Rant of Ravens (12 page)

Lark shouted, her voice laced with panic. “What was that?”

“A rock. It must have broken loose.”

Another crack, and a larger rock careened toward them. Rachel managed to maintain her precarious hold with one hand and cover her head. She lurched sideways as the rock rolled toward her with gathering momentum. Air swished as the rock whizzed past.

Lark stared up from below, her eyes wide with fright. The rock glanced off her fingers, grazing the side of her head. She slumped, pitched backward, and fell. Lark flipped once in the air, slammed against the rock wall, and landed face down on the ground with a sickening thud.

Oh my God!
“Lark? Are you okay? Lark, talk to me.” Rachel started down the cliff.

Lark moaned and stirred.

Thank God, at least she hadn’t broken her neck
.

The cliff face seemed steeper and the cracks fewer as she was going down. Rachel groped for a foothold, found a small fissure, and jammed the toe of her boot inside. She stretched, her fingers searching the rock for someplace to grip. “I’m coming, Lark. Say something. Talk to me.”

“My leg hurts.”

Rachel jumped the last ten feet, landing with a thud inches from where her friend lay crumpled on the ground. A quick assessment confirmed that, aside from a possible concussion, the worst damage was to Lark’s right ankle, which was twisted at an odd angle.

A flash of movement overhead caught at the corner of Rachel’s eye. Her head snapped up. Another rock? A man dangled from the end of a rope at the edge of the raven’s ledge. Climbers! They must have kicked the rocks loose above them.

“Hey, we need some help down here.”

The man shrugged and swung onto the ledge. A few minutes later he reappeared, a black square held aloft in his hand.

Adrenalin surged through Rachel’s veins. The air crackled with a dry heat. The man wasn’t just a climber. He had come here for the computer disk, bombarding them with rocks to keep them at bay. But how had he gotten onto the rocks above them? More to the point, how had he known where to look?

Cold fear coursed through her. Besides Lark and herself, only five people knew about the raven: Eric, Charles, Forest, Harry, and the sheriff. One of them had to have sent the man after the disk.

Rachel squinted up, taking in the man’s features: medium height, muscular, jet black hair, a large hooked nose, skin tanned a deep brown. Rachel had never seen him before.

He positioned himself on the ledge, then signaled to someone above him. A second person started down while the stranger picked up a rock, hurling it off the ledge. Rachel dodged. The rock landed just inches from Lark’s head.

Raaa-ra
. The raven soared into view, then stooped, making a swift line for the man on the ledge. It jabbed its beak toward the man’s face, then twisted, flashing its talons.

“Hey! What the—” The man flung up his arms. The disk flew from his grasp, ricocheted, and clattered down the cliff face, landing on a small ledge west of Rachel and Lark.

The raven dived again.

The man she’d now dubbed Igor hollered. His voice, low and harsh, rumbled off the rocks. The other man on the rope lowered himself into kicking range, and swiped at the large black bird.

This was Rachel’s chance.

Raaa-ra
.

The raven swept in, and Rachel moved quickly. She scrambled to the edge of the ledge, lay on her stomach, and stretched her arm toward the disk. Her fingertips nudged the black square, and it slipped further from reach.

Damn!

A barrage of rocks rained down, and Rachel covered her head. Behind her, Lark curled into the fetal position. Rachel wormed her way forward, leaning out over the ledge. She had almost had it. Her fingertips brushed the disk again, but this time she was able to coax it forward, capturing it in her hand. “Yes!”

“Hey, bitch!”

She glanced up. The raven circled overhead. The men glared down from the upper ledge. “That belongs to my boss,” yelled Igor.

“Not anymore.” She jammed the disk into her back pocket, and sprinted back to Lark. In a low voice she urged her friend to move. “We have to go. Now! We have to climb down.”

“I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice here.”

Igor lowered himself over the ledge.

She had to think fast. Breaking a long branch off the scraggly tree, Rachel snapped it in two. Then, pulling off her belt, she used it and the branches to splint Lark’s leg.
Thank God for first-aid classes
.

Grabbing the rope Lark had brought with them, Rachel looped it around Lark’s torso and tied it with a triple knot under her arms. Then she wrapped the free end around the tree and knotted it securely. “How long is the rope, Lark?”

“I don’t know.”

“Make a guess.” She needed one length to lower Lark down—enough to reach from the top of the cliff to the bottom. Twice that to belay herself afterwards.

“Seventy-five feet.”

“Long enough.”

Rachel prodded Lark. The woman moaned, lolling her head from side to side. Rachel splashed water from one of the bottles into her face, and Lark sputtered out of her pain-induced fog. “Hey!”

“Listen to me. Do you see those two men?”

Igor was nearly halfway down the cliff face, headed straight for them.

“They were the ones throwing rocks,” Rachel said. “We have to go. Now! Crawl over to the edge, and I’ll let you down.”

“It hurts too much.”

“Bite on a stick or something.” Rachel pinned Lark with a stare. “This is the only choice. You can’t climb, and we can’t stay here. The tree will work for leverage, but only if we hurry. Otherwise, if Igor and Frankenstein reach us first, Garcia and his buddies are apt to find us both dead at the bottom of the cliff.”

Lark registered, and pushed herself up. Pain contorted her face as she pulled herself toward the steep edge.

Rachel checked on Igor’s progress. He was within twenty-five feet of the ledge.

“Keep moving, Lark. You’re almost there. Good! Now use your good foot to keep yourself away from the rocks.”

Lark pulled herself to the cliff and swung her feet out into the air. “I got it.”

“Go.” Rachel pushed Lark off the edge and leaned on the free end of the rope the way she’d seen Roger do any number of times. Only he had used pitons and carabiners to hold the weight. Rachel used the tree. More primitive, but it worked. In only a minute or two, Lark had reached the ground and collapsed in a heap.

“Untie the rope, Lark. Pull it free from around your waist.”

“It hurts too much to move anymore.” Tears edged Lark’s voice toward hysteria.

“You have to.
Please
, Lark. Now!”

Lark mustered her reserves and fumbled the knot free, struggling to push herself up. Rachel yanked on the rope, and it wrenched free. She reeled it back up the cliff.

Above her the sounds of Igor kicking rock grew closer. Quickly she looped the rope around herself, then around the tree. Holding onto the loose end of the rope, she drew a deep breath, and stepped off the ledge.

Hand over hand Rachel let out the rope, belaying herself down the craggy cliff. Hemp bit into her palms, and she struggled to control her descent as granite and pine tore at the fibers of the rope. Her boots scuffed the surface of the rock, leaving black marks.

Twenty feet from the bottom, she ran out of rope. As she was holding her weight on the doubled length of line, she heard feet pounding on dirt. Igor was on the ledge.

Spotting a handhold two feet over, Rachel pushed herself sideways toward the fissure. She reached out, managed to grab a handful of rock, and pulled herself tight against the cliff face, jamming her left foot into a thin crack. Secured, she let go of the free end of the rope and sharply tugged on the length still tied around her waist. The free end of rope snaked upward, over the rock above her. A pair of hands reached out. The rope swished through his fingers, back down past her and coiled just below her at the base of the cliff.

“Bitch!” The man above her kicked a rain of dirt onto her head. “Dammit, she’s getting away,” he called to Frankenstein above him. “Hurry up and get down here with that rope.”

Rachel leaped to the ground and gathered the rope in a messy coil, as Igor watched from the ledge. “Come on, Lark. Get on your feet. We may have time if we hurry.”

“We’ll never make it.”

She was right. An experienced climber could descend much faster than she and Lark had, and there was no way Lark could travel quickly with an injured ankle.

“Let’s get around the corner,” Rachel said softly, “then maybe we can hide.”

Lark stared at her in alarm. “What if they find us?”

“Well, if we stay here, they’ll find us for sure.”

Rachel heard the men
shouting to one another on the ledge. Time was running out. Bracing Lark, she offered her shoulder as a crutch. Lark hobbled forward, gasping in pain.

“Just a little farther,” coaxed Rachel. Up ahead she could see a break in the rocks. “You should be able to get over the edge up there.”

“Maybe you should just run for help.”

“And let those cowboys get their hands on you? I don’t think so. I’ll use my self-defense training first.” Rachel spoke with more bravado than she felt, murmuring encouragement as she secured the rope around Lark for the second time, and helped boost her onto the rocks. “Now swing your legs over the edge, and pivot around on your butt.”

Rachel scanned for something to use as a pulley. The nearest tree was too far away, and without leverage she’d never be able to hold Lark’s weight. Her gaze caught a sharp spear of rock that jutted up from the ground several feet to her right. Kicking the granite, she pushed against it hard with the flat of her foot. It didn’t budge. Looping the loose end of the rope around the stone, she flashed a signal. Lark bit her lip, pushed off and dropped over the edge.

“Move left,” she heard Frankenstein yell to Igor. “You’re almost down.”

Rachel craned her neck to check Lark’s progress. The rope, stressed from its earlier use, frayed as it played across the sharp edge of the rock.
Please don’t let the darn thing snap
.

“Are you getting anywhere close to the ground?” she whispered, working to keep the strain from her voice.

“It’s still too far down,” answered Lark. “But there’s a ledge about three feet below me.”

“Can you get to it?”

“I can try.”

The rope jerked. Rachel tightened her grip. What was Lark doing?

“I’ve almost got it. A little more.” The sound of skittering stones filtered up from below. “Okay, I’m on.” Lark moaned. The line fell slack.

Rachel crawled onto the overhang and peered over. A sheer rock face dropped away below her. “I can’t see you at all. Wave your hand.”

Thirty feet below, Lark’s hand jutted out from the granite wall. Rachel tried spotting her from several angles; the ledge remained invisible.

“Can you see anything below you?” Rachel asked.

“Trees. I can’t see the ground at all.”

“Good. Stay there. Be quiet! I’ll be back.”

“Rae!”

“Shhhh. You’ll be okay. I’m going for help.” Rachel dropped the free end of the rope over the edge, and prayed Lark would reel it in.

“I’m down,” shouted Igor as Rachel leaped back onto the path.

“Then go get them,” shouted the other man. “With that one injured, they couldn’t have gone far.”

Rachel ran, stumbling on the rocky ground. Branches tore at her arms and face, and scratched her skin. Footsteps pounded behind her, vibrating through the ground as they gathered momentum.

She picked up her speed, sucking in gulps of dusty air, her lungs burning. A cloud of thick brown dust billowed around her feet.

The steep incline caught her unaware. She stumbled over an exposed tree root and fell, skinning her knees and hands. Rachel scrambled back onto her feet, hearing Igor above her. Ignoring the blood trickling down her leg, she sprinted toward the trailhead. The pebbles under her feet rolled like marbles, causing her to lurch.

Igor gained on her, his hands reaching out to prevent her escape. She dodged to the right around a tree in the middle of the path, pouring on extra steam. She heard a crunch and figured Igor must have hit the trunk. With luck it bought her just enough time.

Go. Go
.

At a dead run, she rounded the bend. Bird Haven rose in the distance, and there were people milling around the Raptor House. “Help!” she screamed. “Help!”

Several looked up with startled expressions. Eric was just pulling into the lot.

Rachel ran down the access road and made a beeline for his truck. “Eric!”

The ranger jerked his head around, slammed on the brakes, and leaped out of his truck. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

Rachel closed the distance between them, afraid to look back. Reaching his side, she grabbed his arm and pointed toward the Lower Owl. Then she doubled over, clasping the stitch in her side, glancing behind her. No one was there.

Eric bent down, and placed a warm and reassuring hand against her back. “What happened? What’s going on?”

A man stepped over and joined them. “Is she okay? Are you okay, lady?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’m fine, but Lark’s hurt.” Rachel pulled several deep breaths and exhaled, then moved away from Eric’s touch. What if he was the one who had sent the men after the disk?

More people gathered, and Rachel straightened up. Lark was in trouble. Even if it was Eric, there was nothing he could do with so many witnesses around. “Lark’s injured her ankle. We need help up on the Lower Owl.”

It took Mountain Search and Rescue several hours to get Lark off the mountain. They used a litter to haul her from her perch on the ledge.

The clinic took several more hours to X-ray and cast her ankle. Two minor breaks. Six weeks in fiberglass. The doctor called her “fortunate.”

Sheriff Garcia had been notified by Search and Rescue, so Rachel had been forced to explain Lark’s predicament on the ledge. “You didn’t take me seriously.”

“What the hell were you thinking?” he demanded. “You need to leave the investigating to me.”

“Yes, but—”

“No buts about it. I should be slapping your
butt
in jail.” Fortunately, he hadn’t, and Eric had driven the two women back to Lark’s house.

Watching her friend wince in pain, Rachel squelched the guilt she felt over Lark’s injuries and settled a pillow under her leg. “It could have been worse.”

“How so?” Lark asked.

“We could have been arrested.” Rachel repositioned the ice pack draped across Lark’s ankle, and turned up the heat. The Drummond Hotel complex had been built in 1909. It included a concert hall, eighteen-hole golf course, septic system, steam powered generator bank, and thirty-two-room Manor House, known as the “winter hotel.” The carriage house, where Lark lived, had served as the Drummonds’ personal residence. It seemed Mrs. Drummond was a writer who required privacy for her “artistic endeavors.”

According to Aunt Miriam, James Drummond had spent over half a million dollars building the complex, a lot of money in those days. A lot of money today. He should have spent more on caulking.

Lark drew a comforter across her body and shivered. “Guess we’re lucky to know a park ranger.”

“Lucky,” echoed Rachel.

Eric had gotten them off the hook with Garcia by pointing out that the park restrictions for climbers were being lifted on the Lower Owl tomorrow. And that although technically she and Lark were in violation of park regulations, it seemed a waste of time to press charges. For her part, Rachel had written a large check to Mountain Search and Rescue. The sheriff had grumbled a warning and left.

“You know, Rae, you don’t have to stay if you don’t want to. I’ll be fine.” Lark’s slurred speech signaled that the pain medication prescribed by the doctor was taking effect.

“After I’ve scoped out the guest bed?”
And locked all the doors and windows?

Lark dozed off, and Rachel fingered the disk in her back pocket. Garcia had never asked about it, and she hadn’t volunteered. She wanted to know what was on the disk and make a copy before turning it over to the Sheriff’s Department.

Lark’s home office came fully equipped with a computer, and Rachel flipped it on. The disk was in bad shape. Its plastic casing was creased and punctured, courtesy of the raven or the fall down Lower Owl. The metal end was pulled slightly loose, but the rest looked okay. Rachel pushed the end piece back into place, and slipped the disk into Drive A.

Here goes
.

The computer whirred. She clicked the mouse, and the program menu flashed across the screen.

So far, so good
.

Using Windows Explorer, she scanned the files. The disk held three pictures and several Word documents. She clicked op one of the pictures and was asked what program to use to open it. After she selected iPhoto Plus, the message
Unable to open files using LZW compression
popped up. Darn! She’d have to wait until she could open it in Adobe Photoshop on the Macintosh at Bird Haven. Maybe she’d have better luck with the documents.

She opened the folder marked Tanager and viewed the files. There was one marked
Opfalc
, one marked
Will
, and one marked
Newleads
. Rachel tried opening one in WordPerfect and received the message

.

What other programs did this machine have on it? She scanned the icons on the screen. Microsoft Publisher.

Opening the program, she realized it was a simplified version of Quark. Not only that, it walked you through the process of setting up a document step by step. She choose the option for a blank page and drew in a text box, using the toolbar displayed on the lefthand side of the screen. Under Insert, she found a command that said
Text File
. Clicking on the command, she typed in
a:\Opfalc
. Words flowed onto the screen.
Yes
.

Rachel repeated the process for the other two files and hit
Print
, then carried the papers back out to the living room. Two hours later, she set down the final page of the
Newleads
printout and rubbed her eyes.

“Learn anything?” Lark was watching her from the easy chair.

“Only that your theory about Johnson may be right,” Rachel said. “Bursau had three folders of documents and three pictures on the disk. I can’t access the photos, but I did finally figure out how to print the files.”

“Anything new?”

Rachel handed the printouts to Lark. “The sections titled
Opfalc
and
Will
contained information I already knew.
Opfalc
detailed Operation Falcon, and was essentially a repeat of Bursau’s published article on the sting operation.
Will
was a complete biography of Uncle William. It covers his childhood, education, marriage, and career highlights, like the article in the
Elk Park Gazette. Newleads
is meatier. It covers the angles.”

“I can’t read,” Lark said, shoving the papers away. “This medicine is making me feel sick.”

“Want something to drink? Maybe a soda?”

“Sure.”

Rachel got up and poured them both a cola. “According to Bursau’s notes, Uncle William supervised a program studying the effects of DDT on peregrine falcons starting in 1978. I guess DDT and DDE, a byproduct of DDT, accumulate in the peregrine.”

“That’s right. They cause abnormal breeding behavior and thin-shelled eggs, which reduces hatching success.” Lark took a drink, set her glass down on the table beside her, and fidgeted with the blanket covering her legs. “But the United States restricted the use of DDT in 1969.”

“And Canada did in 1972,” Rachel said. “But apparently analysis of unhatched eggs in the seventies and eighties still showed high levels of DDE present.”

“That’s because of exposure during migration. Heck, they’re still using DDT in some Central and South American countries.”

“Anyway, Uncle William’s research focused on the declining population of peregrines in Rocky Mountain National Park. Research team members spent two-week periods in a cabin within the park boundaries, locating active nests. The number of successful nests was documented and unhatched eggs from failed nests were analyzed for DDE levels.”

“So?”

“Apparently, records from 1982 indicated that two eyasses were orphaned and taken back to the university lab for care and feeding. The young falcons thrived, but then, shortly before they were ready to fledge, they mysteriously “died.” Uncle William properly documented disposal of the bodies.”

“But Bursau didn’t think so?”

“No. According to his theory, Uncle William sold the birds to an Arab falconer through an intermediary.”

“Who?”

“The notes don’t say. There’re references to someone named Raven, who’s alleged to have initiated contact with the Middle Eastern buyer. Bursau also mentions pictures he’d obtained to substantiate his claim.”

“He doesn’t say anything else about this intermediary?”

“No,” Rachel said, flipping through the papers in her lap. “He just refers to him as someone with ‘local ties and foreign contacts.’”

“That fits Mike Johnson,” Lark said. “And he’s just the type of scum who would sic those goons on us today.”

Rachel’s throat went dry. “But how would he have known to send someone? The only people who knew about my raven theory besides us were Eric, Harry, Charles, Forest, and Sheriff Garcia.”

Lark turned around in her chair. “There’s no way Eric or Harry is involved. I’ll vouch for both of them, one hundred percent.”

“How can you be so sure? Personally, I don’t want to suspect
any
of them. But someone ordered those men to go up on the Lower Owl.”

“I’m telling you, look at the others.”

Lark was so adamant, Rachel decided not to argue. She’d explore them as possibilities on her own. “Fine. That leaves Charles and Forest… and the sheriff.”

“Well, it’s obvious Victor’s out.”

“Why?” Logically Rachel knew Lark was right, but she might as well play devil’s advocate. “He seems awfully vested in pinning the rap on Aunt Miriam. Maybe he’s trying to cover his own rear end.”

“All Vic Garcia ever wanted to be from the time he graduated from high school was a cop.”

“How do you know that?”

“Esther Mills, the owner of the Warbler Café, told me. She’s his girlfriend. Apparently he started coming up here from Denver with his Big Brother, one of those police officers who volunteer to buddy up with troubled kids. You know, the bad kid—good role model drill. Anyway, it took on Vic.”

“What did he do bad?” Not that it mattered, but by now Rachel was curious.

“According to Esther, nothing. He just had the potential. Apparently he saw his uncle shoot and kill his father when he was sixteen, then had to help raise seven brothers and sisters. He used to get a little wild on his days off. Guess his Big Brother straightened him out.”