the glasses and ashtrays and sweeping the floor. She took her time-far longer than she needed-but at last there was nothing left to do.
“Are you ready, then?” Dennis Hacker asked.
“I have to change.”
She disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt.
“You look great,” Dennis said. “We’d better go. Those hummingbirds will be up bright and early.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Angie Kellogg had seen Hummers in news broadcasts about the Gulf War, only they had been called Humvees back then. Lately she had even seen a few television commercials about them, but she had never seen one in real life, and she had certainly never expected to ride in one.
Once Dennis Hacker helped her climb inside, she was surprised by how spacious it was. Between her bucket seat and the driver’s was a wide flat expanse of tan leather that was almost as big as her kitchen table. Climbing in himself, Dennis caught her looking across the space between them. “That’s the air-conditioning unit,” he explained. “Behind that’s the drivetrain. That’s what makes Hummers so hard to tip over.”
“Right,” Angie said, not letting on that the word
Dennis turned the key and the engine growled to life. Angie thought it felt like being inside some huge animal- like being swallowed by a tiger, maybe.
“The ride isn’t all that wonderful on the highway,” Hacker continued, as he expertly maneuvered the vehicle out of what Angie thought was far too small a parking place. “But it’s great for the kind of work I do and for getting around in the backcountry.” He paused and looked questioningly at Angie. “You’re sure it’s all right to leave your car here on the street like this? It wouldn’t be any trouble to drop it off at your house.”
Angie wasn’t at all sure she wanted Dennis Hacker to know where she lived. “Oh, no,” she said lightly. “It’ll be fine right here.”
As they drove out of town, Dennis kept up an easy line of patter, telling Angie about his five years of working almost exclusively with parrots and reintroducing them to former habitats in the Southwest.
“The parrots are usually fine,” he told her. “It’s people who cause problems. That’s where I am now, over in the Peloncillos. Before I bring in any birds, I have to negotiate a peace treaty with the local ranchers and the environmentalists both. The odd thing about the Peloncillos is that it seems to be one of the few places in Arizona where those two opposing sides are starting to work together. Just because they evidently have a jaguar or two down there now, though, doesn’t mean they’ll let my parrots in.”
“What could the ranchers possibly have against a few parrots?” Angie asked.
Hacker shrugged. “There’s always the concern that as soon as the birds show up, someone will pull some endangered species stunt that will also endanger the ranchers’ time-honored grazing rights. Believe me,” he added, “when cowmen and tree huggers go to war, it’s easy for a guy like me to get caught in the middle and end up wearing a bullet in my chest.”
“A real bullet?” Angie asked nervously.
Dennis Hacker’s answering smile didn’t hold much humor. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He went on to tell Angie how his grandmother’s interest in birds had been passed on to him. Leaning back in the upright seat, Angie was happy to listen. Only when Dennis Hacker’s story ran down and he began to ask questions about her own background did Angie Kellogg grow uneasy once more.
“Where did you go to school?” he asked.
She knew this incredibly intelligent man had attended Cambridge University in England before coming to the United States and picking up graduate degrees in zoology from both Stanford and UCLA. Angie was a high school dropout. Since leaving school, what education she had achieved had come through reading books.
“Ann Arbor,” she said.
“What did you study?”
Angie lost it then. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. “Education,” she managed finally.
“Why are you a barmaid, then?” he asked.
“I tried teaching but I didn’t like it,” she said lamely.
She was relieved when the conversation wandered back to birds once more, with Dennis telling her about the wonderful displays at the Arizona/Sonora Desert Museum up in Tucson, especially the hummingbird compound. “It’s a shame you haven’t been there yet. Maybe that’s where we should go next. I’d love to take you.”
With lightning flickering far to the south, they left Douglas on what Dennis explained was the Old Geronimo Trail. “That’s where he surrendered, you know,” Dennis told her.
“Where who surrendered?”
“Geronimo,” he said. “That famous old Apache chief. He surrendered in Skeleton Canyon, just down the mountain from where we’ll be watching the hummingbirds.”
Dennis Hacker’s travelogue continued as they drove east. Angie was feeling at ease when the Hummer turned off one dirt road, bounced past something that looked like a walled-in cemetery, and came to rest beside a small, two-wheeled camper/trailer.
“What’s this?” she asked suddenly wary as Dennis switched the motor.
“Home sweet home for the next little while,” he answered cheerfully. “Come on in. It’s time for breakfast.”
“But I thought we were going on a picnic,” Angie objected. They were miles into the wilderness. Since leaving Douglas an hour earlier they hadn’t seen a single other vehicle. Dennis Hacker seemed nice enough, but the idea of going into this house with him alone…
He came around to Angie’s side of the Hummer, opened the door, and then held out a hand to help her down. “There’s plenty of time for us to eat before we head up the mountain. Besides, I can fix a much better breakfast here than I can over a campfire. It also means we won’t have to carry food and cooking utensils in our packs. Come on.”
Hacker’s gentlemanly gesture of extending his hand didn’t leave Angie much choice. Feeling trapped and scared and wishing she hadn’t come, she allowed herself to be led toward the trailer. There was no telling what he could do to her alone out here in the wilderness like this. Angie Kellogg had been with some pretty scary guys in her days as a hooker, but she had always been on her own turf in the city. If one of the johns or a pimp came after her there, all she’d had to do was run outside, screaming for help and knowing that, eventually, help would come. Here there was no one. If Hacker turned on her, what would she do?
Angie looked longingly back at the road, back the way they’d just come, but Dennis Hacker didn’t relinquish her hand. “That’s Cottonwood Creek Cemetery over there,” he said, leading her forward. “It’s an interesting place, but there’s not much to see in the dark. I’ll take you there later, after we come down the mountain. Here’s the step. Be careful.”
Opening the door with one hand, he guided her up a wooden stair. “Stay right here until I turn on the light.”
The light turned out to be a butane-fueled light fixture that hung over a tiny kitchen table. “Sit,” he told her. “As you can see, this place is too small for two people to stand at once, so if you’ll sit and supervise, I’ll cook.”
Angie eased herself into the little breakfast nook and peered around. The place was indeed tiny, but it was also neat as a pin. As she sat down, she caught a glimpse of a well-made bed in a loft tucked up over a built-in desk. The paneled walls glowed warm and golden in the softly hissing light.
“How do bacon and eggs sound?” he was asking. “And do you prefer coffee or tea? I’ve become Americanized enough that I drink coffee most of the time, but I still like to have a nice cup of tea first thing in the morning.”
“Tea will be fine,” Angie managed.
Watching as he bustled around the trailer-getting out pots and pans, setting a pot of water to boil-Angie noticed that Dennis was so tall he had to stand with his neck bent to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling. “Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked. “Having to hold your head that way?”
