Peregrine

by William Bayer

  “Let’s talk about it.”

  “That’s what I want to do.” He went to his bar, poured them each a glass of wine. “I’d like you to call me Jay,” he said. “All right if I call you Pam?”

  She nodded. He handed her her glass. He was likable, less formal than she’d thought, and a lot more charming than Carl Wendel, too.

  “Tell me why Wendel’s theory is absurd. Doesn’t this falconry training change a bird?”

  “Oh, yes, of course, but not the way he says. The bird does what she’d do in nature—her hunting strategies are more or less the same. The falconer can teach her a few things and focus her attacks, but really the main difference is that she flies better and hunts better and that afterward she returns.”

  “What about choice of prey? Wendel said the falconer determines that.”

  “Again he’s right, but there’re bounds to what a bird will be willing to attack. Say I want to hunt pheasant or partridge. I ‘enter’ her on them the first time we hunt, and as a result she’s ‘imprinted’ on that particular type of prey. But that doesn’t mean I can train her to kill what she wouldn’t kill if she were hungry enough and free. I can’t, for instance”—he paused—”train a falcon to kill a cat, though there’re tales in Russia of eagles that have hunted wolves.”

  “Well,” she said, thinking that over, “why do you think this particular falcon attacked the girl?”

  “I honestly don’t know. I think it’s a freak event. Terrible and tragic, very difficult to explain, and certainly a one-time thing. By now the bird’s probably flying around a hundred miles away from here, unaware of all the commotion she’s left behind.”

  She listened then as he briefed her on falconry, talking almost nonstop. His passion was evident, and she found herself entranced. He spoke lovingly of the history and lore of his sport, the medieval “sport of kings.” He called it noble: “a noble sport of devotion between bird and man.”

  “A great hunting falcon in action,” he told her, “is a marvelous thing to see. One feels one is partaking in a fundamental scheme—hunt successfully and survive or fail and die. It’s a play performed against billowing clouds and the blueness of the sky, a drama of natural selection that involves incredible aerobatic displays. When Carl speaks of ‘entertainment,’ he trivializes the experience. Falconry is like Greek drama—the purgation of pity and terror through vicarious participation by the falconer. When I go out with my bird and watch her reconnoiter, take position, go into a stoop, plunge down in attack, then I am with her and together we are participating in the eternal dance of hunter and prey.”

  He spoke with sadness of what he called the amateurs, people who dabble in falconry without passion or skill and who tarnish its good name.

  “Carl speaks as if we’re all evil men who go around robbing nests and manipulating birds. But he’s a breeder himself of falcons and owls—a little inconsistent, I would say, with his pronouncements about leaving birds alone.” He looked at her. “Did he mention his breeding activities?”

  “No. Any reason why he should?”

  Hollander shrugged. “Carl’s very serious about it, and his work has been important in the field. He’s set up a nonprofit corporation, the Trust for Raptor Birds. Like a number of people, he’s become interested in breeding in captivity to replenish some of the species endangered in the wild. The idea is that once the birds are old enough to hunt, they’re released with the hope that they’ll breed in nature on their own. It’s a fine concept, and I’ve contributed to the groups engaged in it, including Carl’s. But there have been questions raised about what really happens to all these birds—whether some of them have been siphoned off, sold here illegally or shipped abroad.

  “There’s a black market, as you probably know. The amounts of money involved are immense. I heard recently about a gyrfalcon sold to an Arab prince for over a hundred thousand dollars. A good peregrine will bring thousands. A peregrine as large as this”—he nodded toward the photos—”who can say? Such a bird would be priceless on account of its size, assuming she could be trained. That’s something you might want to look into. Who’s buying and selling? Who’s profiting from all these staggering deals? I’m not talking about Carl, but about some of the others, people who speak about ‘responsibility,’ ‘misuse of nature,’ and ‘manipulation,’ but who turn out on close inspection to be— well, let’s just say a little insincere.”

  She felt he was trying to lead her someplace, trying to implant an idea.

  “Why do you bring up breeding?”

  “Oh—just a thought,” he said.

  “That this peregrine might have been created by a breeder?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. “I’d say that’s a possibility, though she might have been born naturally that way. You see—it’s her size that strikes me. But then again, there’re giant human beings. We see them in freak shows and on basketball teams.” He paused. “But if I were a reporter and I saw a bird as strangely large as this, I think I might ask myself where she came from, whether she might have been artificially bred.”

  She was tantalized. “I’d like to look into that. And do something on the black market, too.”

  “I wish you would.”

  “Would you help me? I don’t know where to begin.”

  “You could start with the feds, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife authorities. And talk to the legal dealers and other falconers, of course. I’ll be glad to introduce you to anyone I know. Then there’s Hawk-Eye, if you can manage to dig him up.”

  “Hawk-Eye?”

  “Yes. He’s a black marketeer.”

  “That’s his name—Hawk-Eye?” She was sure Jay was putting her on.

  He laughed. “That’s really what they call him. He sort of looks like a hawk—gaunt and bony, a big nose and piercing eyes. He’s a pretty elusive character, too. Something of a legend. The feds can fill you in.”

  She was taking notes, delighted to find him so helpful, intrigued now by the possibility of interviewing a real black marketeer.

  “The kind of money you’re talking about,” she said. “I’d think it would be pretty hard to resist.”

  “It is. And that’s why some of the breeders sell. I can’t blame them. They need the money for their work. What I don’t like is their hypocrisy, talking about how manipulative we are when they’re using all these special techniques to manipulate the birds into reproducing, then selling the offspring to unlicensed amateurs so they can walk around with falcons on their wrists.”

  She looked up from her notebook.

  “Why did you ask me about Carl Wendel before?”

  “Oh, just curious,” he said. “I just wondered what you thought.”

  “Is there something I should know?”

  Jay lowered his eyes. “I’ve known Carl a long time,” he said. “And over the years I’ve seen him change. He was a great naturalist. Still is, but in a different way. He was a man who used to love working in the field. He’d travel all over the world to study a particular bird. South Africa to live with the black eagles. Peru to see the Andean condors. And owls—he used to love the owls. He’d get on a plane and fly anywhere if he thought there was a chance he’d see a rare species of owl. Then, almost suddenly, he became less easygoing. He became tight, nervous. I don’t know why. Some people say he was attacked by an owl. Whatever happened, he stopped going to the field and began sticking very close to his lab. And his interests seemed to change, too. He became less of a field man and more of a specimen man, until now, aside from his breeding, that’s about all he does.”

  “What do you mean—a specimen man?”

  “Just ornithological gossip,” he said.

  She felt there was something he wanted to tell her but that he was hesitant about revealing it, perhaps because he thought she’d think he was vindictive since Wendel had been so hard on falconry.

  “I’d like to know,” she said.

  Jay exhaled painfully. “Well, I like Carl,” he said, “but there’re th
ings about him I don’t understand. Such as this curious fondness he’s developed in recent years for collecting specimens and having them stuffed. That’s part of his job at the museum, of course, and no one has ever accused Carl of going out and hunting birds. But where do they all come from, this huge collection he’s assembled? He has every raptor on earth over there, of every sex and size. He gets very excited about completing a series—the way collectors do, sometimes. They have to have such-and-such a specimen to complete a set. I’m sure you know what I mean. Now people say he gets very excited about that, as if he’s sort of—well, ‘after’ the birds. I don’t buy this sort of talk. I tell people who repeat it that they can’t have things both ways, can’t have Carl asphyxiating specimens and at the same time breeding, replenishing through his Trust for Raptor Birds. Anyway, that’s why I asked you about him. I was curious about what you thought. I don’t know exactly what happened to Carl, but I’ve definitely seen him change.”

  He spoke so softly about Wendel, so tenderly, that she could tell he was deeply concerned. A good man, she thought, a decent man. She liked him, felt drawn to him. He was strong and gentle, completely different from Herb; the kind of man she liked.

  On her way out, he assured her he’d help her in any way he could. “Maybe something good will come out of this tragedy,” he said. “I’m sure the peregrine’s long gone, but if she hadn’t attacked, you wouldn’t have come tonight. I wouldn’t have gotten you interested in exposing the bird black market, which is very important to me, and which I really hope you decide to do.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The great peregrine launched herself through the window of the aerie and sailed into the sky. The morning air was cold—chilly autumn air—but there were cumulus clouds, and already the heat of the sun striking the pavements was creating thermals that rose between the buildings of midtown. The great falcon sought these thermals, caught one, and rode it up.

  Higher and higher she rose, the warm air lifting her, her wings extended so she could glide. She was hungry now, starved down to hunting weight.

  Instinct told her she must conserve her energy until it was time to make her kill.

  She glided in a broad circle above Manhattan, turning slowly so that both sides of her body would be touched and warmed by the sun. She could feel the warmth as it reached through her feathers; she absorbed as much of it as she could. For a few minutes it took the edge off her hunger. This warming of herself was sensual, and she reveled in it as she turned, looked down, saw the tops of buildings, needles piercing the sky. That was her city down there, and below on its streets she could see the movement of a million people, a parade of pedestrians, an endless river of earthbound life whose jerky movements, disharmonious motion of arms and legs, enabled her to recognize them as prey.

  She beat her wings slowly several times, spun over half a turn, allowed the sun to strike her breast. Then she glided to the top of a building, settled upon it, rested, and peered over its edge.

  She was staring down many hundreds of feet along its side, perfectly vertical and sheer, waiting for the man to emerge below. This was the man who fed her, rewarded her when she killed.

  When he came into sight, she would fasten her eyes upon him and follow him to the killing ground. Then she would wait, flying in slow circles high above until he showed her the quarry of the day.

  She recognized him at once. He always wore a bright orange cap when they went out to hunt. She launched herself again, flew in another great circle bounded by the rivers on either side of her domain, flying high so she would not be recognized. Instinct told her she must be cunning, blend in with the other birds, not make herself noticeable to the people on the streets.

  The man was moving north; she flew in higher and higher circles, keeping him always in her sight. She had a sense of where he was leading her—to the long green rectangle of trees and winding paths ahead.

  She circled above this green space, searching for signs of weakness or vulnerability in the humans who moved below. She focused down upon bicyclists, elderly persons walking dogs, children with knapsacks on their way to school, young mothers wheeling baby carriages, people walking briskly to work. There were many possibilities, but none that attracted her. She didn’t mind; she was a patient falcon. And the choice of prey was not hers to make.

  The man in the orange cap had stopped. He stood beside a road that twisted through trees that had turned shades of gold and red. He paused, looked up, subtly shook his head. His mirrored sunglasses flashed. He had designated the killing ground.

  The peregrine shortened the radius of her circle, revolving around an imaginary point directly above the man. And all the while she spiraled upward toward fifteen hundred feet.

  Her prey were large creatures against whom a stunning impact was required; this could only be achieved by great momentum, falling from a great height at enormous speed.

  The peregrine felt her hunger more keenly now; it honed the edge of her desire. And then, suddenly, a figure caught her interest and her eyes, powerful lenses, locked in. She watched, appraising, as this creature moved up the road, rapidly heading toward the man.

  On the ground, the jogger struck out boldly. Just a mile to go before she was done: up the East Drive of the park from Seventy-second to Ninetieth Street, then a brisk walk back to her apartment, a quick shower, a few minutes to slip into her clothes, and the subway down to Foley Square.

  Her name was Anne Stevens. She was twenty-six years old, smart, attractive, competitive, a woman who fiercely drove herself. This morning was special, one she’d been looking forward to for weeks—she was an assistant district attorney, and in a little more than an hour she’d be in court trying her first case on her own.

  Now she was running hard, as she did every morning, to keep her figure, sharpen her concentration, prepare her mind for work. The day was beautiful, the autumn air crisp and cool. She felt strong, self-disciplined, clearheaded, eager to prosecute. Just one more mile to go.

  From the sky, the great peregrine watched as the girl ran by the man in the orange cap. The man glanced upward; his mirrored sunglasses flashed again. That was his signal—he had designated the girl as prey.

  The falcon glided, her wings still, her brain calculating rates of descent, lines of approach, possible angles of attack. The girl appeared strong, but the falcon knew that she was tired: the way she was slowing down and the awkward movement of her arms revealed weakness. And it was weakness that attracted the falcon, for weakness meant vulnerability, and vulnerability meant an easy kill. This girl was like the one at the skating rink who’d been such an easy mark, spinning, afraid of being hurt if she fell, when the real threat was from the sky.

  Yes, the falcon could see the runner weakening; she was making her way up a steep hill, which drained her strength. Her warm-up suit caught a ray of sunlight that burst upon her through the trees. The falcon looked ahead, noticed an area in the clear.

  There would be an excellent opportunity there—the falcon could come at her out of the sun. The girl was moving more slowly now. In half a minute she’d reach the crest. The falcon became excited. Blood coursed through her arteries; her feathers quivered; her talons hardened; her eyes held her quarry as she circled upward to a pitch. Every bit of her tingled now, and a fierceness grew, a wildness that always came upon her before a kill: It gave her unlimited courage and an inflated sense of strength, the knowledge that there was nothing she could not do, that the prey the man had chosen was vulnerable, and that she herself was filled with power.

  Anne Stevens was panting—the final mile was taking its toll. Another jogger came toward her, a man she’d passed before. He nodded as he approached, acknowledgment of a shared endeavor.

  She smiled back through a grimace of pain and then attacked the hill.

  She was halfway up it, forcing herself to continue, not to yield to her desire to walk. She could see the Metropolitan Museum, recalled there was an open space behind it, a space she always looked forw
ard to reaching, for on a good day it was bathed in early-morning light. When she reached it she would know the worst was over, that from that point on, the route would flatten out. The sun there would refresh her as it warmed her cheeks and sparkled off the autumn leaves.

  Yes, she could make it! She knew that if she drove herself, pumped her legs, ignored fatigue, she would be there very soon. But then she twisted her ankle. A stab of pain made her cry out. But still she ran, though she had to drag her foot. The open space lay just ahead.

  Half running, stumbling, she limped finally to the crest; she was in the open at last, could feel the sun upon her face. She raised her arms above her head and looked up victoriously toward the sky just in time to see the great bird falling toward her, distorted by the sun behind and the rain of sweat that stung her eyes.

  The linesman scrimmage drill was fierce, huge men practicing blocks, bodies smacking, clashing, groans and sweat. The players reminded Pam of her brothers wrestling on the tiny lawn behind their house while her father watched and laughed from the porch, ready to award the winner with a beer.

  She told Joel Morris to go in for close-ups, and Steaves, the soundman, to capture sound close-ups, too. “I want it to feel like we’re in there,” she told them, “right in the middle of it, in the middle of the violence. I want to see the faces contort. If someone’s hurt, I want to see the pain and hear the crunch.”

  She had to smile after she’d said that—she sounded like a big-shot Hollywood director giving instructions to her crew. But she knew that if this sports-violence piece was going to work, her audience would have to feel it. She had plans for a series on spectator violence, too: grown men, normally rational, yelling “kill the umpire” and throwing beer cans at players they didn’t like.

  While Joel and Steaves were working on the close-ups, she prepared her commentary. Then, with the players drilling in the background, she stood beside the field and pitched her words directly to the lens. But she couldn’t do it right, kept fluffing her lines. And then Joel’s coaching, so patient, meant so kindly but so maddeningly ineffectual, began to make things worse.