The Boreal Owl Murder Read Free

about it, because a bullet whizzed past my right ear and exploded on the ground right in front of Smokey’s nose.
    The bear started, blinked, turned tail and lumbered back into the forest. I spun around and found myself embarrassingly up close and personal with the business end of a rifle barrel aimed right at my crotch. On my unknown rescuer’s other arm, hung a vicious-looking crossbow. That was pointed at Mike.
    Well, hell, I thought. Things just kept getting better and better tonight.
    Motionless, Commando Joe stared at me through his night vision goggles. In the distance, I heard an owl call.
    “Great Grey,” I said, without thinking.
    Fortunately, Joe didn’t respond by pulling the trigger and ending the family line before it even began. Instead, he lowered both weapons to the ground and peeled off his goggles. “White. Thought it might be you.”
    I knew this guy? I tried to see past the camouflage clothing and face paint, but without a flashlight, and under these circumstances, I was … well … in the dark. I couldn’t recall any Rambo-types in my phone book.
    And then it hit me.
    It was Scary Stan.
    Stan Miller.
    The one birder in the state nobody liked to bird with because birding with Stan was like birding with a ghost. He rarely said a word, moved without making even the hint of a sound, could disappear in a heartbeat, and when he did look at you, it was like he looked right through you. Rumor had it he was either a free-lance sniper, a mob killer in the Witness Protection Program, a CIA operative on long-term medical (read “psychological rehab”) leave, or just plain nuts.
    And it was common knowledge in the Minnesota birding community that he hated my guts because I’d had the nerve to question one of his bird sightings a few years ago. But—come on—an Arctic Tern in downtown Minneapolis in June? Who wouldn’t have questioned it?
    Of course, when I went to see the bird myself and found that it was, indeed, an Arctic Tern (courtesy of a freak Alberta clipper cold front that had blown the poor bird thousands of miles off-course), I graciously ate a very large serving of crow and apologized to Stan, but as far as he was concerned, the damage to his credibility was done. Since then, we’ve had a running, but silent, competition to score the most unusual birds every season.
    Which probably explained what he was doing up here tonight: he was chasing the Boreal, too.
    Although that didn’t explain the rifle and crossbow.
    I blinked, and—naturally—he disappeared.
    “You do this?” His voice came from behind me where he was squatting next to the frozen man.
    I walked over to where he was studying the body.
    “Right,” I said. “I always bring bodies with me when I bird. It’s the secret of my success.”
    Mike had recognized Stan, too. “How about you?” he asked.
    Stan gave Mike his empty-eye stare.
    “Just asking,” Mike said.
    Stan stood up. “Bears aren’t the only predators in this forest.”
    And then he disappeared.
    “Man, is he creepy.” Mike shivered in his parka.
    I shivered, too, but it wasn’t from the cold. I could still feel Stan’s stare through his night-vision goggles, watching me, and for the barest space of a moment, I wondered just how nuts Scary Stan was. If I’d been alone …
    But I wasn’t. Mike was with me. Reason number ninety-three to always bird with a buddy: to discourage scary people from killing you.
    “Okay,” I said to Mike. “We’ve got to get to a phone. We’ll just have to hope the bear doesn’t come back in the meantime.”
    “I doubt it will,” he replied. He retied his parka hood to fit more snugly against his ears. “I expect Stan’s gunshot convinced it to find a different buffet line for the night. I know I sure wouldn’t hang around where someone was taking shots at me.”
    We started back down the trail, the moon beginning to rise above the treetops. Funny thing about someone taking shots at you, I realized. It could actually