Winterkill

Sheridan’s own eyes widened at that, and she looked to Joe.

Joe shrugged. “I’ve never heard either one of those.”

Nate smiled mysteriously.

“One thing I do know is that you can tell the difference between a falcon that’s wild and a falcon that’s broken by the look in their eyes. I’ve seen it at aviaries and zoos. The falcons there look at you, but something is missing behind the stare.”

After a moment, Sheridan said, “Why don’t we put his hood back on?” And Nate did.

“How do you get these birds?” she asked.

“Some I trap them when they’re young,” he said, describing how he mountaineered on cliffs to find the aeries, or nests, to set the mesh webs. He would stay at the site, ready to pounce if a bird hit the trap. “Others I’ve rescued when they’ve been hit by a car, or shocked by high wires.”

“Falconry is considered the sport of kings in some Middle Eastern countries,” Joe added, nodding.

“How long can you keep them?” she asked.

“It’s not how long you keep them. It’s how long they decide to stay with you. They can fly away any time they want and never come back. So every time they come back, it’s a precious gift.”

“What do they hunt?”

Nate explained that while all falcons are hawks, not all hawks are falcons. He said that each bird had its particular specialty, and that falconers often chose the birds based on that. Red-tailed hawks, like the one on the chair, were best on rabbits and squirrels. Falcons were best on sage grouse, ducks, and pheasants—upland game birds. The mere silhouette of a falcon in the sky, he said, would make ducks on the water freeze or seek cover, because a duck in flight would be instantly intercepted and destroyed. Ducks knew the imprint of a falcon from birth, and knew to fear it.

“The peregrine, though, is unique: It will hunt just about anything. That’s why peregrines are so prized, and why they were protected for so many years when it looked like they were going extinct. For a peregrine, its specialty is prey in general, and they can hunt ground game, upland game birds, or waterfowl.

“You can’t just keep a raptor like a pet and be a true falconer,” Nate said. “Falconry requires hours of patience, training, and communicating with your bird. The birds must be exercised daily and kept in top condition—to hunt well, and in case they leave. You have to think like a falcon, like a predator, but at the same time you can’t dominate the bird. If you do that, you break it. If it’s broken, it’s ruined forever. It’ll fly off for sure, and its defenses will never again be as sharp. You’re imposing a death sentence on a falcon if you break it. So if you respect the bird, you’ll work to keep that wild, sharp edge the bird naturally has.”

Then he nodded toward a thick glove in his falconry bag.

“You want me to put that on?” Sheridan asked.

“Don’t you want to hold the bird?”

“Dad, is it okay?”

Joe wasn’t sure what to say. Sheridan’s eyes were glowing, and Romanowski continued to smile inscrutably.

“Sure,” Joe finally said.

Nate took off the hood and leveled his fist near Sheridan’s gloved hand, and slightly swiveled his wrist, urging the falcon to step forward. It did, gracefully, and Sheridan’s arm dipped a little from the weight of the falcon on her fist. Nate helped her wrap the jesses through her fingers and pulled them tight near the heel of her hand. It was an oddly intimate moment that made Joe squirm a little. Nate was a big man, with a soothing veneer that was somehow calming as well as magnetic. Sheridan was only eleven years old. As Joe studied the falconer, he sensed the same kind of natural, violent wildness under the surface that Nate described in his birds. Nate is a raptor, Joe thought. He’s a hunter and a killer, and he lives closer to the earth than anyone I’ve ever known. In a way, Nate was terrifying. He could also be, Joe thought, a hell of an ally.

To Joe’s chagrin, Marybeth served meat loaf. It wasn’t her fault that she had played to type this way and further entertained Nate’s ideal fantasy of the Picketts—happily married, picket fence, loving family, Labrador, and now meat loaf for dinner—but that’s how it looked.

Nate smiled happily and took a double portion. He moaned almost obscenely as he ate it, which caused Joe and Marybeth to stifle smiles of their own. No one had ever loved Marybeth’s meat loaf quite so much, or so obviously. Sheridan picked at her food, spending most of her time either watching Nate or looking over her shoulder at the two birds on chairs in the living room.

The telephone rang and Marybeth left the table to answer it. After a beat, she handed it to Joe.

“Please hold for Melinda Strickland,” Marybeth said, mocking what the secretary had told her.

Joe winced, and excused himself. He felt Nate’s eyes on his back as he took the telephone into the living room.

After a moment, Strickland came on. “Joe!” She cried, “You got one of the bastards! Good work, Joe!”

“Thank you,” he mumbled. He knew that both Marybeth and Nate were quietly listening at the table.

“Too bad he didn’t have an accident on the way into town, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“You know, too bad the guy didn’t try to escape or something.”

He knew what she meant, but he wanted her to actually say it. But she was too good a bureaucrat to admit anything outright.

“Is there any news on Spud Cargill?” he asked.

What she told him froze him to his spot. He found himself still standing, still holding the telephone to his ear,