Free A Cast of Falcons by Steve Burrows Page B

Not even as a kid. Besides, I could already tell you had a lot of respect for this McLeod. I thought it would be easier if you didn’t have to lie to him.”
    â€œYou think it came from Iceland?”
    Damian nodded. “It’s where most of the white ones are found. Icelandic Gyrfalcons don’t normally migrate, but there’s been a lot of volcanic activity up there lately, and it seems to have set some of them on the move.”
    â€œDo you think that’s why De Laet was there?”
    â€œI know it was. I think it may have even been the Gyr that knocked him off the rock face, especially if she had a nest up there. She’s been on territory a while. It’s possible. Can you imagine that?”
    Nesting Gyrfalcons in Scotland. Domenic let his mind play over the idea for a moment. He realized his brother had gone quiet.
    â€œIt must have been hard to watch. They say talking about it can help sometimes.”
    â€œDid it help you?” asked Damian simply.
    No, thought Jejeune, it didn’t . But that had been different. In the case involving the Home Secretary’s daughter, he could trace the death of the boy directly to his own actions. Damian wasn’t responsible for this man’s death, or at least he claimed he wasn’t. He had merely witnessed it. But perhaps it was the connection with a death that really mattered, the proximity to it. Perhaps it was that which caused the guilt, whether you were responsible or not. “Come on,” he said, standing up, “the birds of Dunnet Head are waiting for us.”
    A tour bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers, most heading directly for the Dunnet Head lighthouse built by Robert Louis Stevenson’s grandfather. It was an attraction, certainly, but how could it compare with the magnificent cliffs just beside it, teeming with calling Kittiwakes and a circus of Puffins, as Skuas majestically carved the skies overhead?
    â€œSome racket,” said Damian. He and Domenic were sitting on rocks near the edge of the cliff, above a deafening cacophony of bird sounds — territorial calls, mostly, or the cries of returning birds trying to locate their mates in the cliff-side colonies. Both knew there were matters to be discussed between them, possibly confronted was a better word. But the wild, unmitigated beauty of this ragged coastline was not the place to trouble one’s soul with such things, so they simply stared out in contented silence, watching the birds dive-bombing the wild seas as the crashing waves broke on the rocks in explosions of fine grey spray.
    A harsh, guttural call alerted the brothers to the presence of a pair of Ravens overhead, and the men craned their necks back to watch the birds in their dazzling, exuberant courtship flight. Domenic drew his gaze away, warily eying the bus crowd, now milling around aimlessly in the car park. “We should probably be going,” he said. As irrational as it was, he was concerned that with so many people around, someone might recognize his brother. Police cases he knew of had turned on such wild, coincidental sightings.
    Damian seemed to understand. With a final glance out over the roiling seas and the vibrant, pulsating bird cliffs of Dunnet Head, the two men stood and turned reluctantly to begin making their way back to the Range Rover. They were halfway there when Damian broke into a sprint. A dark van was trundling slowly across the car park. From the far side, a woman with a baby on her hip screamed. Damian disappeared in front of the van, and then Domenic heard a sickening thud as the vehicle jerked to a sudden stop.
    By the time Domenic got there, the woman was bending over Damian. In his arms was a young boy of about five. Alarm rose in Domenic as he saw the blood, but subsided when he realized it was from Damian’s forearm, which had been scraped raw by the contact with the gravel car park. “He’s okay,” Damian told the mother.