jail—and that she’d be waiting for him. They’d go straight together, she’d said.
Liv had talked to proprietors of other falconry outfits around the country and learned that experienced master falconers could make $400 to $750 per day from winegrowers, refinery owners, farmers, ranchers, and other commercial operators. She’d obtained the equipment, registered the new company with the Wyoming secretary of state, filed the tax forms, set up a website, and had already begun marketing Yarak, Inc.
The classic falconry definition of
yarak
was a Turkish phrase describing the peak condition of a falcon to fly and hunt. It was described as “full of stamina, well muscled, alert, neither too fat nor too thin, perfect condition for hunting and killing prey. This state is rarely achieved but a wonder to behold when observed.”
“It sounds like a stupid idea to me,” Dudley said.
“That’s why I hate explaining a business plan to a bureaucrat who’s never worked in the private sector in his life.”
Dudley narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.
He said, “I know what’s going to happen to you. You’ll either be back here or you’ll be dead. I’m okay with either one.”
Nate reached out and pulled the sets of documents closer and spun them around. He said, “One of the greatest and most mystical things about falconry is that when you release a bird to the sky—even a bird you’ve worked with for years and years—you never know if it’s going to come back. Eventually, that falcon may take off and it’s the last you ever see of it. Years of work and dedication are released to the wind. There’s satisfaction in the partnership, but no certainty. If you’re a person who needs certainty, falconry isn’t an art you should try to master.”
Nate signed the papers and shoved them back to Dudley, who sat back, screwed up his face, and said, “I’m not sure I understand a word of what you’re saying.”
“I’m not surprised,” Nate said, holding out his hands. “Get the key.”
—
A S N ATE PASSED BY the armed security guards manning the metal detector in the entry lobby, they nodded at him in a way that suggested they knew much more about him than he knew about them. He nodded back. He was aware from several disparaging remarks from Dudley that a kind of unwelcome (by Dudley) legend had grown about Nate among certain types. Nate had never fostered any admiration or following, and he didn’t plan to start now. But those security guards seemed to admire him in a way he found uncomfortable.
He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when he was taken into custody months before: jeans, heavy lace-up boots, a T-shirt under a gray hoodie, a canvas tactical vest. A leather falcon jess bound his hair into a ponytail.
When he pushed through the double doors of the vestibule’s entrance and stepped outside, his senses were overwhelmed. The sky was cloudless and the spring’s high-altitude sun was intense. The air smelled of leaves budding out, pollen, and car exhaust. He could hear birds chirping, motors racing, and a light din of traffic from downtown.
Idling on the street in front of the Federal Building was a white panel van. A graphic of a peregrine falcon in full-attack stoop had been painted on the side over the words YARAK , INC. , lettered in a rough stencil format. In script beneath the graphic it read:
Falconry Services
and contained a website address.
Liv was at the wheel, and when she saw him come out of the building, her grin exploded. It seemed bright enough, he thought, to cast shadows.
He waved hello, then walked around the back of the van and jumped into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said, still beaming. “I’ve been dreaming of this day.”
Liv wore jeans, knee-high boots, a T-shirt, and a blazer with a sheer violet scarf. She looked good.
Nate overlooked that and said, “We need to talk.”
She shook her head defiantly and pulled
Liv had talked to proprietors of other falconry outfits around the country and learned that experienced master falconers could make $400 to $750 per day from winegrowers, refinery owners, farmers, ranchers, and other commercial operators. She’d obtained the equipment, registered the new company with the Wyoming secretary of state, filed the tax forms, set up a website, and had already begun marketing Yarak, Inc.
The classic falconry definition of
yarak
was a Turkish phrase describing the peak condition of a falcon to fly and hunt. It was described as “full of stamina, well muscled, alert, neither too fat nor too thin, perfect condition for hunting and killing prey. This state is rarely achieved but a wonder to behold when observed.”
“It sounds like a stupid idea to me,” Dudley said.
“That’s why I hate explaining a business plan to a bureaucrat who’s never worked in the private sector in his life.”
Dudley narrowed his eyes and set his jaw.
He said, “I know what’s going to happen to you. You’ll either be back here or you’ll be dead. I’m okay with either one.”
Nate reached out and pulled the sets of documents closer and spun them around. He said, “One of the greatest and most mystical things about falconry is that when you release a bird to the sky—even a bird you’ve worked with for years and years—you never know if it’s going to come back. Eventually, that falcon may take off and it’s the last you ever see of it. Years of work and dedication are released to the wind. There’s satisfaction in the partnership, but no certainty. If you’re a person who needs certainty, falconry isn’t an art you should try to master.”
Nate signed the papers and shoved them back to Dudley, who sat back, screwed up his face, and said, “I’m not sure I understand a word of what you’re saying.”
“I’m not surprised,” Nate said, holding out his hands. “Get the key.”
—
A S N ATE PASSED BY the armed security guards manning the metal detector in the entry lobby, they nodded at him in a way that suggested they knew much more about him than he knew about them. He nodded back. He was aware from several disparaging remarks from Dudley that a kind of unwelcome (by Dudley) legend had grown about Nate among certain types. Nate had never fostered any admiration or following, and he didn’t plan to start now. But those security guards seemed to admire him in a way he found uncomfortable.
He was wearing the same clothes he’d worn when he was taken into custody months before: jeans, heavy lace-up boots, a T-shirt under a gray hoodie, a canvas tactical vest. A leather falcon jess bound his hair into a ponytail.
When he pushed through the double doors of the vestibule’s entrance and stepped outside, his senses were overwhelmed. The sky was cloudless and the spring’s high-altitude sun was intense. The air smelled of leaves budding out, pollen, and car exhaust. He could hear birds chirping, motors racing, and a light din of traffic from downtown.
Idling on the street in front of the Federal Building was a white panel van. A graphic of a peregrine falcon in full-attack stoop had been painted on the side over the words YARAK , INC. , lettered in a rough stencil format. In script beneath the graphic it read:
Falconry Services
and contained a website address.
Liv was at the wheel, and when she saw him come out of the building, her grin exploded. It seemed bright enough, he thought, to cast shadows.
He waved hello, then walked around the back of the van and jumped into the passenger seat and shut the door.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” she said, still beaming. “I’ve been dreaming of this day.”
Liv wore jeans, knee-high boots, a T-shirt, and a blazer with a sheer violet scarf. She looked good.
Nate overlooked that and said, “We need to talk.”
She shook her head defiantly and pulled
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