Was Nef still in that room? She shouldn’t have been, but Ididn’t trust the staff to follow non-medical orders.
I didn’t know. I just prayed, and kept hoping that actualdeaths or injuries would not havebeen as easy for the hospital and cop mouthpieces to sweep under their rug ofsecrecy.
All those thoughts were blithering and dithering, me puttingoff the moment of truth. I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck,frog-marched me down the hall back to the creaky old elevator, and went outhunting.
I couldn’t figure out any way to find my hawk and bring herhome in a taxi. I had to walk it. Crutch it. This looked chancy enough at best,finding her, getting her to fly where I wanted, following her in my banged-upbody, keeping hold while I crossed streets and struggled with doors andtottered my way up flights of stairs. I needed to get her and myself to a placewhere I could just sit and let my thoughts ride with her, someplace safe andquiet and uninterrupted. Above all, a privateplace, because what I wanted to do violated about twenty laws of God and man.
How do you hold an animal? How could I keep Mrs. Red-tail inone place without a leash? Jesses, I think they’re called in the falconryworld?
Animal trainers use food a lot — food as lure, food as reward,withholding food to weaken the animal’s will, make hunger overcome fear. I wasn’ttrying to train Mrs. Red-tail, or even catch her. I just wanted to borrow hereyes and wings for a few days.
I’d seen her catch and kill squirrels. I didn’t have areliable supply of squirrels. Pigeons I had, in abundance at my office. Butred-tails weren’t normally bird-catchers, according to Sandy’s field guides.They fed mostly on small mammals.
Meat is meat. The bird books also said red-tails would eat almost anything they could catch. Icounted on that. Pigeons are slow. I could make one slower. I could draw herattention to it, that weaker, slower, dumber animal that predators keep an eyeout for, cull the losers, evolution in action.
I swung along on the crutches, cursing morning rush-hour. Thattime of day meant a lot of traffic, a lot of pedestrians, all honking and surlyand running late and taking chances at the intersections. Not my best choice oftime, perhaps, but people pay less attention to what’s going on around themwhen hurrying to work. Most have a single-minded focus, or caffeine-deprivedfog, or worry about the problems left behind at home or waiting at the office.They’re operating on autopilot.
Of course, I’d have been happier if the drivers paid more attention rather than less. The “Walk”lights at intersections are short enough. Have you ever tried to cross a busystreet on crutches? I got honked at a dozen times, once had a taxi screech to ahalt about two feet from my already-broken leg. His engine stalled, right therein the middle of the intersection, and wouldn’t restart. Funny thing aboutthat.
I smiled sweetly at the driver and disengaged one hand toshake a finger at him, naughty naughty boy. Yes, even wizards can be petty andvindictive. Anyway, I left him swearing in passionate Urdu and crutched along.
I finally reached the park and a bench that looked strong enoughto keep my fat ass off the pavement. The bench didn’t even have a drunkenhomeless guy sleeping on it, blanketed in old newspapers and the stink ofmonths between showers. I shuffled and adjusted my crutches and grunted my waydown to sitting with the cast sticking out into traffic and threatening to tripinnocent strangers. That broken leg kept causing problems, and it itched.Itched under the cast, where I couldn’t scratch it.
A flock of pigeons bobbled and pecked at the brick pavers andbrown grass, regarding me with suspicious-yet-hopeful red eyes. After all, Imight eat pigeons, or I might have some birdseed in my pockets. I guessed thosetwo items just about covered the contents of a pigeon’s brain, except in matingseason.
They were right to suspect my motives. I wasn’t there to dothem good. I planned to invite the Wicked Witch of the West to breakfast ontheir miserable cooing carcasses.
No, I don’t love pigeons. They’re pretty much feathered rats,they coo on my windowsill and peck at the glass when I’m trying to think, andthey crap on everything.
I scanned the sky and building cornices and bare trees. Nosign of Mrs. Red-tail. I’d expected that, what with the natural perversity ofthe universe. I knew she hung around the area, though. The pair nested on abuilding ledge nearby and kept the territory year-round. After all, the citypark provided oaks, oaks provide acorns, and acorns provide a steady crop ofsquirrels. Dumb and young or careless squirrels, like the ones I’d seen andhelped her kill, plus enough smart and wary momma squirrels to keep themeat-market supplied with replacements.
Okay, I’m not going to claim the hawk showed up the first timeI schlepped my fat ass down to the park. That would be lying, and not a necessary lie like some of the ones I’mtelling. I don’t like lying, so I’d prefer to keep it to a minimum. Birds showup when they damn well want to, and not on any human schedule.
But let’s make believe I hit lucky. I watched the sky, Iwatched the pigeons and the squirrels, and then the whole park atmospherechanged in some fashion too subtle for me to put my finger on it. Maybe everysquirrel in sight moved closer to the nearest tree or something. But I lookedup at the carved-stone 1900s parapet of one building across the park-edgestreet again, and it had grown an extra gargoyle while my attention wanderedelsewhere.
Hawk. Mrs. Red-tail. And she was hunting. I could feel itfifty yards away. I didn’t have binoculars, Sandy had taken all three pairs,but I didn’t need them. That bird had charisma, stage presence — whatever. Theworld came alive around her. Speaking in wizard-terms, speaking of tappinghidden power, she glowed.
If I’m giving you the impression that Sandy had passed some ofher passion for birds on
