Good morning one and all. This morning seems to be running a great deal more smoothly than yesterday. So deep sigh of relief, but say nothing lest it tempt an electronic revolt. So Everyone ready to get started on the morning prompt? Good, let’s go then.
Interesting. Very interesting. I think I actually have the perfect place for this. With clean ups and adjustments of course.
Tuesday, March 29th: He lifted his binoculars to his eyes.
He lifted his binoculars to his eyes. The sun was barely peeking over the horizon and mist still filled the shadowy spaces between the trees. Perched as he was in his own tree he was well placed for his purpose. For months he had been waiting for this moment. He timed migratory patterns and nesting preferences. He spent his off months searching, searching for the perfect spot.
‘If the crested is nesting here is where it will be,’ he thought to himself.
There was no better spot for the bird’s preferences. He read everything he could and knew he was right.
Last Year Randall bragged and boasted how he saw the crested. He claimed he had photos but the camera he was using fell into the water and was ruined, the memory card irretrievable. Even without proof he regaled them with tales of the bird’s movements. Byron wasn’t fooled. He knew that Randall was perfectly capable of ruining an expensive piece of kit just to keep anyone from discovering his lies.
Byron frowned even as rescanned the trees, the ground, the lightening sky, for movements. He kept his own movements slow and steady so as to draw no attention to himself. The Crested was an elusive creature and easily spooked by the presence of humans. He researched his clothing and concealment as much as he had the potential nesting places. If he was to find the crested then he would not spook it. ‘And I’ll get pictures that I can use to prove it.’
Proof was of course a double edged sword. If he did find and capture an image of the crested then he would prove they were in the area, which might lend validity to Randall’s claims. If he didn’t then he would have lost and Randall would simply claim to be the better man. It was a catch 22 but Byron had waited years to see the crested and wasn’t going to be put off simply by Randall as much as he loathed the man.
Byron was startled from his thoughts by the sound of a snapping twig. He frowned and shifted his binoculars towards the sound. He spotted one man standing in a clearing and a second man moving to join him. Both were moving stealthily, but not silent enough to avoid scaring the birds.
Byron frowned. He wondered if saying something would cause them to leave and take their clandestine meeting away from here or if it would further alarm any possible nesting birds. Before he could decide on a course of action the second man arrived in the clearing.
“You’re late,” the first man said. Through his binoculars, he watched the annoyance on the man’s face turn to surprise as the second man thrust a knife into his belly and tore upwards. Blood fountained and the second man placed his hand over the mouth of the first so he couldn’t scream as he died. When the first man was dead, the second man lowered the body to the ground, rummaged around in his pockets and came up with a small boxy shape. It seemed to be what he was looking for as he took it, slipped it into his pocket and turned away from the body.
Watching from his hidden perch, Byron nearly gasped as the man turned. Covered in blood and still holding the knife, Byron identified George Peters. There was no mistaking those features. Byron stayed statue still as George made his way off into the still shadowed woods.
Ten til Midnight 