Drone Chase

by Pam Withers

  “Bye. Don’t forget to check out a book while you’re there.” But not one on paranormals or the cannery, I’m tempted to add.

  I drive home, offload the canoe, and find that Dorothy has left her jacket behind. I carry Chief into the clinic.

  “Oh, poor dear!” Mom says, leaning over him instantly and doing a full body examination. “What’s his story?”

  “Leash got caught on a bush in the woods, and he’s seriously dehydrated,” I say, already setting up an IV. “Do you have time to take care of him, Mom? I’ll call the owner, but I have to get to the library before it closes.” To return Dorothy’s jacket.

  “No problem, dear. Make sure the owner can pay, though.”

  Halfway to the library on foot, I see Dorothy’s bike disappearing into her garage. She’s too far away to shout to, so I veer toward her place, intending to leave the jacket on the front porch, preferably without running into her strange old man.

  I’m half a block away when I hear angry shouting coming from the garage. That’s not good. Should I drop the jacket and sneak away or deliver it later — or listen in?

  I sidle up to a vent on the side of the building and identify three voices plus Pilot’s yapping: Dorothy, her father, and Min-jun’s dad. I catch a few words: library … cannery … drones … grounded …

  How did her father know so quickly? Since when do Mr. Kim and Mr. Dawson hang out together? And why did Dorothy lie to her father, anyway? I back away as the voices die down, and sit on a garden wall to take out my phone.

  I punch in the phone number on Chief ’s tag. Three rings, four rings, nothing. Then a gruff voice on a recording: “You’ve reached Oakley and Orion Logan. Leave a message or leave us alone.”

  So Chief belongs to the Logan brothers. Min-jun told me two and two don’t equal five, but I’m processing new math in my head right now. Mr. Dawson plus Dorothy equals Yellow Drone. I’m sure they created it, given Dorothy’s reaction when I first mentioned it after the sleepwalking incident and the way she hid behind the boulder from it on our drone date. Then her dad sold it to Logan times two, who literally carried it over (staying with math-speak) to the cannery. If the cannery ghost wasn’t a spirit, but an animal in pain, it might add up to Hank plus other bears multiplied. Held captive in there. An illegal, immoral bear-milking or bear-dissection operation. Oh my god! Let my wild guessing be totally wrong, please.

  But I’m a vet’s kid. I know an animal wailing in pain when I hear it. I just wasn’t in a headspace to process the thought on that mountainside, to recognize Hank’s throaty cry of desperation, or to rescue more than one animal right then. Okay, be honest, Ray. You were scared.

  Back to the math challenge. Mr. Kim? It doesn’t add up. But the final sum of the day is bad math for sure: Dorothy is in trouble because she lied to her father to spend an afternoon with me. And she was hiding from Yellow Drone because she knew its owners — the Logans — might report back the day’s activities to the drone’s designer, her father. A strict military man. Trespassing and taking a guard dog off private property (and kissing a guy) when she was supposed to be at the library.

  I could be wrong. I could call up the conservation officer and convince him to check out the cannery property, but I’ve got nothing beyond a hunch, and he’s already unimpressed by me. Also, he’s a friend of my granddad’s, and Granddad has already told me off once for sending the officer on a wild-goose chase … er, cub chase … to the Logans’ farm. I have no evidence to persuade Officer Anderson to make a trip to the old cannery as well.

  Still, what if I’m right? There’s one sure way to find out. And one way, maybe, to rescue Hank and any other bears held captive by a poaching ring.

  My throat closes up on me as I contemplate revisiting the cannery, a mission that would require making my way into dangerous bear-infested woods. I can’t do that on my own. It’s pathetic to admit, but I just can’t. I’ve flunked my outdoors training, as Granddad would be the first to point out: a weak-livered dickhead, a useless wimp. A loser city boy terrified of —

  But wait. I have Min-jun as a friend — and I have a Butterfly drone, a sneaky little spy able to do almost anything in my skilled hands. If Min-jun will come with me and we can get close enough to launch a drone over the cannery property, my little Butterfly can check things out without my even trespassing.

  I leave Dorothy’s jacket on her front porch and manage to slink home to help with Chief before anyone emerges from the Dawsons’ garage.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  GRANDDAD IS HANGING up the phone as I walk in. From the hard look on his face, I figure something’s wrong.

  “That was Evan Anderson,” he says. “He just found another grizzly sow carcass, bits cut out like poachers do. Plott hound and boot tracks all over the place, and her young ones gone, their trail leading to where a truck was parked.” He’s shaking his head.

  “That’s awful,” I say, my teeth clenching.

  “Wouldn’t I love to mount the heads of bear poachers,” Granddad grumbles.

  “I don’t blame you,” I say.

  “Also had a call from Jae-bum.”

  “Oh?”

  “How was canoeing?” he asks casually. Too casually.

  “Had fun,” I say. “Thanks for the Jeep and canoe. Really enjoyed the paddling. Reminded me of —”

  “Yer ass is grass!” he barks, eyes flashing.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Mom and Dad step from the clinic into the living room, eyebrows raised at Granddad’s accusation. They look from me to him.

  “Excuse me?” I ask.

  “I thought you were finally getting some sense in your noggin, getting some outdoors in you. But evidently your wee trip was never about canoeing, grandson, was it?”

  “I took my drone along, if that’s what you mean. It’s best to fly it away from town, and avoid trees and people —”

  “Stop pussyfooting!”

  “What happened, Ray?” Dad asks. “Are you okay? Is the Jeep okay? The canoe?”

  “He trespassed on private property, Jae-bum heard. The old cannery site,” Granddad snarls, keeping his eyes on me.

  “Oh, come on, Dad,” my father says. “You did that as a youngster. I did that. Every kid around town has explored those ruins.”

  “Those ruins,” Granddad pronounces slowly, “are way past safe like they might’ve been a generation ago, son, and I near enough skinned yer hide when you were caught, if you remember straight. Yer son, on the other hand, got caught on security camera footage, Jae-bum says. Which means the owners could prosecute. I s’pose you might have something to say about that, jackass?”

  “Don’t call my son a jackass.” Mom says, face livid.

  “I will if he is,” Granddad says evenly.

  “Leah,” my dad warns.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, turning toward Mom and Dad. “There was a dying dog just over the fence, and —”

  “The Doberman pinscher?” my dad asks. “That’s where he came from? He’s responding well. We treated him just in time. You did a good thing there.”

  Dad is standing up to Granddad? I take a deep breath and exchange looks with Mom, hardly daring to breathe. She turns back to stare at Granddad, lips pressed together, hands clenched.

  “Whisht!”

  That’s Irish for shush. Granddad looks like he’s going to pop a blood vessel. He shakes his head at me. “You don’t trespass, steal guard dogs, and then claim they were dying, you blaggarding eejit! And you thought you wouldn’t get caught? Thought yer old granddad wouldn’t get a call? From people who think I can control you and yer toy-plane shenanigans? Saints preserve us! Gallivanting with a girl, no less, the Dawson lass I warned you against. Bejesus, are you trying to turn all my best customers against me? You’ve hardly arrived. Just grand!”

  “You have a girlfriend?” Mom asks me, looking more surprised than pleased.

  I’ve never stood up to my granddad, but something about Dorothy’s earlier lecture has bolstered
my nerve. “Granddad,” I say with quiet authority, “just like doctors with their Hippocratic oath, veterinarians take an oath to use their skills in the best interests of animals who need their help. So it was my duty to save that dog.”

  “That’s true, Dad,” my father asserts.

  A wrinkled, trembling index finger bristling with little hairs comes out from under my granddad’s blanket and points straight at me.

  “You — are — not — a — vet. And there’ll be no more Jeep or canoe in yer life for a while. End of story. Sean, for God’s sake get us a whiskey, will you, and empty this room for me?”

  He sinks back into his chair, too pale and shrunken for my liking. Dad jumps to open the liquor cabinet. Mom and I back into the clinic, where the disturbance has a few patients barking, Chief not included. At least the Doberman is sleeping peacefully, destined to live a full life still.

  My cell buzzes. It’s a text from Dorothy: Got caught. Grounded big time. Sorry, but can’t c u 4 a while.

  I sigh and punch in, Bummer. OK. Miss u already.

  A few days later, Mr. Kim greets me at the back door of the Korean café with a big smile, wearing a clean, starched white apron and a funny-looking hairnet. He reports me to Granddad like a malicious town gossip, but pretends everything’s cool when we meet face to face, I think darkly.

  “Ray! Good to see you! Just make kimchee mandu. You hungry?”

  I’ve been around the Kims long enough to have developed an addiction to their cabbage, pork, and tofu dumplings, so there’s no need to fake enthusiasm.

  “Yes please, Mr. Kim. And is Min-jun around? I stopped by your house and Mrs. Kim sent me here.”

  “Min-jun!” Mr. Kim booms. He lowers a bunch of the crescent-shaped Korean dumplings into a giant fryer that sizzles and spits and sends awesome smells toward my nostrils. “Min-jun, Ray is here! You want kimchee mandu while do homework?”

  “Sure, Dad.” Min-jun is hunched over a small table in a far corner of the kitchen, an apron on but schoolbooks scattered in front of him, pencil poised over them. He straightens and converts a frown into a smile. “Ray! Just in time to explain our math assignment to me!”

  “I can do that as long as you don’t make me do dishes,” I kid him.

  The homework help takes ten minutes, after which we chow down the hot dumplings, then get permission to wander outside for a brief chat.

  “So you and Dorothy, eh?” he teases in a hush-hush tone, elbowing me.

  I turn a little red as I ask, “Where did that come from?”

  “Dad was over at the Dawsons’ delivering dumplings when she arrived back from your canoe trip, and somehow her dad had figured it out. As in, wasn’t too happy about it.”

  “Mmm,” I say, trying to imagine Mr. Dawson as a kimchee mandu fan, or Mr. Kim as a home-delivery guy on top of café owner and chef. “You guys don’t even do takeout.”

  Min-jun shrugs. “What’s up? Need romantic advice already, or do you have some perfect scheme for getting me off my shift tonight?”

  “Just wondering if you’re free this weekend.”

  “This weekend. There’s no Outdoors Club trip, if that’s what you mean, and Dad might give me a night off. But this had better not involve my quad and the Logan farm.”

  I laugh lightly, or try to, anyway. “Nah, just wanted someone to go camping with. Granddad isn’t up to it at the moment, and my parents are too busy working. I was thinking you and me, up in the mountains. Need to take advantage of these spring days, I figure. And you can help me improve my camping skills.”

  He cocks his head a little and smiles. “You want to camp again, even after the last trip’s disaster? Or specifically because of it, maybe? If you need a camping tune-up, I’m your man. Always good for some hiking in the hills, even during prime bear-mating season in the Great Bear Rainforest, when the bears are their most aggressive.”

  He’s teasing me, I tell myself, so I do my best chuckle. “Perfect! Only catch is, I can’t get the Jeep.”

  “Ah, so that’s it. Unfortunately, my quad’s duff right now. Needs a new CV boot. But I’ll phone Cole and maybe he can get the car off his parents. So there’d be three of us. Sound good? Oh, and pack less stuff this time!”

  “Um, okay. Thanks.” Cole has to come with us? Damn. But oh well.

  “Min-jun! Come do dishes!” his dad shouts from the back door.

  “I’ll text you,” says my neighbour. I give him a thumbs-up and trot toward my workshop with one burning goal: to tweak my Butterfly drone so I can fly it over the cannery site on a spy mission. I have only a couple of days now to fix the drone, preferably without parts from Dorothy or her dad.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “THE THREE OF us are sharing a tent,” Cole announces as his parents’ Chevrolet bounces up the curvy road, “to make our carry-in loads lighter, and to avoid anyone being stupid.” He looks in the rear-view mirror at me.

  “And my dad let me come on the strict promise we won’t go near the cannery,” Min-jun reminds us.

  Cole laughs. “All parents worry about their kids sneaking into the cannery, ’cause that’s what they did when they were teenagers.”

  “So I’m told,” I say, watching trees fly by and telling myself I’m not going to upchuck on this ride. “Think they’ll ever pave these roads?”

  “They’re logging roads, New York.” Cole’s tone is taunting.

  I sigh, if only to exhale the distress in my gut.

  “Cole, I lied about doing bicycling and outdoors trips in New York City. The only hiking and camping I’ve done is with my granddad on vacations here. But I appreciate you and Min-jun being willing to join me this weekend.”

  So lame, but at least I’m trying to make peace with my chip-on-his-shoulder classmate.

  “Ha!” Cole laughs and slams his foot down on the accelerator. The Chevy slides sideways for a second, spits loose dirt, then boots it up the winding mountainside road, stones knocking against the undercarriage like they want to get in. I close my eyes and breathe mightily through my nose, willing my stomach contents to stay where they are, knowing that Cole’s eyes are locked gleefully on my pale face.

  “Too bad Dorothy couldn’t join us,” he says. “I hear she’s grounded forever. Her dad’s a wacko ex-general, you know. You’re lucky he didn’t toss a grenade at your house.”

  “Whatever,” I mumble. Suck it up, Ray. He’s pissed and nasty, but he has a car.

  “Don’t know why you want to go back to Campsite 78,” Min-jun says. “The hiking is kind of steep up there.”

  “I’ll keep up,” I vow, patting Dad’s lightweight backpack with the drone hidden in its depths.

  No canvas tent or army duffle this time. Nor homemade onion bagels. Because Dad helped me pack. “You got taken last time,” he said with a chuckle. “Your granddad jinxed you on purpose with that ancient tent and truckload of things he called necessities. I guess Leah didn’t know enough to call his bluff. Too bad I was off on an emergency call.”

  “Mom doesn’t want me to go this weekend,” I said.

  “She worries,” he responded casually, “but I’m proud of you for getting out with your new friends and tackling your fears head-on. You’ll be fine. Let’s you and me go camping next weekend if things are quiet at the clinic. Been a while, son.”

  As Cole’s car horn blared outside, Dad gave me a rare hug and I returned it, though we both knew the clinic never calms down enough to let him go free. The clients, the sparring with Mom, and Granddad’s health are all carving deep new lines on his face. As I lifted my pack, I wished I could reach up and erase them.

  “We’re here!” Cole announces, pulling into the dirt parking lot, which offers three entire spaces for hikers’ vehicles. When I see the Forest Service Campsite 78 sign, I flash back to stumbling out of the Outdoors Club mini-van, vomit pasted below my window, everyone pairing up without talking to me. This time I step out of the Chevy, welcome the fresh mountain air into my lungs, and smile at my two companion
s. I can do this, I tell myself. I’m Granddad’s grandson and Dad’s son, taught by the best if I’d ever bothered to listen. It’s in my blood somewhere, this outdoorsman stuff. Anyway, I’m with the club’s most experienced backcountry guys, and I’m doing it for Hank. If there are caged bears in that cannery, I’ll be submitting photographic evidence to authorities tomorrow. Without stepping onto the property. Just sending a harmless Butterfly over the property’s airspace to do the job.

  We pull our gear out of Cole’s trunk and distribute it between the three of us. Even if it’s lighter than what I had before, it still feels like I’m hauling sandbags. We start down the trail, Cole leading, me sandwiched between my mentors. Min-jun is boasting about the tips he got last night filling in for a waiter. “Way better pay than dishwashing,” he says. “And Dad’s teaching me to make kimchee mandu dumplings. Watch it, guys, pretty soon I’ll be top chef!”

  “Scary,” Cole shoots back with a real smile.

  It’s an hour of slogging up and down salal-choked rises before we arrive at our old camp by the stream. En route, I’m subjected to lectures on poison ivy, rattlesnakes, fire starting, and compass navigation. I don’t tell them I’ve heard it all from Granddad before. In fact, I appreciate the refresher course.

  “We did one trip with Mussett where we weren’t allowed anything except a knife, bandana, cord, rain poncho, and fire flint,” Cole boasts.

  “No tent or sleeping bag?” I ask, figuring he’s pulling my leg. “What about matches?”

  “We used our rain poncho and cord as a backpack, then as a shelter. We got a fire going from the flint.”

  “Sounds dumb,” I say, then wish I hadn’t.

  “It rained non-stop, and I got soaked,” Min-jun said, chuckling. “Had a cold for a week after.”

  “Ate berries and stuff,” Cole recalls. “Then one of the students stepped in real fresh bear crap.”

  “Yeah?” I glance at the dense woods around us and shiver.

  “Mussett got his bear spray out and had us backtrack to where it was safer.”