by Carl Hiaasen
Okay, that’s not funny, I would have said, if it had been me. Now what’s the real reason you’re calling?
The truth is when you’re young, it’s impossible to think of your mom or dad dying all of a sudden. In fact, you try not to think about them dying ever.
Sometimes, though, reality grabs you by the throat. This one kid at school, his mother has cancer. Right now she’s doing okay, but whenever she goes for a doctor’s appointment, this kid gets sick to his stomach the whole day, terrified they might find something bad. I mean, he’s literally throwing up until she comes home.
He’s a tough dude, by the way. Tougher than me, for sure.
Belinda and I are lucky because Mom’s always been super-healthy. Still, I worry about other things—like her Uber job, driving around all alone with total strangers in the car. There are lots of jerks in this world, which isn’t exactly front-page news. Sometimes Mom isn’t as careful as she ought to be.
But I’d never worried about Dad that way, because he was gone from our lives so early. As they say: out of sight, out of mind. If he’d died back then, I’m not sure how sad I would have felt. It’s hard to miss somebody you barely remember.
I’d miss him now, though.
Summer and I just found his gear—hat, sunglasses, backpack, bear spray, and drone. Most of the stuff is scattered down the slope of a small ravine. We see the satellite phone smashed to pieces at the base of an aspen tree. At the bottom of the ravine is a small creek where the barrel of Dad’s submerged shotgun glints in the shallows.
I take out my plastic whistle thinking the high note will travel farther than a human voice. Our hope is that Dad’s hiding somewhere nearby. Even if he can’t signal back, at least he’ll know we’re out here searching for him. My mouth is dry as chalk, but somehow I get a few sharp bursts out of the whistle.
Summer clambers down the rain-slicked bank to retrieve the case holding the quadcopter. It seems to be undamaged. We kneel at the edge of the trees and use the binoculars to spy once more on the creepy fleet of buzzards.
This time we’re close enough to see what’s grabbed their attention. Two deer are lying on the ground, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t drop dead from heart attacks. It looks like Lincoln Baxter is up to his old poacher tricks, baiting the bears.
“Why don’t those birds land?” Summer says. “What are they afraid of?”
Good question. The buzzards should be down by now, devouring those carcasses before other forest scavengers arrive.
“Maybe they see something we can’t see,” I say.
If they do, it’s probably not Lincoln Baxter. He would be well hidden somewhere, waiting and watching through the magnifying scope of his rifle.
“Hey, Billy.”
“What?”
“Something moved! One of those deer!”
“Maybe it’s still alive.”
That might explain why the buzzards are waiting to land. They prefer their meals to be thoroughly expired.
Summer hands over the binoculars. “Check it out,” she whispers hoarsely. “Only one of those things is a deer.”
“Oh no.”
The other body on the ground belongs to my father. Now I see his hiking boots.
“You’re sure he moved?” I ask.
“Positive, Billy.”
“A hundred percent sure? Because to me he looks…quiet.”
“I’m a thousand percent sure. He moved.”
“There’s a rope around his ankles.”
“I saw that,” says Summer. “Which—why tie up a person who’s dead?”
Excellent point.
So Dad’s alive. That’s the good news. The bad news is we can’t run out there to help him without putting ourselves squarely in Baxter’s view.
I snap open the case that holds the drone.
Summer says, “I thought you didn’t know how to fly that thing.”
“Now’s a great time to learn.”
“Time is the problem, Billy. We don’t have any.”
“The wind’s dropping. This could actually work.”
I set the quadcopter on the flattest piece of ground I can find. The four propellers attach easily. Then I program my phone to control the video camera—again, easier than I was expecting. Just click on the app Dad installed for me. After that, snap the phone into the cradle on the remote-control unit, and we’re ready for lift-off.
Well, almost.
The remote has dual joysticks, one for “thrust” and one for “altitude.” From watching Dad launch the drone, I remember him toggling both switches at the same time, though in opposing directions. That requires nimble coordination, and probably more than a few practice flights.
The first time I try it, the quadcopter rises to a measly altitude of three feet—maybe four—before suddenly streaking straight into the branches of a chokecherry tree. Luckily, there’s no harm to the aircraft.
The twin joysticks would be easier to use if I were a hardcore gamer, but I’m not. I don’t even own an Xbox. On my next attempt the drone goes higher but then loses power and spirals downward, bouncing on impact. This time one of the blades snaps. I scramble to replace it with a spare from the kit.
“So it’s a crash course,” Summer says. “Literally.”
“You wanna try?”
“Just hurry up, Billy.”
A few miraculous minutes later, the quadcopter is staying airborne. The camera works, too, feeding live flight video that we’re watching on my phone.
“Now let’s buzz those buzzards,” I say.
They aren’t as aggressive as eagles. Confronted by the speedy aircraft, the birds break formation and scatter high into the thermals.
I toggle back on the thrust, easing the drone into a stationary position. It’s a wobbly hover, though, so the view of the scene below is a bit unsteady: one extremely dead deer and one extremely uncomfortable Dennis Dickens.
A strip of gray tape covers Dad’s mouth, and he’s completely trussed with ropes. The knots binding his ankles and wrists are pegged to the ground with the same type of stakes that held down the helicopter’s tarp.
Finally we know Lincoln Baxter’s true plan. He never intended to kill my father himself. The grizzly that comes to eat the dead deer will do that. Then Baxter will kill the grizzly.
Summer and I feel sick and helpless. With no cell service for miles, our phones are useless. There’s no way to call for help.
Dad wriggles against the ropes to let us know he sees the quadcopter.
“I want to go get him,” Summer pleads, her voice cracking.
“Not yet.”
Walking straight into Baxter’s rifle sights would be crazy. Even if he didn’t try to kill us, a warning shot could be deadly if it ricocheted the wrong way.
“You can’t tell me what to do, Billy!”
“No, but I can chase you down and drag you back here,” I said. “It’s too dangerous out there, Summer. Let’s try something else, okay?”
The drone’s GPS isn’t working, so I steer manually. I must be getting better—the aircraft returns to us as if it were on a wire, settling softly in the same spot it took off from. Inside the case is a small clawlike attachment—the same kind of device Dad used in this very meadow to deliver his first message to me.
After connecting the claw to the underside of the drone, I click on my phone app to enable the grab-and-release functions.
Summer says, “Fine. Now what?”
“This is what.” I pull it from my pocket.
“Whoa.” Summer’s face lights up.
“A kid named Chin gave it to me.”
“B.A.D. Is that you, Billy?’
“We’ll see.”
I untie one shoe, peel off my sock, and slide the heavy pocketknife inside. After hanging the soc
k on the mechanical claw, I launch the drone toward my father.
And, yes, I know his hands are tied. He’ll figure it out. Mr. Government Spy.
When it stops, the quadcopter’s altitude is twenty-three feet, slightly higher than a two-story house. Dad lies absolutely still, his eyes locked on the hovering drone.
I touch the button. The claw’s talons open. The knife drops…
…and hits my father right between the legs.
“Ouch,” says Summer.
The sock helped cushion the blow. I honestly think so.
Still, Dad’s eyes are clenched tight, and the veins in his neck are bulging. It’s probably a good thing there’s no audio.
On the plus side, the impact caused Dad to jerk so violently that he yanked the top stake out of the dirt. His hands remain tied at the wrists, but at least he’ll be able to grab the sock, shake out the knife, and open it.
And he’d better move fast.
I move the toggles to turn the drone around.
Summer and I are glued to the video feed. Our last screen glimpse of Dad shows him fumbling with the sock. I wonder if Lincoln Baxter is seeing the same thing through his rifle scope. With any luck, he’s looking elsewhere, scanning the meadow and timber ridges in search of his long-awaited prize.
Which the quadcopter spies first.
The unmistakable image flashes on my phone, striking us cold with dread.
Summer cries, “Make the drone go back!”
Easier said than done, for a rookie pilot. An incredibly nervous rookie pilot.
The aircraft is sluggish to respond. Summer raises the binoculars.
“Can you see it?” I ask.
“You mean ‘her.’ ”
“How far from Dad?”
“A hundred yards, max,” Summer says. “Maybe less. No, definitely less.”
This is what they call a worst-case scenario.
After what feels like an eternity, I finally coax the quadcopter into a stable position high above the grizzly, which is standing tall on two legs and sniffing the air.
It’s got to be the same bear I thought I saw—and obviously did see—the first time I was here. Her two cubs stop wrestling in the goldenrods to peer up at the sky. They hear the high-pitched hum of the mini-spycraft.
On the camera the baby bears look like chocolate fur balls, while momma on her hind legs is a brawny, unhuggable tree trunk. Suddenly she drops to all fours and starts loping toward the poacher’s target zone, double-baited with a lifeless deer and a roped-down human.
“You know what to do,” Summer says. “Make it fast.”
Using a puny little drone to scare a big-ass alpha predator requires precise flying skills and flawless reflexes. My father is pro at this, but he’s currently not available to instruct me. Cautiously I thumb the thrust lever to begin the pursuit.
As quick-footed as grizzlies are, the quadcopter easily keeps pace. I drop the altitude until the drone is flying at eye level with the running bear. She’s trying to figure out whether the airborne invader is just a noisy pest or a serious threat.
At once she slams on the brakes, her cubs crashing clumsily into her rear end. It’s impossible to stop the drone that fast, so I fumble with the joysticks, trying to navigate a crash-free U-turn.
Summer reports that the big grizzly is very close to the spot where Dad is tied down. “She’s standing up again, Billy. Not a happy mom.”
I struggle to keep the quadcopter positioned between my father and the bear family. The drone is fluttering like a dizzy duck, but eventually I get it stopped in exactly the right place—floating near enough to bother the momma grizzly, but far enough to avoid those ham-sized killer paws.
Even though I’m viewing her through a tiny camera lens, the expression in the bear’s eyes makes the hair rise on my neck. She’s deciding whether to attack or run away with the cubs.
Running away is what we want her to do—the faster and farther, the better.
For the moment it’s a standoff between a mountainous beast and a pint-sized flying machine. Standing beside me, still watching through the binoculars, Summer asks, “Is that you beeping?”
“It’s the remote control.”
“What does that mean?”
“I’m not positive,” I say, “but I think it means the battery’s low.”
“The battery in the drone? The one that makes it fly?”
“Okay, we need to stay chill.”
Without a proper pilot lesson, I’m unaware of all the high-tech features on Dad’s new quadcopter. Apparently it came with advanced software that automatically guides it back to the takeoff location when it needs recharging. This ultra-smart program is very convenient—unless the GPS doesn’t work because there’s no cell tower nearby, and an angry four-hundred-pound carnivore is standing between the aircraft and the spot where you want it to land.
“What’s going on?” Summer says. “Does that crazy drone have a death wish?”
“It doesn’t know where to go. No GPS signal!”
“Then you be the GPS, Billy. Steer it around the bear!”
Once again I grasp at the toggles, but there’s no time to change the flight direction. The quadcopter is way too close to the grizzly, and the grizzly is way too quick.
Helplessly I watch the fateful collision on my phone. The final image is a ferocious flash of teeth. Then the screen goes blank.
“She got it!” Summer blurts. “One bite.”
I snatch the binoculars to see for myself. The mother grizzly is gnawing on the mangled drone. With a snarl she spits out the pieces and rakes a claw through the pile of cracked plastic and shredded wires.
Summer exhales in despair. “She’s not leaving, is she?”
“Nope.”
“Billy?”
“I know, I know.”
The bear and her cubs are still hungry, and they smell dinner.
Catered by Lincoln Chumley Baxter IV.
TWENTY-ONE
The animals march toward my captive father’s location. All that Summer and I can do is try to spook them.
Frantically we clap, yell, even whoop, trying to make the scariest sounds two medium-sized humans can make. The grizzlies act the opposite of scared. They don’t even bother to glance our way.
After chomping the noisy mutant bumblebee—or whatever she thought the drone was—the momma bear seems calm and confident as she leads her offspring to the wilderness version of a LongHorn Steakhouse.
If deer is the main course, Dad will be dessert.
Or the other way around.
It seems impossible that he hasn’t gotten the pocketknife open by now, yet I still see him wriggling on the ground. For me and Summer to dash out there and distract the grizzlies would be a suicide mission. She’s ready to try, but I won’t let her. None of us, including my father, would get out of here alive.
Leaving Mom and Lil brokenhearted forever.
Despite the horror I’m feeling, I can’t put down the binoculars. Tears are puddling in the eyecups.
The knife drop should have worked, I swear. It was the smart play…our only play.
“Whoa, bear,” I whisper to myself.
Summer says, “Look, she’s up again!”
Only a few strides from the deer carcass, the mother bear has halted and risen to her full height. Behind her, the cubs are standing, too.
So, finally, is Dad.
“They’re staring at him,” I say in a shaky voice.
“Obviously.”
“What in the world is he doing?”
“I have no clue,” says Summer.
Everybody who lives in Montana knows the drill if you cross paths with a wild grizzly: Take out your bear spray, just in case. Don’t run. Stay as motionless as possible. Speak in a low, non-thr
eatening tone. Avoid eye contact. Back away slowly.
Dad’s can of bear spray is in the ravine, so scratch that off the list.
And he’s definitely not standing still.
“Is that some kind of Crow dance?” I ask Summer.
“No,” she says. “That’s a crazy white guy trying not to get eaten.”
Draped with dangling lengths of rope, Dad’s arms are upraised and swaying like palm trees in a breeze.
The mother bear seems totally puzzled. Who wouldn’t be?
Summer says, “I get it now. He’s trying to make himself look big.”
I remember reading about an old hiker who always carries an umbrella when traveling through wild country. If he encounters a grizzly, the first thing he does is open the umbrella above his head. He says it gives him the shape of a much larger animal, and discourages the bear from charging.
The umbrella trick isn’t often recommended by wilderness pros, but this must be Dad’s version, using the ropes he cut off with Chin’s knife. From here he looks like a tall, shaggy capital Y.
The momma grizzly has never faced such a peculiar creature, and she’s not sure how to react.
A ringing gunshot makes her decision easy. She wheels around and gallops toward the woods, the cubs at her heels. A second shot follows, pinging off a rock.
Summer says, “Where did he go? I lost him!”
“Me too.” Instead of watching the bears retreat, I should have been watching Dad.
“Look over there, Billy! More to the right. No, over there!”
“Where?” The binoculars are shaking in my hands. “How far?”
“Between us and that bare split pine, on the far side of the meadow.”
“Now I see him!”
My father is moving away from the grizzlies and gunfire—though not as rapidly as he should.
“Could he possibly run any slower?” Summer groans.
“That’s not running,” I say. “That’s limping.”
And at the very instant Dad comes into perfect focus, he disappears into the high timber.
* * *
—
You’re probably thinking: Now would be a good time to go for help.
