“Brian, he wants us to come get him!”
“No,” Keyes said, “that’s not it.”
It was sadder than that.
The object of Wiley’s expedition was perched at the top of the forty-foot pine. With its keen and faultless eyes it peered down at this demented, blood-crusted creature and wondered what in the world to do. As Skip Wiley advanced, he brayed, flailed his bright kerchief, shattered branches—but the great predator merely blinked and clung to its precious fish.
“He’s trying to save the eagle,” Brian Keyes said. “He’s trying to make the eagle fly.”
“God, he is,” said Kara Lynn.
“Fly,” Jenna murmured excitedly. “Fly away, bird!”
“Oh please,” Kara Lynn said.
That is how they left him—Skip Wiley ascending, insectine, possessed of an unknowable will and strength; the eagle studying him warily, shuddering its brown-gold wings, weighing a decision.
Brian Keyes turned the ignition and the boat shot forward in a widening arc. The Mako was very fast, and Osprey Island receded quickly in the slick curling seam of the speedboat’s wake. Within minutes they were far away, safe, but none of them dared to look back.
Off the bow, at the horizon, the sun seeped into a violet sky.
Somewhere out on Biscayne Bay, a flat red barge emitted three long whoops of warning, the most dolorous sound that Brian Keyes had ever heard. He clung to the wheel and waited. “Fly!” he whispered. “Please fly away.”