The Kiskadee of Death by Jan Dunlap Page A

orchard, the preserve was a surprise to first-time visitors with its native thornscrub, wetlands, and butterfly gardens almost in the middle of the city of Weslaco. Luce and I had walked the thicket trail at the preserve on our second morning in the Valley and seen a score of different warblers, along with several hummingbirds and a couple of Black-bellied Whistling-Ducks. Now, as we parked the car in front of the closed wrought-iron gates, I spied a White-tipped Dove perched in one of the trees on the other side, with two Inca Doves nearby.
    â€œYou sure we can park here?” Luce asked Eddie.
    â€œNo problem,” he said. “The gardens and visitor center close at 4:00 p.m., but there are generally a few cars here to watch for the vultures coming to roost for the night. Although I think the stink of all the droppings from the birds discourages some birders from coming to see it.”
    Eddie waved a hand in the direction of the grove of tall dead trees silhouetted against the sky in the growing dusk.
    â€œPerfect habitat for Turkey Vultures,” he said. “Not so great for all the houses around it, though. I can’t imagine that hundreds of noisy smelly vultures roosting near your home is good for resale value.”
    I looked up and a Turkey Vulture glided over me, only about twenty feet off the ground. With another beat of its wings, it sailed toward the dead trees. In a wide circle around the vultures’ roost, house lights were beginning to come on. As Eddie had noted, the scavengers’ gathering place was practically in the middle of a city residential area.
    As more vultures sailed in and the dark flock grew to include hundreds of the birds, the noise level increased until the air seemed filled with the cries of the vultures, and the trees were shrouded in black forms.
    It would have made a great scene for a slasher movie.
    â€œCreepy,” Luce observed, echoing my own evaluation. “Definitely creepy.”
    The sound of shots punctured the vultures’ chorus and I instinctively ducked behind the car, pulling Luce down with me.
    â€œAre those gunshots?” she asked, total disbelief in her voice. “We’re in the city, for crying out loud.”
    â€œThis is Texas,” I reminded her. “Guns are household appliances.”
    More shots rang out. A flurry of black wings flew out of one of the dead trees.
    â€œSomebody’s shooting at the vultures,” Eddie called above the din.
    I smacked my forehead with my hand. “That’s right,” I said. “When we visited here yesterday morning, the director told us some of the residents in the area hate the vultures so much, they occasionally shoot BB guns at them.”
    Luce stood up. “It’s still being irresponsible, firing BB guns in a neighborhood. Someone could get hurt.”
    Another barrage of shots sounded. Luce ducked back down beside the driver’s door of the car where I was still crouched.
    â€œI got news for you,” she said. “We’re not in Kansas, anymore, Dorothy, and those last rounds were not BBs, either.”
    Great. Just what I didn’t want to hear. I was taking cover by my car while a bunch of gun-happy lunatics were waging a turf war with a flock of vultures.
    â€œEddie?” I called out. “You okay?”
    There was a moment of silence, and then a string of curses erupted from the other side of the car.
    I bolted, hunched over, around the front of the car and found Eddie sitting near the front tire, his hands wrapped around his right calf. A dark stream ran down his jeans.
    â€œSome idiot shot me,” he said, still swearing. “Do I look like a vulture to you?”
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    Chapter Eight
    C hief Pacheco stood in the headlights of his cruiser watching the paramedics from the ambulance tending to Eddie’s gunshot wound in the back of their van. Luckily, Eddie had only sustained a bullet graze across his upper calf and the