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AVIAN CARJACK

Tom Feather slipped out his front door into a moonless night. In his arms lay a coil of rope and a neatly folded pink blanket.

I can do this, he told himself, more hopeful than certain.

He crossed the porch and paused at the top of the stairs. The elegant homes on his street stood like dark sentinels in the pale starlight.

He scanned the block to make sure no one else was about—though his caution was hardly necessary. The residents of Peacock Gap, well-to-do and typically suburban, were not the kind of people who strolled around after midnight. If, by chance, someone had walked by, they might have thought that Tom, dressed in black, was a cat burglar—and they would’ve been only half wrong. Tom believed in the adage “dress for success,” and tonight he aimed to melt into the shadows like the silent foxes that prowled the neighborhood.

He tiptoed down the front steps and felt a pang of regret. In previous years, to the delight of their children, he and his wife Amy had mounted scarecrows on bales of hay and artfully arranged ornamental gourds and ears of multicolored corn. His neighbors had been too polite to ask why his home looked so woefully barren this year. And that was fine with Tom, who had no desire to discuss his lack of Thanksgiving spirit.

He approached his SUV in the driveway and felt an anxious tingle surge through him—sharpening his senses into a clarity he’d experienced only once before while on the edge of Half Dome, looking down four thousand feet into Yosemite Valley.

I can do this, he repeated to steady himself.

With sweat-moistened hands, he opened the rear compart­ment and stowed the rope and blanket. A quick internet search had assured him that those two items were all he’d need.

He settled into the driver’s seat, shifted to neutral, and eased off the parking brake. The SUV coasted down the driveway and rolled onto Gosling Court. A few houses down, he turned the key in the ignition—the engine purred to life. The gas gauge hovered just above empty, but that didn’t bother him, as his destination was only blocks away.

With his headlights still dark, he turned right onto Quail Drive and shifted into gear. He knew the streets by heart, so navigating wasn’t a problem. His real reason, however, was to stay as inconspicuous as possible. If his neighbors knew what he was up to, his reputation would sink lower than that of President George W. Bush, whose poll numbers had tanked after a disastrous year.

He turned onto Heron Lane and drove toward a cul-de-sac surrounded by large, sprawling homes. Beyond them, a nature reserve rose on hills covered with wild grass and live oaks. The only sign of human intrusion was a trail snaking up the hillside to a ridge where hikers enjoyed an expansive view of San Francisco Bay.

The nature reserve was one reason Tom and Amy had fallen in love with Peacock Gap. Black-tailed deer grazed undisturbed on the slopes, watched over by red-shouldered hawks circling for prey. Occasionally, a gray-brown coyote trotted along the ridge.

Nestled beside untamed hills, the upscale neighborhood attracted a menagerie of raccoons, possums, skunks, squirrels, and bobcats—all relatively harmless. Deer, too, ventured down to forage in the gardens and were so common that residents regarded them with little more than mild curiosity.

This comfortable balance was disrupted three months earlier when a new species invaded the neighborhood. Three wild turkeys appeared on Pheasant Court one day, strutting side by side like a trio of sailors on shore leave. Whether this was a gaggle of toms, a harem of hens, or a couple and their offspring, no one knew. What was clear was that the three turkeys—tres amigos Tom’s gardener called them—had no standoffish tendencies like the deer and, in fact, possessed a foolish lack of fear. When confronted by an oncoming car, the gobblers would force the vehicle to detour around them, eyeing the passengers with insolent stares as if the residents, and not themselves, were the intruders.

At first, the stout black birds amused drivers. Parents pointed them out to their children, who gawked at the odd-looking creatures with penis-like snoods drooping over their beaks and red-orange wattles dangling from their chins. Like everyone else, Tom inched past them and gazed at their impressive black plumage, shimmering with iridescence. The turkeys, in turn, stared at him with dark, piercing eyes—partly, it seemed, out of curiosity and partly, he sensed, to assess him at some deeper level. Was he friend or foe? Weak or strong? Meek or bold? Humans rarely observed one another with such intensity, but these creatures had no such inhibitions, and their candid examinations both fascinated and repelled him.

Like most real estate agents, Tom was acutely aware of how he presented himself. When the birds’ beady eyes locked onto him, it seemed as if they were looking straight through his outer appearance and deep into his soul. What did they see? he wondered. Could they sense his failure to sell a single property in the last twelve months? His depleted bank account? His maxed out credit cards? The letters he’d hidden from Amy, threatening foreclosure on their home? In the next moment, he’d scoffed at those dark thoughts. How could a trio of birds know anything about him? And, anyway, why should he worry about what they thought—if they could even think at all?

It didn’t take long for the amicable relationship between the residents and the tres amigos to deteriorate. Tempers were sorely tested when the birds waylaid drivers like bandits of old, darting out from behind parked cars and resolutely planting them­selves in the middle of the road, making drivers slam on the brakes. One of them would then saunter around to the driver’s side and peck at the front tire as if to check the pressure, then approach the window and look up as if to say, “Your money or your life.”

This avian carjack had understandably frustrated anyone late for an appointment. Drivers were forced to climb out of their Range Rovers and shoo the birds away or skirt their BMWs around them until safely past the obstruction. The delays became so annoying that Tom had called the Marin Animal Control Center to see if the birds could be repatriated to the nature reserve. An animal control officer listened patiently, then explained that there was nothing they could do as long as humans weren’t in danger. Wild animals had just as much right to live anywhere in the county as Tom and his neighbors.

Sure, Tom thought, but the turkeys don’t have to borrow a Godzilla-sized mortgage.

Once the rainy season began, the trio disappeared, presum­ably having returned to the nature reserve, where food and water were now plentiful. No one reported seeing them until two weeks ago when a single turkey, a lone ranger, swaggered into the neighborhood with as much bravado as his predecessors. He may even have been one of the tres amigos without his compadres. No one knew for sure.

Tom was certain of one thing, though. This lone bird might not save him from financial ruin, but it would help him continue a cherished holiday tradition and prove to his family—and to himself—he could still bring home the bacon.

Or, in this case, the turkey.

He continued toward the cul-de-sac, scanning the street for any signs of life. Earlier that day, he’d spotted his prey here, but it was dark now and he had no idea where to look. The bird could be sheltering under a car or behind a bush, possibly in a backyard, although he hoped not that. He couldn’t sneak onto someone’s property and be mistaken for a burglar. Think of the uproar it would cause when the cops rushed to the scene—lights flashing, sirens wailing, neighbors peering out their windows, as he was clamped in handcuffs and shoved into a squad car.

He’d never sell another property in Marin County, and his wife and kids would be humiliated.

The thought made him shudder.

He reached the end of the cul-de-sac and glanced up at the hillside. A shadowy form glided across the grass-covered slope. Perhaps a coyote out on its nightly rounds, or maybe a bobcat. He swung the SUV around and cruised back down the street, the motor gently humming. In the middle of the block, he spotted a dark shape beneath an enormous black Cadillac Escalade, its tinted windows giving it a fearsome Darth Vader look. As he drew closer, the shape beneath the vehicle stirred—its head rising on a slender neck and wavering side to side like a snake charmer’s cobra.

Tom pulled over to the curb and braked to a stop.

Killed the engine. 

Before embarking on his mission, he’d googled “How to Catch a Turkey.” The best advice said to wrap the bird in a blanket to immobilize its sharp talons, then tie the bundle with a rope.

Could it really be that simple? He hoped so.

The bird lowered its head, apparently sensing no danger from the SUV.

Tom waited while it fell asleep again. The chilly night air condensed his breath on the windshield, transforming the outside world into a hazy Hallmark dream. If only he could insulate himself so easily from the mortgage industry meltdown and its suffocating effect on real estate. 

After several minutes, he climbed out, went around the back, and opened the rear door. He picked up the pink blanket, used for years by his kids on cold winter nights while watching TV. As he unfolded it, the blanket released a familiar sweet-musty scent that triggered an image of his daughter Chloe, her auburn hair in braids, a fierce intelligence in her eyes. Beside her, her little brother Bradley grinned, gap-toothed, blissfully unaware of the heartaches life held in store.

Tom closed the rear door and cautiously approached the Escalade.

He gripped the edge of the blanket like a matador’s cape, then knelt on his haunches and studied the sleeping bird. A bundle of black feathers, a long neck curved over and around its plump body, a small, round head culminating in a beak that tapered to a sharp point. 

His pulse quickened in anticipation of the struggle ahead—the age-old contest between predator and prey, hunger and survival, life and death.

He lifted the blanket and edged closer.