The Tourist Trail by John Yunker

one hand holding the bird, she used the other to scribble notes in a journal.
    â€œAre you Angela?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s me,” she said, not bothering to look up. She straddled the bird, silencing its wings, returning a sense of calm to the scene. Yet whatever she was trying to do next, the bandage on her left hand was clearly causing her problems.
    â€œYou need help?” Robert asked.
    â€œEver handle a penguin before?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen I don’t need help.”
    â€œI’ve got two good hands, at least.”
    She sized him up, and he felt oddly insecure that she paused for so long.
    â€œOkay,” she said finally. “Come over here and position yourself next to me, just like this. Now, I’m going to get up and you’re going to slide over and hold her between your legs just like I’m doing. I’ll keep a hold of her head.”
    He did as instructed.
    â€œNow, see how I’m holding her. First put your left hand over my right, just like that. Now your right. Hold firm but not too tight. Do not let go.”
    The bird between his knees was stronger than he expected, and the feathers were not smooth but finely knit, like the exterior of his synthetic jacket. Angela held the caliper to the penguin’s beak and feet, and Robert felt a sudden childlike excitement come over him. The penguin raised its head with an almost human look of indignation, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for it.
    â€œYou can let go now,” Angela said.
    Robert released his hands, widened his knees, and the penguin scampered back into its nest. Robert stood, brushed the dirt off his pants, then slowly circled one of the bushes, looking at birds crowded underneath, in distinctly separate cubbyholes, like some thin-walled tenement, so many eyes and beaks following his movements.
    â€œI had no idea there were so many penguins here,” he said.
    â€œThere used to be more.”
    â€œWhy do they move their heads back and forth like that?” he asked.
    â€œThey’re trying to frighten you away.”
    â€œThey think I’m a predator?”
    â€œWorse. They think you’re a tourist.”
    Robert looked up at Angela, with her backpack on, notepad in one hand, staring at him impatiently. He suddenly remembered why he was there.
    â€œActually, I’m an FBI agent.”
    â€œLooking for a missing bird?”
    â€œI’m looking for the man involved in the altercation this morning. I believe you know him.”
    Angela began scribbling something into her notebook as she spoke. “As you can plainly see, I spend too much time with penguins to notice every tourist who passes through.”
    â€œThat’s not what Doug tells me.”
    She stopped writing and looked up at him—just the response he’d hoped for.
    â€œSo what has Doug been telling you?”
    â€œThat you recently adopted a fugitive, someone who looks strikingly similar to a man we’re pursuing.”
    â€œDoug can’t tell the difference between a Magellanic and a Humboldt, so I wouldn’t put much faith in his ability to identify anything.”
    â€œWhere is this fugitive he mentioned?”
    â€œGone,” she said sharply. “He left a few hours ago.”
    â€œOn a ship?”
    â€œI couldn’t say. I didn’t follow him.”
    Robert studied her eyes more closely, the redness around the edges, perhaps not the result of the wind after all.
    â€œWas his name Aeneas?”
    â€œYes, his name was Aeneas. And as I just told you, you’re too late. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got penguins to count.”
    She turned and started off down the hill, toward the research station. Robert considered chasing her. But what would that accomplish? If Aeneas were still here, he would be in the opposite direction, along the coastline. The sun was already behind the hills, turning the sky orange. Robert needed more