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Preston Salomon did not consider himself an ornithologist, though many people did. Nor did Preston think of himself as a birder, since he had no idea what his life list totaled, and no genuine birder would ever lack such an elementary statistic. When asked, he also denied being an entrepreneur, despite several magazine articles crediting him with inventing the ecotourism industry. Instead, Preston always portrayed himself as a guide to the beauty of nature, a gentle knight errant in the service of Gaia, a Don Quixote tilting against the windmills of pollution and environmental degradation on behalf of the members of Class Aves. In fact, Preston was a bird guide. He provided exceptional service, so long as the client wanted to find birds, any kind of birds, anywhere in the world, and remained willing to listen to Preston’s lectures on everything avian. For clients who also concerned themselves with mundane pursuits ― fine dining for example ― no one possessed greater skill than Preston at locating the best local cuisine in the most unlikely places. On the last morning of April 1998, Preston sat by the side of the road in Bentsen State Park near Mission, Texas, listening to the White-tipped Dove’s dawn song, which sounded like someone blowing across the top of a bottle. Soon, the Chachalacas would wake up and drown out the soft, mellow sound with their raucous calls. Dew dripped from the chaparral and the branches of small oaks. Though the sky showed blue, the air had not yet warmed up to ninety degrees, the norm for spring in south Texas. The events of the past two weeks, Simon’s death and the subsequent attempt on Mark’s life, had vanished from his brain, replaced by a single thought. What did the Stygian Owl sound like? No one, so far as Preston knew, had recorded the calls of the owl. He’d spent a sleepless night sitting by the side of the road in his fruitless quest to be the first. Now, with the owl settled down to rest for the day, he realized his quest had been in vain, and let his frustration show in a mumbled, “Damn.” “What did you say, Mr. Salomon?” the boy asked him. “Nothing, Jason. Just talking to myself. Does your mother know you’re out here?” “She’s asleep. I didn’t wake her up.” “You’d better go tell her not to worry.” “She won’t be awake yet. I’ll go back later.” Preston smiled at the twelve year-old’s enthusiasm. What should he call the lad? Jason deserved a bird name for spotting such a rare specimen. Logically, he should be the Stygian Owl, but there was already an Owl, and one of long-standing. Can we have two Owls? No, I’ll have to think of something else. Preston let his mind wander for a while, trying to form an association between this dirty-faced kid kneeling by the thorny scrub and a bird. Nothing came to mind. What will the Vireo think when she hears? Will she finally agree that I could be a real ornithologist? The discovery of the Stygian Owl represented a major find, a fact that Preston was the first to realize. Though not the first sighting for Texas, or even the second for that matter, this event, finding the owl again, and in the same place, meant that this spot formed part of the owl’s territory. Instead of a visitor, the bird assumed new status as a resident, a remarkable, almost incomprehensible development. Preston smiled considering the public acclaim that would surely be his. Mark and Joan appeared next to him without warning. Preston’s hearing had really deteriorated. The battery in his hearing aid must be getting low. It had been quite a while since he’d checked it. Too much traveling lately. Joan handed Preston a sandwich: bacon and egg on grilled sourdough bread. “Has it come back?” she asked. “Oh, yes. You can just make out its silhouette against the sky. There. See?” “Ah, yes. That’s great.” “When can we get moving, Preston?” Mark asked. “I’m getting worried. Don’t want to hang around any longer than necessary.” “Understood,” Preston assured him. “We’ll leave as soon as someone arrives to hold down the fort.” He took a careful bite of the sandwich, not wanting to dribble yolk on his moustache, but found the eggs cooked hard enough so they didn’t run. “Mmm,” he mumbled to Joan. “Camping out always makes breakfast taste better.” “Car coming,” Mark said. Preston turned and saw a maroon minivan approaching. The first birders of the day! Soon people from all over the country would crowd into the park, rarity chasers who dropped everything to fly to Harlingen on the chance that the owl would stay longer than a single day. Preston rose to greet the people he thought of as his guests. The van stopped
beside him. The window slid down noiselessly, revealing a short, stocky
man with dark curly hair, most of his face hidden in shadow, wearing a rumpled
gray suit. Definitely
not birders. Reporter? “Excuse me, sir, but do I have the pleasure of addressing Preston Salomon?” The elaborate politeness and accent bothered Preston, and he frowned as his mind turned over the possibilities before replying. The voice reminded him of an anonymous CNN reporter. “Yes, indeed,” he replied, a broad grin replacing the frown. “I am Preston Salomon. If you’re a reporter, you’ve come to the right place; the Stygian Owl stayed overnight.” “Stygian Owl?” Now, Preston grew confused. “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d come to see our great discovery. We located him yesterday afternoon. The honor belongs to my young pal Jason over there.” Preston turned to
indicate the boy kneeling by the side of the road staring up at the trees
through binoculars. Better get rid of these
idiots quick before the real birders arrive. “I wonder if I might have a word with you.” “This is not a good time for an interview,” Preston replied, not even looking at the questioner. “I fear that I really must insist.” Who
is this guy? Preston concealed his irritation, using his experience from many years of leading tours. He composed a short, cogent explanation, detailing precisely the nature of the inconvenience. Satisfied, he turned to the reporter, if that’s what he was, wearing a pleasant, reassuring smile. However, as he bent down slightly to look in the window of the vehicle, he found himself confronting the barrel of a gun pointed directly at his left eye. |
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