Trapped (7 page)

That's that. There's no changing their minds. And secretly? I'm relieved. I was pretty nervous about going by myself.

David figures out which bus we should take to get to Maple Avenue. That neighborhood isn't far, even though the kids who live there go to another school. It's just on the other side of the nature preserve from my house. A half-hour walk through the woods would get me to it. I trick-or-treated there on Halloween once.

We walk down the street, checking house numbers. “Here's Eleven,” Maggie says.

The next house is Thirteen. “We're going the right way,” I say. We keep walking.

“It'll be on the other side of the street,” David tells us.

“How do you know?” Maggie asks.

“Because twenty-four is an even number. Eleven and Thirteen were on the right side, so that means the right side is odd numbers. Twenty-four will be on the left.”

She shrugs. “If you say so.” Maggie's not real good with numbers—unless she's talking about basketball scores.

“This is it,” says David, stopping in front of a small white house with green shutters. It's set back a little from the road.

“Yep,” I say, checking the name on the mailbox. “This is it, all right.”

I look the house over. It's not at all fancy, but it looks . . . well, cared for. The paint isn't fresh, but there are nice curtains at the windows. The lawn is mowed. There's a rusty swing set in the side yard, and a tire swing hangs from a huge old apple tree. There's also a rope ladder hanging down from the tree, and my eyes follow it upward.

“Wow,” I breathe. “Nice tree house.”

I have a tree house in my yard, too. My dad and Sage and I built it together. It's an excellent place to spend a summer afternoon, reading and listening to the wind in the branches. Poe loves to ride on my shoulder as I climb up, and he hates to leave once we're there. I think he knows it's his only chance for being up high, now that he'll never fly again.

Anyway, the Morrisons' treehouse is even nicer than ours. It's got an actual Plexiglas window and a tiny balcony with a nice railing. Somebody knew what they were doing!

“Well?” David asks. “What do we do next?”

“I guess we knock on the door,” I say, gulping a little as I look back at the house. Considering how I behaved the first time we met, jumping out from behind a boulder and yelling at him, I wouldn't blame William Morrison if he slammed the door in my face.

I lead the way up the front walk. There are three steps up to a small porch, which holds several wooden chairs made with tree branches, cleverly bent and tied with grapevines. Cool! Dad would be impressed.

There's a doorbell to the right of the front door, and I reach up and push it. I can hear the ringing inside, and I strain to hear footsteps coming to answer it.

But I don't hear a sound. I ring again. I'm almost starting to hope the guy isn't home. Suddenly, my plan to talk him out of trapping seems a little nuts.

“Wait, what's that?” Maggie asks, turning around quickly.

“I don't hear anything,” I say, still listening for footsteps inside.

“No, it's coming from around back. It sounds like somebody talking.”

I turn away from the door to listen. Sure enough, I hear a male voice. I look at David and Maggie. They look at me.

“Let's go see,” I say, squaring my shoulders.

We go around the house, and there's my old pal William Morrison standing beneath a fir tree along the edge of his backyard. He's talking out loud to something at his feet.

“Calm down, will you?” he asks. “Be still. I don't want to hurt you any more than I have to.”

I can't see who—or what—he's talking to until we get closer. Then, suddenly, I can see all too well.

It's a fawn. Not a baby with spots, but a young deer, light brown with a velvety black nose and huge dark eyes.

It's lying on the ground with its bony, lanky legs all twisted beneath it. The fawn is struggling as it looks up at William Morrison, and there's something unmistakable in its eyes.

Fear.

William Morrison is holding his pistol. He's aiming it at the deer. He's getting ready to shoot.

“NO!” I yell.

“STOP!” yells David.

William Morrison turns to look at us. “Hey, what the—?” he begins.

“Don't shoot that fawn,” I beg. “Please, please, don't shoot that fawn.”

The arm holding the pistol drops to his side. He peers at me, recognizes me. “You!” he says.

“I don't care what you think of me,” I say. “Just don't shoot that fawn.”

He's still holding the pistol. Now he looks down at it and frowns. “I don't want to,” he says, “but she's suffering. Can't you see? Her leg is broken. A fawn this old won't recover from a broken leg.” The fawn is lying back now, eyes closed. I can see its ribs rising and falling as it pants. “And she's all torn up from being caught in the barbed wire that runs along our property,” continues William. “I guess she managed to free herself somehow, but she's not going any farther than right here.”

“I bet Gran could do something,” Maggie suggests in a low voice.

“I know she'll at least try,” I answer. I turn to William. “Do you have a car?”

He shakes his head. “No—I mean, my mom does, but she's at work.”

I nod. “Can I use your phone?”

He looks a little surprised. “Sure, I guess.” He gazes down at the fawn again. “Do you know somebody who can help?”

“I think I might,” I tell him.

He leads me inside to the kitchen, which is clean and bright. First things first: we'll need a ride to the clinic. I dial my home number. It's not easy, because my hands are shaking a little. The phone rings and rings, and finally someone picks up.

“Hello?” It's Sage.

“It's me, Brenna,” I say.

He doesn't respond. I have a sinking feeling that he's discovered the missing spring. “Sage, I need help. An injured fawn. Can you get Dad?”

“I'll come,” he says right away. “Dad's too busy.”

“But—” I'm not sure I want to deal with Sage right now.

“Tell me where you are,” he says, ignoring my protest.

I give up and tell him the address.

“I'm on my way,” he says. He hangs up before I can say another word.

Chapter Nine

A
s soon as I hang up, I call the clinic to tell Dr. Mac that we're coming in. Then I turn to the Morrison kid. “My brother's coming,” I say. “He'll help us bring the fawn to this animal clinic where I volunteer. The vet there is really nice. She'll do her best to save the fawn. If she can save it, then my parents can take care of it until it's ready to go back into the wild. They're wildlife rehabilitators.

“Really?” He looks relieved.

Ha. Little does he know. If Sage figures out that this guy is the trapper who hurt Chico, I don't even want to think about what might happen.

“Do you have an old towel or a blanket we can put over the fawn?” I ask. “It's important to keep her warm since she might be going into shock, and to cover her eyes to help keep her calm.”

He nods and disappears down the hall.

I take a second to look around the kitchen. There are photos on the fridge.

One is of William, standing next to a little girl who must be his sister (she looks exactly like a female version of him). Behind them is a woman who must be his mom. There's a beautiful lake in the background, and mountains. Next to the picture there's a note: “Billy, please make sure Katie gets a bath tonight. I'll be working late.”

Billy.
Somehow that name makes me hate him a little less. The name, plus the fact that he helps out with his little sister.

There's another picture, of a man who looks a lot like Billy. He's holding up a huge fish and grinning at the camera. He must be Billy's dad. I take a step closer to get a better look, and just then Billy comes back into the room. He's carrying an old army blanket and a threadbare orange towel. “Is this your dad?” I ask.

He nods. “Before he got sick,” Billy says. “He died last year.”

“I'm sorry,” I respond automatically, not knowing what else to say.

He shrugs. “We'd better get out there,” he says.

David and Maggie are kneeling by the fawn when we go back out. “She's breathing faster,” David says. “Kind of panting.” He looks up at me. “Do you think she'll be OK?”

“Maybe, if we can get her to Dr. Mac in time.”

Billy arranges the blanket around the fawn, working very gently and carefully. He lays the towel over the fawn's eyes.

Then we all just sit at a distance and watch, being as quiet as we can.

When Sage arrives, he takes one look at the fawn and shakes his head. “Brenna, I don't know . . .”

“We have to try,” I plead with him. “We can't just let her die!”

Finally Sage gives in. “OK.” He turns to Billy. “I'm Sage,” he says.

“Billy.” They shake hands, something Sage would never have done if he knew who Billy was.

“Can you help me carry him over to the truck?” Sage asks Billy.

“Sure. I think she's a female, though. And she's probably a lot stronger than she looks, so we have to be careful. Deer may look cute, but they're still wild animals. Even fawns can be dangerous.”

“That's true,” Sage agrees and turns to Maggie, David, and me. “You guys better back up. Brenna, go call the warden and let him know what we're doing with the fawn.”

That's right—you're supposed to report it to the Game Commission when you find an injured wild animal.

I dash back inside and make the call.

By the time I return, Billy and Sage have lifted the fawn carefully, keeping the blanket and towel wrapped around her. They carry her toward the truck, which Sage has parked out front. The rest of us follow at a safe distance.

On the way to the truck, we pass a small shed, and I notice a row of traps hanging neatly from hooks along one wall. Sage sees them, too. I watch his eyes go from the traps to Billy to me.

Uh-oh.

He's figured it out. But to my relief, he doesn't say anything. I guess he's concentrating on the fawn.

We load the deer into the back of the truck, then all cram into the cab. It's a tight squeeze, but riding with the deer would be too dangerous. We head for the clinic.

On the way there, I ask Billy how he found the fawn. He tells me he had come home from checking his traps and saw a grown doe just standing there in his yard, watching him. When he walked toward her, she turned tail and ran, but he found the fawn near where she'd been standing.

“She'll probably keep coming back to that spot for days,” Billy says. “I've seen that happen. When a doe and her fawn get separated, the fawn usually curls up and stays put until its mom comes back. The doe will expect it to be there, waiting for her.”

Billy keeps talking about deer and their habits. It's obvious that he knows a lot about animals and how they live. Part of me is impressed. Another part of me feels like screaming at him,
Why do you care? You're an animal killer!

But this isn't the time or the place for a fight. And I don't want to get Sage all fired up. I can see by the look on his face that he's doing everything he can to contain his anger. He has to concentrate on driving if we want to have a chance of saving the fawn.

When we arrive at the clinic, everybody is waiting for us. Zoe and Sunita watch as we unload the fawn. Maggie whispers to them, telling them who Billy is.