Over the Edge

by Gloria Skurzynski

  Reverent, Steven said, “Nothing could capture this canyon’s spirit. I’m almost ashamed to even try putting it into photographs. The Native Americans called it Mountain Lying on its Back. It really is the mirror image of a mountain. Incredible.”

  “I wish we had hours to stand on this spot and drink in all this beauty,” Olivia told them, “but I’m suppose to be at The Peregrine Fund field office at ten o’clock, and it’s an hour-and-a-half drive. We need to get Morgan, grab a bite of breakfast, and take off.”

  “Where is the field office?” Jack asked.

  “A place called Vermilion Cliffs. If all goes well, we might even get to see a condor!”

  “There they are,” Steven announced. “The Vermilion Cliffs. Wow, what a view! Let’s stop for a minute so I can grab a few shots.”

  The second he pulled the rental car to a stop at the side of the two-lane highway, all four doors swung open and all four Landons jumped out, Steven and Olivia from the front, Jack and Ashley from the back. Morgan remained in the middle of the backseat, where he’d sat like a stone for the whole hour-and-a-half ride from the Grand Canyon. As an act of defiance, he’d brought the Game Boy, but if it bothered Olivia, she didn’t let it show. She kept speaking to Morgan in a pleasant, brittle way that to Jack sounded strangely unlike his mother. It was a tone she’d adopted after their encounter two hours earlier when the four Landons had returned from the Grand Canyon rim to Yavapai Lodge.

  With the room’s thick curtains drawn tight against the sun, Morgan was sitting hunched over the Game Boy. He quickly looked up and said to Olivia, “You told me not to take it to the rim. You didn’t say anything about not playing it here.”

  Dryly, Olivia said, “It seems your upset stomach has miraculously healed itself. That’s fine, because we’re going to get some breakfast and then start out for—”

  “Oh no,” Morgan said, clutching his middle. “I’m still too sick to go anywhere. I better talk to Mr. Landon.”

  Olivia shook her head. “That won’t work this time. We’re all going, including you. Grab your things.”

  And now, at the Vermilion Cliffs, Steven was attempting to draw Morgan out of the car, waving through the car window. “Hey, Morgan, wait’ll you see this view of the cliffs! Come on, it’s spectacular!”

  “No thank you,” Morgan answered as he deftly punched miniature Game Boy keys.

  Olivia put her hand lightly on Steven’s back, touching him where his shoulder blade protruded. “Leave him be,” she said softly. “If he wants to ignore all this, he’s only hurting himself.”

  “Exactly. That’s why we shouldn’t give up.”

  “I’m not giving up. I’m just not being taken in the way you seem to be.”

  “He’s a troubled kid,” Steven answered evenly, “but those are exactly the ones who need our help. It isn’t like you to get rattled.” He gave her a quick, sideways hug that tucked Olivia beneath his lanky arm. “Give him another chance—he’ll warm up.”

  “I hope you’re right,” she murmured. “There’s something about that boy that rubs me the wrong way.”

  “You worry about the condors, and I’ll handle Morgan. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Olivia said.

  Jack knew he’d better hurry if he was going to capture a perfect shot. The morning sun cast shadows that outlined every crevice in the mesa-topped range. Compared to the mile-high cliffs of the Grand Canyon, the Vermilion Cliffs were dwarfs, and the shape of them wasn’t outstanding in this land of rugged peaks, pinnacles and crags, domes and forested ridges. But the colors! While other rock masses stood out in bold orange-reds, the reds of the Vermilion Cliffs had a bluish tinge. The blue-reds were layered in horizontal stripes by pale sedimentary rock left behind by ancient oceans. No wonder Native Americans called cliffs like these Land of the Sleeping Rainbow.

  “Hey, where are the condors?” Ashley exclaimed, scanning the sky while shielding her eyes from the sun. “I thought you said they lived here.”

  “Ashley, it would be a minor miracle if you spotted a condor. Right now there’s only one of them still out there in the wild. Come on, we’ve got to get to the field office.” Olivia started the engine while Jack and Ashley piled once more into the backseat. Steven took the map and checked the route.

  “Wait—I think this is it,” Steven finally said. “The town of Vermilion Cliffs, christened after the cliffs of the same name.”

  Morgan, finally looking up, muttered, “This is supposed to be a town? Jeez, it’s even smaller than Dry Creek! How many people live here?”

  “About 30, I think,” Olivia answered. “And six of them work for the condor program.”

  The town of Vermilion Cliffs consisted of a flat-roofed stone lodge with a neon “‘Vacancy” sign flashing; a fly-fishing shop; a couple of little trailers; and around the back of a loop from the highway, a double trailer. They parked next to the double trailer. A placard identified it as The Peregrine Fund California Condor Project.

  At the door, they were met by Shawn, the research project’s chief biologist. Shawn had a beard that matched his hair, the same reddish brown they’d seen in their drive across the Painted Desert. Protective coloration, Jack thought, grinning to himself. Shawn would blend right in with the landscape. Tall and wiry, he must have been pretty tough—Olivia had said that every few days, Shawn strapped on a makeshift backpack and hiked two miles to deliver a 50-pound dead dairy calf to the hungry condors. When Olivia told them that, Steven had joked, “So all Shawn’s baggage must be carry-on.”

  Jack laughed, but Ashley just looked puzzled.

  Morgan snorted. “Carry-on. A pun on carrion, which is what condors eat. Dead animals are called carrion. Jeez, Ashley, what grade are you in?”

  “Why don’t you go flame yourself,” she answered in a fake sweet voice.

  Now Shawn greeted them with, “Hi. I guess you’re Olivia and Steven Landon. I’m Shawn.”

  Olivia introduced Jack and Ashley, who shook hands with Shawn, and then Morgan, who kept his hands behind his back.

  Getting right to the point, Olivia said, “The most puzzling part of all about this problem with the condors is the lead pellets. The report here says that they’re all different sizes. Is that correct?”

  Shawn nodded. “We have no clue about where these are coming from. It’s pretty weird.”

  “Could we see the x-rays that show the lead pellets? Do you keep them here?” Olivia asked.

  “Yes. In the back. Follow me.”

  Morgan said nothing, yet Jack had the sense that Morgan was pretty interested in what was happening, and Ashley noticed it, too. “Morgan likes anything to do with death,” she whispered.

  Jack told her to hush, glancing quickly at Morgan to see if he’d heard, but his face had closed off in a way that Jack couldn’t read.

  The six of them crowded into a small room while Shawn held up the first x-ray in front of a light screen. It felt strange to look at the insides of a big bird. When he was seven, Jack had seen an x-ray of his own broken arm, but this x-ray looked like a turkey carcass after the Landons had demolished it on Thanksgiving. Seven lead pellets inside the condor’s intestinal tract stood out in bright white in the dark x-ray, like a constellation of stars on a cloudy night. A second x-ray film showed five pellets. “See, the pellets are different sizes,” Shawn said, pointing.

  “Maybe they got melted down during the condor’s digestion,” Ashley suggested, “and some just got digested more than others.”

  Jack gave Ashley an elbow in the ribs for saying something so unscientific, but Shawn answered, “Actually, they do erode when they get digested.”

  Ashley jabbed Jack with a triumphant return elbow.

  “Which is why we try to get the pellets out as soon as possible—sometimes by tube, sometimes by surgery. We move fast so the lead won’t get into the bloodstream. But we don’t think digestion is the reason for the difference in pellet size. That part’s a mystery. We think it’s a key to finding the source of
the lead, but….” He scratched at his beard. “Like I said, no one has a clue what it all means.”

  “Could you please explain why the pellet size is so important?” Steven asked.

  “Because we think these birds are all being poisoned from the same source—from a single kill. There are three distinct pellet sizes in all of the intestinal tracts. Although it’s possible that these pellets all came from one gun, it is also conceivable that the kill was shot at by at least three different guns. So, whatever animal was killed had to be big—big enough for a group of condors to feed on, anyway.”

  “Except there’s a problem with your theory,” Morgan broke in. “Nobody shoots big game with a shotgun.” When they all looked at him, he said, “I have an online friend named Snipe. I’ve learned about guns. Anything large is taken out with a rifle.”

  “Snipe?” Ashley mouthed to Jack, but Jack shook his head at her.

  “You’re absolutely right about that, Morgan,” Shawn agreed. “It doesn’t make sense that one large animal was killed with a bunch of shotguns and left to rot. Shotguns are normally used for birds—duck hunting, that sort of thing. But a group of condors are not going to feed on a single dead duck, so that’s not the answer.” He sighed a long sigh as though he’d gone over every possibility.

  Ashley’s hand darted up with anticipation. “Oh, I have an idea! Couldn’t one shell be filled up with those different-size pellets?”

  “No way,” Morgan answered. “You can’t mix pellets together in one shell, or the gun will blow up in your hand.” When they all looked at him, he said, “What?”

  “Your friend Snipe sure taught you a lot about guns,” Ashley stated.

  Morgan’s eyebrows moved up. “Your point is…?”

  “Let’s get back to what we know. What’s the largest number of pellets any condor has ingested so far?” Olivia asked.

  Shawn answered without missing a beat. “Seventeen.”

  “Seventeen!” Olivia gasped. “That’s a lot of lead!”

  “Right. Unfortunately, we didn’t find the pellets until after the bird was dead.” Shawn went on to tell them about a condor called 65—none of the condors had names, only numbers.

  “When we did the necropsy—”

  Morgan murmured to Jack, “That means an autopsy on animals.”

  “—it turned up 17 lead pellets in 65’s intestinal tract. It’s a similar story with all the others.” Shawn looked grim, then brightened to say, “On a happier note, we’ve rehabilitated number 87, and if you like, Olivia, you can come see him. He’s ready to be released, but we have to keep him penned up until we find the source of the lead. We can’t risk another death.”

  Olivia answered, “All of us would love to see a condor. The kids have been dying to get a look at one since we got here.”

  “It’s a rare treat,” Shawn agreed. “I only hope the magic of these condors will never end—they belong in the Grand Canyon.”

  They’d have to ride with him, Shawn said, in The Peregrine Fund’s big Ford sports utility four-by-four, because the Landons’ rental car would never make it up the rugged back road to the release site. The dirt road turned out to be rough, for sure—a bumpy, dusty, rutted washboard that snaked and twisted as it climbed, gaining 2,000 feet in altitude from the base of the cliffs to the top. During the long drive, Shawn told them how every day, the team members stayed out in the field from dawn to dusk, changing their locations as they held up antennas to try to track signals from the condors’ radio transmitters.

  “Some condors wear their transmitters on their wings,” he said. “We bolt them in place.”

  “Bolt them!” Ashley exclaimed. “You mean you use real bolts? If I were a condor, that would make me really mad.”

  “Well, maybe you’d like the other method better. Guess how we attach the transmitters when we put them on the tails.”

  “I don’t know. How?”

  Shawn grinned at her in the SUV’s rear-view mirror. “With dental floss and Super Glue. Real high-tech.” That made all of them laugh, even Morgan.

  “If you’ve got transmitters, can’t you track where they’re eating the poison meat?” Jack asked suddenly.

  “I wish we could. These transmitters are accurate only within a limited range and only if the signal is aimed at the antenna. We’re researching a new kind of tracking device that bounces signals off orbiting satellites. This system would tell us not only where a bird is but also give a record of where it has been. Once we’re sure the system will work, we’ll begin using it to track our condors.”

  When Shawn finally stopped the vehicle, he told them, “This is as far as we ride. The last quarter mile, we hike.”

  The hike was easy enough, winding through low-to-the-ground, fresh-smelling juniper and piñon trees. A breeze cooled them as they crossed the wide plateau at the top of the cliffs. “This is where you guys will stay,” Shawn told them, pointing to a pen constructed of plywood and wooden two-by-fours. Green, military-type netting draped across juniper branches camouflaged the pen like a hunting blind. Until they were practically on top of it, Jack hadn’t even noticed it.

  “You’ll be able to get good pictures from here, Steven and Jack. This is where we always put photographers when we’re doing a condor release,” Shawn explained.

  “Where will you be?” Steven asked.

  “Olivia and I will go to the release pen. It’s about 50 yards from here, close to the edge of the cliff.”

  “Why can’t we go?” Ashley wanted to know.

  “Too many of you. It’s not that you would scare the condors—it’s just that we don’t want them getting used to being around groups of people. Then they start landing near tourists at the Grand Canyon, looking for handouts—it’s a bad scene. Understand?”

  Jack shrugged and nodded. Under his breath, Morgan said, “Bummer.”

  “We’ll see you later,” Olivia called back to them, keeping her voice soft so she wouldn’t disturb the condor up ahead.

  Inside the cover of the green mesh netting, Steven set up his tripod. “Better attach your telephoto lens,” he instructed Jack. “And be alert. Seeing a condor is a rare treat, so don’t try to conserve film. Just aim and shoot.”

  “Calling a bird Number 87 is lame,” Morgan said. “You know what I’d name a condor if I owned one? Flip. Flip the Bird.”

  “Ha ha,” Ashley said, giving Morgan a withering look. “You are so not funny.”

  Steven, busy with his cameras, told Jack, “Look sharp, now. You don’t want to miss this.”

  Through his telephoto lens, Jack could watch everything happening in the flight pen. Shawn, followed by Olivia, approached Condor 87—the number was clearly visible on the bird’s wing. The bird cocked his bald, orange head as though wondering what these humans were up to. Slowly, Shawn reached out; 87 seemed to know him. The condor waited, unmoving. Shawn knelt and put an arm around 87, holding him close in a man-to-bird hug.

  “I think Shawn’s checking 87’s transmitter now,” observed Steven, who was watching through his own telephoto lens.

  Then, carefully, Shawn stood up, still holding 87, allowing Olivia to examine the bird. Jack could see his mother enjoying the rare opportunity to handle a creature only a heartbeat away from extinction. As Jack snapped a flurry of pictures, the condors’ fight somehow became his.

  There had to be a way to save them.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jack knocked on the door that connected the room he shared with Morgan to the room occupied by his parents and Ashley. “Mom, can I borrow your laptop computer?” he asked through the door.

  “What for?”

  “I have to write a paper about the condors. For science class. The teacher told me the only way she’d excuse me from class was if I wrote a paper—

  The door opened.

  “And I want to put down all the stuff I learned from Shawn today before I forget it,” Jack added, lowering his voice, liking the way it sounded when he didn’t have to yell. Hi
s voice seemed to be getting deeper lately.

  “Are you sure?” Olivia asked, throwing a glance toward Morgan, who was sprawled on his twin bed reading one of the Grand Canyon newspapers. Jack knew what his mother really meant: “Are you sure you want my laptop for homework, and not so Morgan can play on it?” She didn’t say that out loud, but Jack read her thoughts.

  “Homework. Honest.”

  “All right, then. Don’t use the battery—use the adapter and plug it in.”

  The motel room was small. Its only surface other than the two beds and a dresser top was a small round table, and Morgan had thrown his clothes all over the tabletop. Jack removed them and put them on the dresser, which was already cluttered with Morgan’s shoes and backpack.

  He sat down to work on his paper. “The Use of Lead Shotgun Pellets Endangers Condors,” he wrote for a title, and then he tried to remember that morning—the x-rays showing lead, the drive up the rutted road to the release pen, the thrilling sight of Condor 87, alive and well now.

  Morgan stayed silent as Jack grew absorbed in his writing. When Jack finally glanced at the other bed, Morgan had fallen asleep. After Jack turned off the computer, he pulled off his jeans and crawled into bed. It was late—past eleven—and he fell asleep quickly.

  When he woke up, dawn had just begun to seep over the trees and through the window. Morgan was sitting at the round table, hunched over the laptop.

  “How long have you been awake?” Jack asked.

  “Who needs sleep?” Morgan answered. “Want to take a look?”

  Without moving his eyes from the screen, Morgan said, “I had to get back into the game. The other gamers thought I’d quit because it was too tough. Crazy! No game ever beat me yet, and Splatterfest II isn’t going to be the first.”

  Splatterfest II. Jack had never heard of it until Morgan mentioned it the day before. He watched wide-eyed. These graphics were as sizzling as Morgan had described, and even more heart-pumping than his hype. Morgan was playing with another online friend named Dragon; even though more than a thousand miles separated them, Morgan played intensely, and Jack began to get drawn into the action as if the fight were taking place in real time and space. Whooping whenever Morgan made a kill, Jack got so involved he almost forgot where he was; their room at Yavapai Lodge practically melted from his consciousness.