was true. Jack had never before seen anything like the dazzling display before him, but he sensed that now was not the time to admit this to his mother.

“What has he been playing?” The question was directed at Jack. Sensing no way out except to lie, which he wasn't about to do, he muttered, “Splatterfest II.”

“Splatterfest II.” Olivia nodded, her mouth set hard. “Jack, you know how I feel about these kinds of games.”

“Yeah, but the thing is Morgan and his friend Dragon were already really far in this one, and Morgan wanted to show me—”

Waving her hand to silence him, she said coldly, “Morgan, would you please unhook my laptop and get it back into my room? Just to be perfectly clear, I don't want you exposing my kids to games like that.”

“You afraid of a few pixels, Mrs. Landon?” Even though Morgan's voice stayed calm, it had a challenge to it.

Olivia answered slowly, spacing every word. “I despise the way they turn violence and death into entertainment. I've read that some gamers begin to act out the violence in real life.”

“Is that a fact?” Morgan answered, leaning back into his seat and cocking his head. “Death, in and of itself, can be pretty interesting, don't you think, Mrs. Landon? People have always been fascinated by the macabre, and so am I. But that doesn't mean I'm going to kill somebody. At least,” he said, smiling slowly, “not yet.”

That's when Jack heard the shift in his mother's voice. It became as detached and arid as a dried leaf floating on the wind. “An interesting point of view, Morgan.

I'd love to discuss it, but right now I'm on my way to park headquarters. The rest of you get dressed and go to the cafeteria for breakfast. I'll meet you there in an hour. And Jack, I intend to speak to you later.”

 

“This cafeteria's like the United Nations,” Jack said as he picked up a plastic tray and slid it along the metal rails. “Listen to all those different languages. People must come here from all over the world.”

“Yeah. Uh-huh.” Morgan eyed a giggling group of Japanese girls ahead of him in the line. “Man, do I wish I could speak Japanese.”

“Sure, Morgan,” Jack joked. “And I know what you'd talk to them about—Pokémon, Japanimation, and Quake Three.”

“I have a few other topics of conversation,” he replied, smoothing the wrinkles out of his T-shirt. “Watch and learn.”

The girls, who looked as though they were in their mid-teens, seemed to be subtly checking out Morgan and Jack. Olivia, Steven, and Ashley were in a separate breakfast line, one that featured more healthy food. Since Jack had already been through the healthy line, he just followed Morgan as he piled his plate with waffles and pancakes, first smothering the top with whipped butter followed by an oozing layer of syrup. Very quickly the girls dismissed Jack as too young, but one of them smiled at Morgan. “How you doing?” he asked, thrusting out his chin and then raising his hand in a friendly gesture that knocked a glass of orange juice all over his tray.

The Japanese girls were really giggling now, but softly, as though they didn't want to embarrass Morgan even more. “Smooth, Morgan,” Jack snickered.

“Yeah, well.” Pushing his dark hair from his forehead, he muttered, “Relationships with women are highly overrated.”

“As if you would know,” Ashley quipped, joining them from behind. Sliding her tray behind Jack's, she grabbed a chocolate milk and placed it next to her cereal bowl, watching with interest as the Japanese girls slid their trays up to the cashier and paid, speaking in halting English. Since there was a group of them, Jack figured it would take a while.

Morgan gave Ashley a withering look. “It just so happens I do know. It may surprise you to find out that I was voted Homecoming King in my high school.”

“Sure you were.” She rolled her eyes at Jack.

“It's true. Of course, I hacked into the school's computer and rigged the results. But I officially won.”

“You went to the dance as Homecoming King?” Jack asked. He couldn't believe what Morgan was saying.

“No, actually I stayed home and missed all the excitement. Heard about it, though.” He took a step closer to the register. “My one regret is that I didn't see Queenie's face when the big moment came. I guess she curled up when my name was read out—she thought she'd actually have to dance with me. When they finally figured I was a no-show, some Neanderthal got crowned as king instead. Yeah,” he said, nodding smugly, “that was one of my better hacker stings.”

“You
ruined
Homecoming?”

Shrugging, Morgan said, “I added a bit of color to the proceedings.”

“No. You broke into a computer and changed the results so the Homecoming Queen got to stand there, all by herself, while you stayed at home and laughed at her. How could you be so mean?” Ashley asked fiercely. The Japanese girls were gone now, but Ashley didn't move and neither did Morgan. “I bet she spent a ton of money on her dress, getting her hair done and makeup, and then you just messed it up!”

“I believe in payback,” he said, his voice suddenly low. “She was vicious to me, and she got what she deserved. Those who don't want retribution better stay out of my way.”

“So you always have to win, right?”

“Yeah,” Morgan replied. “Always.”

The two of them stood toe to toe, Ashley's eyes burning into Morgan's cool ones while the line of customers behind them swelled to four-deep. Why couldn't they get along, even for five minutes? Jack thought wearily. The lady running the cash register waved them forward.

“Come on, guys, you're holding things up.” Jack tried to nudge his sister toward the cash register.

“Jack, what he did—”

“I know, but it's over, and it's not worth fighting about, especially not here.”

“Why are you always on Morgan's side?”

“I'm not!”

“Yes you are. Don't you see what he's doing?”

“What
am
I doing, Ashley?” Morgan loomed over her, his pale face expressionless. “Why don't you tell me?”

A customer, a small, mousy-looking man with a dingy mustache scurried by, while a woman with skin as dark as coffee murmured, “Excuse me,” and pushed around them.

“Just forget it,” Ashley said finally. “I'm done.” Without another word she shoved her tray toward the register, but at the last minute she turned and said, “I know what you are, Morgan. You can play your game with my dad and Jack, but you don't fool my mom. And you don't fool me.”

Smiling slowly, Morgan said, “Then let the games begin.”

B
ack stiff as a board, Ashley made her way around the tables to where her parents sat, while Jack paid for his and Morgan's breakfast. As Morgan followed Jack through the clutter of chairs and chatting tourists, both of them held their trays high to avoid knocking anyone on the head.

“You know, your sister is extremely touchy,” Morgan told Jack.

“Nah, Ashley's cool.”

“Then why do I get the same feeling from her that I did from the kids in Dry Creek, namely that everything I say is wrong? I don't understand the reason my words always land me in a pile knee-deep. Hold on a second.” He stopped between two tables, resting his tray on a bony hip. “What she said back there—is it true? Are you on my side?”

Jack thought he knew what Morgan was asking, but this didn't seem the place to go into it. The cafeteria was crowded and noisy, his food was getting cold, and anyway, how was he supposed to answer a question like that? Even if he'd known how, he didn't want to. “Let's go,” was all he said.

Steven and Olivia had settled in next to a group of older women who seemed in good spirits for so early in the morning, laughing and chattering between swigs of coffee. At 8:30 a.m., the cafeteria's noise level kept escalating with the sound of rattling silverware, sputtering coffee urns, ringing cash registers and banging trays. Above the mechanical clatter, tourists of many colors and styles of dress called out to each other in half a dozen different languages.

“We saved you a place,” Steven called out, patting the Formica tabletop. After they had settled into their seats, Jack took his yogurt, banana, and scrambled eggs off his plastic tray and placed them symmetrically on the table, banana pointing north, yogurt positioned at ten o'clock next to the plate. Morgan, who hadn't bothered to remove his plate from the tray, was already digging into his stack of pancakes drowned with syrup. For a skinny kid, he sure could put away the pancakes.

Olivia sipped her coffee, then gave him a forced smile. “Morgan, I woke up last night thinking about something you said earlier. It was about the pellets and the shotguns. How do you know so much about this?”

“I told you, my friend, Snipe. He's the one who introduced me to Splatterfest II,” Morgan answered around a mouthful of pancake. “That game is serious eye candy, with the most fluid graphics in the world of CGI. It's been around for a while, but in this new version the texture quality is better, the frame rate has been upped, and the integration between real-time polygons and CGI is awesome. I admit, you could maybe say the designers programmed elements from the entire RPG genre, but it still has plenty of new stuff, too.”

Jack hadn't a clue what all that meant, but he didn't want to seem stupid in front of Morgan. “RPG?” he asked hesitantly. “Red,
purple,
green? I thought—uh—aren't images made from RGB? Red, green, blue?”

Morgan stopped chewing to give Jack a pitying look. “RPG means ‘role-playing game.'”

“I knew that,” Jack said quickly.

Olivia carefully set down her mug. “Back to my shotgun question; did you learn about pellets from this Splatterfest game?”

“Nah. Splatterfest's all high-tech weaponry. I guess I learned the low-tech stuff from following the Predator Hunt. Snipe's into that real big.”

“Predator Hunt?”

“You haven't heard of it? I thought you were an animal guru. The hunt is like Splatterfest, only the targets are real critters. Too grim for me, but Snipe's a follower.”

Olivia took a breath and released it between her teeth. “Morgan, I have a favor to ask,” she said. “I need you to contact your friend Spike.”

“Snipe,” Morgan answered.

“Right. Snipe. Could you reach Snipe for me? I'm trying to unravel the pellet mystery, specifically how they're used in shotgun shells, but none of the park people hunt. Would Snipe discuss it, do you think?”

“If I tell him to.” Morgan dismissed the question with a wave of his hand. “What would be even better is getting you right on the hunt Web site. Snipe showed it to me. Start there.”

“Thank you, Morgan.”

“Not a problem. I'd like to point out that no matter what people say, everyone eventually comes to the geeks. We rule.”

Back at the motel, it took Morgan only a moment to tap into the Predator Hunt Web site, while Steven, Ashley, Olivia and Jack crowded around to watch.

“Here it is,” Morgan announced, triumphant. The blue screen announced, in big, bold letters,

ANNUAL VARMINT HUNT.
CASH-FOR-CARCASSES CONTEST.
KILL A BUNCH OF PREDATORS AND HELP WILDLIFE.
FIRST PRIZE $50,000.

Beneath these words were pictures of a fox, a coyote, a bobcat, and a mountain lion.

Next to the pictures of the animals was a list of points: 100 for killing a mountain lion; 50 for a bobcat; 25 for a coyote; and 10 for a fox. Printed instructions said hunters were supposed to shoot as many of these creatures as they could within a 24-hour period, then bring the dead animals to a checkpoint, where the bodies could be counted. The hunters' scores would be verified, with prizes awarded to those with the highest scores.

“I can't believe this,” Olivia cried, turning bright red with anger. “This is not hunting—it's murder! What kind of friends do you have, Morgan?”

“Take it easy,” Steven told her.

“You say Snipe participates in this free-for-all?”

“Yeah. The contest is legal. Any hunter with a license can take part. He's got a license. He says they do it all over the country.” Morgan shifted uneasily. He was not enjoying this conversation.

“A license to pile up carcasses for a reward? Hunting laws were created with the idea that when you kill game, you use the meat. This—this is—
body-count
killing. It's slaughter, not hunting,” Olivia declared. “Unethical in the extreme.”

“Snipe sees it differently. And I don't want you talking to him if you're going to go ballistic about the hunt,” Morgan insisted.

“That's the point. This isn't a hunt—” Olivia sputtered to a stop and then began again, “Take a look at the pictures on this screen.” She tapped her index finger on each face as she spoke. “A fox. A bobcat. A mountain lion, for heaven's sake. Whoever made the decision that these were varmints? The word ‘varmints' is supposed to mean ‘useless predators.'”

“This is so gross,” Ashley said, glaring at Morgan.

“Hey everybody, let's take it down a notch,” Steven broke in. “Morgan isn't the one participating in the hunt. He's trying to help us get information. We'll get to Snipe's Web site and see what we can learn about the guns. Morgan, do you have his Web address?”

“Yeah, sure. It'll just take a second to bring it up,” Morgan said, looking relieved to have an excuse to get away from the Predator Hunt page. After he punched in a string of numbers and letters, a jagged mountain peak appeared, followed by an animated hunter with a spitting automatic gun. It hit a target that blew apart into a thousand blood-red pieces.

“Snipe's always been into cool graphics,” Morgan said sheepishly. “I have to warn you, he talks a lot about the government and conspiracies, but that's just his politics. He's good at gaming.”

“Yes, he seems to have a lot of opinions about a lot of things,” Steven agreed, inspecting the screen.

“When are you going to write your question about the pellets?” Jack asked, pressing to get a better look. Beneath bold headlines Snipe had written blocks of text, but Jack couldn't get close enough to read it. Steven's and Olivia's heads were in the way.

“This is quite a Web site,” Steven murmured. “He talks about the predator hunt here, and there's a list of preferred guns…then all kinds of….” Steven's voice trailed off. Blue backlight turned his skin gray as he scrolled through graphics and other blocks of text, moving from one line to the next.

“Do you see that?” Olivia's face suddenly hardened. She looked at Steven, whose own jaw had set. “Are you reading what I'm reading?”

Nodding tersely, Steven answered, “I see it.”

“See what?” Jack asked, trying to get a look. Whatever it was, his parents hid it as they moved closer together. Olivia looked as though an ice storm was raging behind her eyes, Morgan kept rubbing his chin with the tips of his fingers, and Ashley had turned deathly quiet.

“Jack, I'd like you and Ashley to go into the other room,” Olivia ordered. “Right now. Morgan, stay here.”

“What'd I do?”

“I think you know,” Steven answered.

“Can't I stay and—” Jack began, but when he saw his mother's face, his voice dried up in his throat. “Come on, Ashley,” he said quickly, retreating through the door.

The moment the door shut a flood of muffled words erupted from the other side. Jack couldn't understand them, but he didn't have to. His mother was angrier than she had ever been with Morgan, that much was certain. His father, who had usually been so quick to defend, now accused him, his deep voice rising and falling between Olivia's staccato outbursts.

“What the heck is going on?” Jack whispered to Ashley, not so much to keep from being overheard but to keep from missing any possible bit of conversation he might decipher from the next room.

“I don't know for sure. I just—I saw my name.”

Jack felt his heart pump faster. “Where?”

“On that Web site. I'm pretty sure that Snipe guy wrote something bad about me. It was under a headline that said, ‘Government Injustice.'”

“That can't be right—Snipe doesn't even know you.”

“Morgan does. I think he sent one of those flame things to Snipe, and Snipe posted it.”

“Morgan wouldn't do that! When could he have—no way, Ashley!” Jack shook his head hard, more for himself than for his sister. He pressed his ear against the door, but the sound was still too muffled for him to make out individual words. Ashley stomped over to him, her hands on her hips and her head high.

“Of
course
Morgan would never dream of doing the same thing to me that he did to everyone in Dry Creek! You
always
think the best of him.”

“No, you always think the worst of him! Look, he's weird, but he wouldn't do that to you.”

“Wanna bet? I'll crack open the door, and then we'll find out if I'm right.”

“You mean eavesdrop?”

“Duh! Don't you want to know the real story and not some lie Morgan tells you? You do what you want. I'm listening.”

With that, Ashley put her hand on the knob and turned it so slowly it was barely perceptible. She opened the door cautiously, creating a space less than an inch wide. It made all the difference, like turning up the volume on the television. Jack could suddenly understand every word spoken in the next room.

“…about her. Snotty? Arrogant?”

“Hey, I was letting off steam. I didn't know he'd post it. Snipe's mad about the way the government broke in and took me away from my home. He's using what happened to me as an example.”

“When did you write the e-mail?” This from Steven.

“While you were at the Grand Canyon, that first morning.” Morgan's voice sounded tight as he continued, “But I wouldn't write the same stuff now. Try to understand, my freedom was taken away, and I was mouthing off to a friend. It doesn't
mean
anything.”

Inside, Jack groaned. So it was true. Morgan had flamed Ashley. How dumb could he be?

Olivia's voice was sharp. “I'm afraid it means a great deal to me.”

“But I swear, I didn't know Snipe would post it. Blame him, not me.”

“You're always the victim,” Olivia snapped. “The thing is, Morgan, I can take the harsh words you wrote about me. You think I'm a brainless, government pawn whose joy is suppressing your freedom? Fine. I'm an adult. I can take your nastiness. But I can't—no, I
won't
allow you to trash my daughter. It's obvious to me that bringing you here was a mistake.”

“Olivia!”

“I mean it, Steven. I want to call Ms. Lopez and see if other arrangements can be made.”

“You can't do that! I'll be sent to juvenile detention,” Morgan cried. “Mr. Landon—”

“You should have thought of the consequences before you wrote that e-mail,” Olivia insisted.

“I don't want to go!”

Olivia's voice was equally forceful. “This isn't about what you want. Look, I have a CNN interview to do, and then Steven and I will decide on the next step. For now, I don't want Ashley to know what was said on that Web site. Is that clear?”

“I'm supposed to obey you when you want to ditch me?”

“OK, OK, let's all calm down here,” Steven broke in. “Morgan, this is an important interview for Olivia. We're all going to go and support her. Behave yourself, and then we'll see what's next.”

Jack carefully pulled the door shut and tried to swallow the knot that had tightened his throat. His sister was hurt, his mother was angry, Morgan was being sent away, and the condors were still dying. How could this trip get any worse?