Flight of Death - Richard Hoyt Page 0,13

the nature photographer.”

I shook Northlake’s hand. “I picked up Jenny on the freeway last night when her Volvo broke down. I suppose she mentioned it.” Well … just a little of it.

“Mr. Denson, the detective. Yes, she did, when I fetched the Volvo this morning. She was very grateful, by the way. She said you turned around to go back and get her out of that wind. I want you to know I appreciate it too.”

I resisted the urge to run my fingers through my hair, an unmanageable thatch in which each hair took its own determined, eccentric path to the heavens. This bordered on Einstein and movie madmen hair; Chief Dumbshit hair, Willie Prettybird called it. I wanted to bend over and shake my unruly thatch in Northlake’s face: See here, Light Bulb, this is real hair; go ahead, rub oils and elixirs on that glassy dome of yours, see where it’ll get you.

I wondered just how much Northlake knew about my encounter with Jenny, but decided under the circumstances the less said the better. If she was going to be here for the owl count, I’d bump into her one way or the other. “My friend Willie is something of an expert on animal calls — or so he says. He’s tried to teach me a few of the easier ones, but I don’t think I’m worth a damn. You’re an expert on owls, Dr. Angleton. I’d like to hear what you think.”

Lois Angleton liked to be doctored. “Sure, let me hear your stuff.”

“I’m not very good at this, but I’ll give it a go.” I couldn’t picture the woman killing anyone, but Northlake was another matter. I cupped my hands. I couldn’t remember what a spotted owl was supposed to sound like, but there was one I did remember: “Hoo … hoo-hoo-hoo … hoo.”

“A great horned,” she said.

“I think I got the count right, but the pitch is far too high.”

She said, “You know they’re the most fierce is why you remembered it, I’ll bet. A great horned owl can take down a duck or a pheasant or a grouse if it wants, did you know that? It can hunt woodchucks and raccoons. It can even take down a red-tailed hawk if it wants. Incidentally, a spotted owl is no match for a great horned owl, and when the great horned owl invades a spotted owl’s habitat …”

“Then the spotted owl takes off,” I said. That’s what Willie Prettybird had told me.

“They’re gone. History,” she said. “A spotted owl just can’t defend itself against a great horned owl. It won’t even try.”

Northlake said, “The great horned owl loves loggers, Mr. Denson. When a timber outfit clear-cuts a stand of trees, they’re setting the table for the great horned owl to take the forest next door. Is the man who taught you the calls the Indian friend you told Jenny about?”

“That’s him.”

“You have an Indian friend who knows bird calls?” Angleton said.

Northlake said, “If Jenny got it correct, Mr. Denson has an Indian friend who helps him out part-time with his detective work.”

“Ahh, I see. And he calls birds?”

“He’s an ace.” Jenny had obviously told him quite a bit.

“Won’t you join us at our booth?” Angleton said.

“Well, thank you.” I retrieved my chiliburger and coffee from the empty booth. “I see where they’re having a protest parade Saturday.”

“Let them protest all they want. We’ve got the nests mapped, and we’re ready to go. Sunday night we get down to the nitty-gritty.”

“A once-and-for-all no-bullshit count this time.”

“Absolutely. Bosley Ellin will have his hired ornithologists watching over our shoulders. They either bitch now or forever hold their peace.”

“Ellin’s timber posse,” Northlake said.

“Everybody agrees on the nests, but the spotteds themselves could be gone and other birds using those nests. Nests prove little.”

“So where are you folks holed up?” I said. “Do you have a spotted owl central command?”

Angleton smiled. “We’ve taken over the St. Helens Motel in Sixkiller. It’s not the Waldorf-Astoria, but it’s good enough for owl counters. And what about yourself, Mr. Denson? As they say, what brings you up to this neck of the woods? I bet they don’t get a lot of private investigators in Skamania County.”

“Well, I’ve got a couple who went off on a three-week vacation and when they got back, Sheriff Bert T. Starkey swooped down upon them and found fifty marijuana plants drying in an abandoned building on their place. Of course, the couple kept a cool head and telephoned Boogie Dewlapp