Flight of the Sparrows Page 3

  Kate frowned. “What’s clear, Renee?”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before except that I was riddled with worry. Kisses was quiet because everything around us was so quiet. I know now that’s what made the air seem so still and what gave me such a sense of something being wrong. Kisses didn’t see any birds to bark at!”

  Paul opened the front door and waved at her.

  “And you’re sure you were out by Best Acres?” Kate waved back but stayed in the car, waiting for Renee to answer.

  “I couldn’t be more sure. I’d never take Kisses for a walk on Pine Ridge Road. That’s why I pulled onto Best Acres Line Road.”

  “I see. Well, thanks for calling, Renee.”

  “Now, Kate, you be sure to call me if you get any more clues. You know how helpful I am when it comes to solving mysteries.”

  NOW THAT KATE had some confirmation that even a few days ago, there was a noticeable lack of bird activity near Best Acres, she decided she’d go online and try to find some hard facts to put that conclusion to the test.

  “What is it you hope to find?” Paul asked as they made themselves a simple dinner in their cozy kitchen.

  “I’ll start searching Web pages for photos of birds usually found in the area and take it from there.”

  “You might try checking out the online archives of the Chronicle. I just read a pretty comprehensive article in the latest edition about the sparrows returning.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.

  WHILE PAUL WENT TO HIS STUDY to go over his sermon for Sunday, Kate decided to whip up some snickerdoodles. She thought Bonnie might enjoy having some to keep in her hotel room, and besides, baking always helped Kate puzzle through things that were troubling her.

  When the cinnamon-sugar cookies were in the oven, Kate settled down at the kitchen table to do some research on her laptop computer. Hopefully she’d be able to get something done, in spite of their slow Internet connection.

  She started by checking the Sparrowpalooza Web site and found it hadn’t been updated since Bonnie had downloaded the rough map. Then she looked for mentions of the umber-throated mountain sparrow, tapping her fingers impatiently as the page slowly downloaded.

  Several images popped up, including a shot taken the previous year near Best Acres. That caught her attention, so she plugged the words birds and Best Acres into the search engine. That returned far too many pages with “best acres” used as a description, not the name of the place. So she added one more defining term to the search.

  “Artie Best,” she whispered as the keyboard clacked softly under her fingers. That narrowed the search results considerably.

  She started with images and found photos of every kind of bird found in their area of Tennessee, although her computer took forever to load the page. Each of the photos had been taken on or around Best Acres, and a few of them dated back more than a couple of years. There were so many that she decided not to go through them all—plus, her patience was just about gone with the pace the pictures were loading. She had the information she needed. Best Acres usually had plenty of bird activity.

  “What now?” she murmured as she clicked on the link that would take her away from the image collections back to the search results.

  She narrowed her eyes and skimmed the rows of text. There were only a few mentions of Best Acres—almost all from the Copper Mill Chronicle or mentions in blogs or on bird-watching boards. On a whim, she took out the words birds and Best Acres, leaving only Artie’s name in the search window. She hit the Search button and got a single result. She clicked the link, an archive of the newspaper in Pine Ridge. Her eyes widened as she read.

  “Paul? Come and look at this,” she called.

  A moment later, Paul stuck his head in the doorway. “What’s up?”

  “I found a reference to Artie Best that doesn’t have anything to do with birds.”

  “What’s that?” He leaned down to look over her shoulder at the screen.

  She turned away from the short paragraph to meet her husband’s blue eyes as she said softly, “It’s in the archives of the Pine Ridge paper from four years ago. An obituary for a woman named Verna Mae Capshaw. She had two children, one son and a daughter-in-law who died before she did and then it lists survivors as one daughter, Joan; her daughter’s fiancé, Artie Best, of Copper Mill; and one granddaughter, her late son’s child, Cassie.”

  “Artie Best was engaged? Imagine that.” He smiled. “And what does that have to do with the missing birds?”

  Kate shook her head. “As far as I can tell, nothing. I’m afraid I’m at a dead end as far as the Internet goes. Guess that means I need to go to the source and see what I can find out about the missing birds firsthand. I wonder if it’s too late to call and make an appointment to visit Artie Best’s place tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seven

  When Kate called Artie Best that evening about coming out first thing in the morning, he had hemmed and hawed and wouldn’t commit. He cited the need to do chores. He told her he didn’t want to interfere with the routine of the wild birds and exotic parrots in his care. He mentioned them by name, Kate noticed, as though they were people: Bebe, Captain Crackers, Sapphire, and Bluebelle. Kate tried not to pressure him; after all, such late notice could certainly be an inconvenience. But finally they agreed to meet at eleven o’clock.

  The timing delighted Bonnie because it allowed her to sleep in a bit after her trip and the excitement of the day before. It also gave them plenty of time to scout around for more bird activity—or lack thereof.

  They took Bonnie’s car again. Bonnie wanted to be able to get around in the area during the Sparrowpalooza Weekend when Kate wouldn’t be with her, so she had driven from Texas. Kate promised to keep her eyes and ears open, since she didn’t have to concentrate on the road. They left just before ten and drove slowly along Pine Ridge Road toward Best Acres Line Road. Every now and then, Bonnie would stop, roll down the windows, or actually hop out and stand along the side of the road, and say, “Be still. Look. Listen. Record your thoughts, note your findings.”

  Bonnie had laid out the best way to approach their admittedly unscientific survey of the local wildlife. They would make a note of every bird they saw while driving. Every mile, they’d get out and walk a short distance away from the road to get a better sampling.

  Autumn was arriving in stages in Tennessee now, tingeing the tips of the leaves with color. Here and there, a brilliant blaze of orange or red burst forth along a branch. Sometimes the color overtook an entire bush.

  The crisp morning air invigorated Kate. It enlivened all her senses just as Bonnie’s company sparked her thought processes. Her former teacher’s zest for the task at hand and the chance to stretch her mind and discover new things challenged Kate in ways that lifted her heart.

  Kate glanced down at the notepad Bonnie had given her to document her observations. The page had only a few notations.

  “There still aren’t many birds out today, are there?”

  “More than there were yesterday, by my count.” Bonnie tapped the end of her pen down the list on her own notebook. “But still nowhere near the numbers we should encounter this time of year. I suppose the time of day could be a factor. Birds tend to be more active in the early morning and evening when they need to find food, and they stay tucked away more in hours in between like now.”

  “Like now?” Kate looked at her watch. “I got so caught up in our data gathering that I lost all track of time. Mr. Best was hard enough to pin down to an appointment. We’d better not risk annoying him by keeping him waiting.”

  They hopped in the car and hurried down the road. When they reached Best Acres, the steel gate across the drive stood wide open. The truck they’d seen Artie driving in the field the day before sat in the drive with a cloud of dust still settling around the tires. As they drove in, a wiry fellow leaped out from behind the steering wheel of the battered, faded red truck.

  “You’re early,” he grouched.
“Got you down in my record book for eleven.”

  They were actually a few minutes late, but Kate didn’t see the point of arguing. She got out of the car and approached him with a genuine smile. “We really appreciate your letting us come out to see whatever birds you have here today.”

  He eyed her warily.

  Artie was a few inches shorter than she, and Kate knew from stories she’d heard that he was also about fifteen years her junior. But meeting him now, it wasn’t vanity that led Kate to believe that most people would consider them close to the same age. She chalked that up to his spending so much time out in the elements.

  He then launched into what Kate assumed was the speech he gave everyone who visited his birds, speaking slowly in the thick accent typical of the rural Tennessee region.

  “Welcome to Best Acres Bird Sanctuary. You can stay as long as you like, but we ask that you don’t leave nothin’ but your footprints and don’t take nothin’ but a memory. Oh, and you can take some photos if you want.”

  “Thank you.” Kate gave his hand a warm, sincere shake. “We’re really happy you could make time for us today.”

  He shook her hand but continued with his prepared speech. “There’s a box on the front porch for donations and comment cards, if you feel so moved to leave either on your way out.”

  “We’re thrilled to be able to see your sanctuary, Mr. Best.” Bonnie said sweetly. “I’m a bird lover myself and will be happy to donate to the cause before we go.”

  “I thank you, ladies.” He gave a sort of bobbing bow to Bonnie, then took a step back and did the same to Kate.

  Kate clasped her hands in front of her and took a few steps down the drive to get a good look at the two-story farmhouse. It was in better shape than she would have expected, having seen Artie. The paint was fresh and white, and the shutters were a glossy hunter green. The natural stone chimney had no cracks or crumbles. Along the roof over the front porch, intricate gingerbread scrollwork gave the place the appearance of a sweet country home, fit for any happy family.

  But the man in front of them didn’t seem happy at all. He hardly looked at them as he shuffled toward two large black barns with hunter-green trim. “I always start the tour in the bird barns over here.”

  The two women followed behind, and Bonnie asked, “Do you give many tours, Mr. Best?”

  “More than I’d like,” he grumbled without a backward glance, then, as if he thought better of his rudeness, he added, “I do appreciate your callin’ before coming out, Mrs. Hanlon.”

  “That’s a new policy, isn’t it, Mr. Best?” Kate had dressed for bird-watching, so she moved easily along the rutted drive in her tennis shoes and jeans. “Having people call ahead?”

  “It’s on account of them birders we expect next week.” He led the way without so much as a glance over his shoulder. The sun shone down on his head, highlighting the silver threads among the chestnut-brown waves. “Don’t want them birders thinking they can come trampin’ up and down wherever they take a notion to out here. And if too many folks try to come by, I may just close my wildlife sanctuary for the week. I sure don’t need the hassle.”

  Kate and Bonnie shared an apprehensive look. While Kate knew better than to assume that all bird-watchers would be as respectful and conscientious about the land as Bonnie, she wondered if Artie was overstating the problem a bit.

  “If it’s birds you want to know about, then I likely have the answers.” He pulled open the door of the smaller of the two barns.

  “I don’t doubt that,” Bonnie said as she stepped inside. “Kate tells me you’re something of a local legend, ornithologically speaking.”

  “You lost me there, ma’am.”

  “You know your birds,” Bonnie simplified.

  “That I do,” he said with a squinty-eyed look before he added in a gruff mumble, “I also know what ornithological means.”

  “Oh, I...you said—”

  “I don’t know why anyone would call me a local legend. I don’t mess much with people, exceptin’ those interested in birds, so I don’t see how I’d rate bein’ a legend to anyone.” He held his hand up to tell them to stay where they were before he disappeared just inside the dark barn. From the shadows, he kept talking over the sound of his heavy boots kicking through straw. “I’ve just been takin’ in sick and wounded birds—and now and then ones that just plain lost their way—for twenty years now.”

  “You’ve lived out here for twenty years?” Kate asked, trying to understand the surroundings. While the house might have been built in the 1930s or ’40s, it looked as if it had been freshly updated.

  “I’ve lived out here all my life. Forty-five years. This was my grandfather’s house. He built it after...” He appeared in the open doorway again and paused to rub his unshaved cheek as though he needed to choose his words carefully. He reached over and flipped a switch; on came three bare lightbulbs set along the crossbeams of the barn. “Grandpa moved us out here after he decided that Pine Ridge had got too big for us to live comfortable in.”

  “I’m sure you live quite comfortably out here,” Bonnie said.

  “I like it fine enough.” He extended his arm like a maître d’ showing diners to their table in a fine restaurant. “What matters is how my birds like it.”

  They walked down the straw-covered pathway between large open pens covered in chicken wire from floor to ceiling.

  “Out here, I got wild birds. I keep my exotic ones in the house. I got the exotic ones when the authorities in Pine Ridge raided an illegal operation a few years back. They didn’t know what to do, so they took ’em to an animal-rescue place in town.”

  He fell quiet for a moment.

  Kate skimmed the lofty beams and the huge pens, where she could hear the sound of wings and birds screeching but couldn’t see them in the dim light. “Exotic? You mean, parrots or...”

  “Yeah. Parrots.” He turned and went to a bucket hanging from the chicken wire of one pen. “Then the animal rescue passed ’em on to me. Made sense to bring ’em here, since I got a captive bird wildlife permit.”

  “Then you’re precisely the man I want to talk to about the goings on regarding the birds in this area,” Bonnie said.

  “If it’s about them umbies, I don’t know a thing.” He reached into the bucket and took a handful of coarse corn and gray and white sunflower seeds. He let much of it sift through his fingers before he closed them into a fist. He lifted his head and looked the women square in the eyes. “That’s the truth.”

  There was something unsettling in his response. Not threatening but hardly reassuring.

  In spite of the hardness of his words, Kate softened a little. In all her years as a minister’s wife, she’d never stopped finding new ways to follow the directive of Jesus Christ: “Whatever you did for the least of these, you did it for me.”

  It didn’t take years of dealing with people to see that Artie was a lonely man who probably felt like an outsider.

  “We really just came out here to see what we could learn about the native and migratory birds in the area,” Kate assured him.

  “All right, then. I’ll tell you whatever I can.” He tossed the feed into the pen. A large bird flapped its expansive wings but didn’t go after the food. Artie stuffed his hands deep into his overall pockets and kept his eyes fixed on the dark cage. “And I’ll show you what birds I’ve got, startin’ in here.”

  “Thank you,” Kate said.

  “I ain’t told you anything yet. Better save your thanks for when you see if I can actually help or not,” he muttered.

  As he moved through the dimly lit barn, telling them about each of his feathered charges, his shoulders began to lift. He held his head higher. It was as if he had slipped into a new, more confident persona. He stopped in front of the largest pen.

  Kate pointed out the rough-hewn wooden sign above it to Bonnie. They both smiled at the childishly square lettering burned into it that read Hoot Owl Hospital.

  “That sign�
�s from a scout troop.” Artie didn’t take his eyes from the bird moving cautiously around in the back part of the pen. “I get stuff like that all the time.”

  Every time after that when Bonnie deferred to his expertise, complimented him on his knowledge, or praised his handling of the birds and their environment, it showed in his eyes, his posture, and his words. He described the process of taking in wounded birds, nursing them back to health, then releasing them into the wild.

  He showed them the wild birds that lived at the sanctuary full-time and would never be released. He said he used those birds to help educate kids, a job he clearly found vital to the future welfare of the creatures.

  “These days, most injuries come from interaction with the human element: bein’ hit by a car, swallowin’ some garbage.” His expression clouded with anger. His shoulders tensed. He balled his hands into fists, then frowned and shook off his reaction. “That’s what happened to these here.”

  He introduced them to a screech owl, a red-tailed hawk, and a turkey vulture. He took the women outside to see the towering aviary connected to the barn. He showed them the series of levers and pulleys that allowed him to open the doors from the pens to that aviary, slowly reintroducing the healing bird to nature with a minimum of human contact.

  He told them that he worked at this every day of the year, rain or shine, summer and winter. He took no vacations and always looked forward to the day when the injured birds flew free again. Kate could tell that he loved his charges and put their welfare above his own comfort.

  He didn’t leave the barn until the ladies had exited and he’d made one last sweep for any problems in Hoot Owl Hospital.

  “Do you think we should ask him now if he’s noticed fewer birds around his property?” Bonnie whispered as they waited in the doorway for him to check the pens and turn off the lights.