Stalking Chickens: A Parker Robinson Mystery

By Steven Thomas Oney

Concern is mounting for Parker Robinson:
Parker's Aunt Ruth, worried that New York City is too dangerous a place for Parker to complete his community service, has taken it upon herself to have him transferred to the wilds of western Minnesota, where she imagines it will be safer, it being the idyllic land of Laura Ingalls Wilder and Little House on the Prairie.
Now Parker's job is to try to acquire virgin tallgrass prairies to help save the threatened Greater Prairie Chicken. But nobody informs either him or his aunt, that the Agassiz Beachline ––once the Gateway to the Wild West–– is as wild as ever. Peopled as it is by arsonists and hermits, smugglers and swindlers, and by crazed cowboys with psychotic tendencies that can turn violent at the drop of a Stetson.
His path leads him to burning trestle bridges, exploding grain elevators, into mystery caves and to uncomfortable meetings with a Dancing Potato tycoon, an Annie-Oakley-style sharpshooter and the seedy owner of a local strip club. Along the way, he encounters rattlesnakes, menacing gravel trucks, an out-of-control prairie wildfire, as well as a life-threatening winter storm.
The main question we are left with is: if this region is so much safer than New York City, then why has Parker received three separate attempts on his life?
Stalking Chickens the third book of the trilogy, which includes Stalking Bulls and Stalking Lions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9780974566894

Book preview

COOL SEASON GRASSES

CHAPTER ONE

‘Burning Your Bridges

Before You Get to Them’

Funny how quickly things can change:

One day, you are up on a ladder, in a borough of New York City, whitewashing graffiti off a railroad bridge and twenty-six hours later you find yourself plunked down in the middle of the Upper Plains of the Midwest —Grand Forks, North Dakota, to be exact— where I stepped off the train in the middle of the night, expecting to be met by someone. Who, I did not know.

No one appeared to be looking for me, so I went in and sat in the waiting room. I dozed for I’m not sure how long when a hand touched me on the shoulder.

Excuse me, is your name Parker Robinson?

Yes, that’s me.

Sorry I’m late.

He appeared younger than me by a few years. He looked clean cut and personable. He said, I was here to pick you up earlier but they told me your train was late, so I went to get a pizza. There are a few slices left in the truck for you if you’re hungry. My name is Andy Thistle, by the way.

We shook hands. He grabbed my duffle and we headed out to his pickup, where he tossed it into the back."

Once again, sorry I kept you waiting.

Oh, that’s all right. I was sure somebody would come around to collect me sooner or later.

‘Come around to collect you’ huh. You talk like you’re from the East.

That’s probably no coincidence. Born and raised in that cultural ‘briar patch’; I’m stamped with it, I’m afraid.

New York City, right?

No, actually, that was only for college. Mostly, I grew up outside of Boston in Gardner, Mass. and on Cape Cod.

You still in school?

Just graduated, actually.

Me, too. High school. My ‘briar patch’ is right here. Born in Grand Forks. Thistles have been around these parts since before there were any streets, only Indian paths and ox cart trails.

As we swung out of the parking lot, I asked, Do I get to know where we’re going, or is it a surprise?

He paused and then said, Actually —let’s make it a surprise.

Does that mean you don’t know?

Oh no, I know, but I’ve got my orders.

Orders from whom?

He said, From ‘whom’? Don’t you mean ‘who’?"

I said, Oh, right. Sorry. ‘Cultural briar patch’ and all. So who gave you the order?

He said, Don’t you mean ‘Whom gave me the order’?

We laughed. I don’t know what I mean anymore. I’m completely tongue tied. So, ‘who’ or ‘whom’ gave you the order?

You’ll find out. All in good time, he said.

We continued along the deserted streets, pausing at every red light and then carefully running them after looking both ways. As far as the volume of traffic was concerned —which was non-existent— we could have run them all without bothering to check."

I guess this town goes to bed early, I ventured.

Farmers, was his answer, and that apparently was all that needed to be said.

Noticing something looming ahead, I asked, What’s that we’re coming to? Is that the surprise?

No, ’fraid not. Ours is a much bigger surprise than that.

So, what is that, an amusement park?

Nope. Just a miniature golf course.

Whoa, those are big statues for a miniature golf course. Even for a full-sized one, I said. Arrayed around the course were approximately a half-a-dozen statues, ranging from dinosaurs to cartoon characters, each of them, 2 if not 3 stories tall.

You’re in the land of giant statues, now, Mr. Robinson.

I said, Please, call me Parker. I haven’t made the transition yet into ‘mister-hood’.

Maybe it’s because of all the flatness around here, but we like our statues big.

After a while, we came to a river. There was a rippling current on the surface of the dark water reflecting lights along the far riverbank —which wasn’t all that far, actually. George Washington wouldn’t have had any trouble throwing a silver dollar across it without skipping it once.

The odd thing was, the river appeared to be flowing the wrong direction.

I said, I must be turned around. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I thought we were heading east?

We are heading east.

Then, isn’t that river flowing the wrong way? It looks like it’s heading north?

It is heading north. Which is why they call it the Red River of the North. He pointed to the highway sign coming up that confirmed he was right.

You mean it doesn’t go south? I thought all rivers flowed south to the Mississippi.

"No, this one flows north up into Canada. The flat table-top we are driving on right now is called the Red River Valley, but there’s really no ‘valley’ to it. It’s really just a flat, ancient, glacial lakebed.

Must be confusing to a lot of people.

You get used to it, he said, then continued, This is strange land up here geologically. Just a county or two south of us is a Continental Divide, where the ground waters separate and one flows north and the other south, even though there is no mountain range in between to divide them. To the naked eye, you can’t even notice it, but there is a place just south of here, where, if you wanted to, you could stand in one spot and pee in one direction while turning your head and spitting over your shoulder in the other, and your pee would eventually enter the Minnesota River, on to the Mississippi and then into the Gulf of Mexico. Where as, your spit would eventually flow north via the Red River to Lake Winnipeg, then on to Hudson Bay and finally the Arctic Ocean. Your pee and your spit would never mingle again.

That is a very colorful way to put it, I said.

As we crossed the river to the other side, an illuminated billboard advertised: ‘Welcome to Minnesota’. "

Uh oh, I observed, We just crossed a state line. I hope you’re not taking me somewhere that involves young women and immoral purposes?

Well, there are females involved, he grinned.

Good, after 26 hours cooped up on a train, I could use a change of scenery..

It was an exceptionally dark night, but the truck’s headlights picked out the terrain, showing it to be unequivocally flat and level, all road appearings to run ruler-straight and all turns, left or right, to be exact 90 degree turns.

In time, however, the landscape began to alter. The land began to rise. Soon we entered a ravine where we began ascending along a winding path that followed the twists and turns of a dry creek bed. As we went up, the gulch got steeper and its sides began to close in.

Suddenly, we both leaned forward in our seats as we became aware of an area of growing illumination up ahead. It was a bright mixture of orange, the predominant hue, indicative of fire, accompanied by stabs and flashes of reds and blues, suggestive of an assortment of emergency vehicles.

We both uttered the same thing, Uh oh. What’s this?

Rounding a sizable bend, we were suddenly confronted by a startling sight and just as suddenly, I found myself face-to-face with another railroad bridge. Unlike the New York City one — which was all rivets and steel— this one was all timbers and ties. And where the first had been covered by graffiti, this one was half engulfed in flames that licked up the trestle support on the left and then had migrated halfway across the horizontal span overhead.

We came upon a firetruck spurting a spume of water from its high-pressure hose and a police car parked behind it. On our approach, Andy slowed and then stopped at the behest of a police officer, who used his flashlight to flag us down. He then came up to Andy’s side of the car, pointing the beam directly at his face.

Andy said, Hi, Officer Fred.

Thistle, what brings you prowling around here this time at night?

Jokingly, Andy said, Umm, Officer, are you aware that bridge behind you is on fire?

The officer scratched the back of his head. Is that what it is? I was wondering what was making it so hot around here.

How’d it start?

Don’t know yet. It started at the base on this side.

He trained the beam this time at me. Who’s this you got with you? I haven’t seen his face before— did you pick up a hitchhiker? What’s your name, son?

Andy answered for me, No, he’s not a hitchhiker. I just picked him up at the rail station in Grand Forks. Officer Fred, this is Parker Robinson.

At the train station, huh. May I see your driver’s license, please, Mr. Robinson?

I dug it out and handed it across to him.

Andy said, I can vouch for him.

You can, can you? How long have you known this gentleman?

Well, not long. Actually, I just picked him up at the station forty-five minutes ago.

In Grand Forks, you say?

Yes, sir.

Did you see him get off the train?

No. I didn’t. But he was waiting for me in the waiting room. His train was late getting in. I went to get a pizza and he was there when I got back. Want a slice? I’ve got extra.

No thanks, he said.

The officer addressed me next, Why was your train late, son?

I’m not sure. I believe it was some tie up in Chicago that made a whole lot of trains late. I never found out what it was all about.

The officer asked, Did you get off the train while you were stopped in Chicago?

No, sir, I didn’t.

His next question was for Andy, Whereyou headed now?

Andy said, We’re going out to Blazing Star. Can we pass through?

He stood up again, scratched the back of his head once more and said. Yeah, I suppose. The firemen aren’t too concerned. They say they’ll have it out pretty soon. I don’t think anything’s going to fall down on you, so go ahead if you want to —but at your own risk.

Andy said, Thanks. I think we’ll chance it. Otherwise, it’s going to be a long way around. He turned to me. Okay with you if we do?

Flippantly, I said, By all means, I always wanted to drive through a burning hoop of fire, like at one of those Monster Truck rallies

The officer, who was still listening, spoke up, I tell you what, Andy. Do me a favor. Once you’re through on the other side and past any danger, pull over to the shoulder and wait for me.

Yes, sir. What for?

He didn’t answer. Just pull over, he said.

Yes, sir.

The officer walked away without an explanation and without returning to me my license. Andy looked at me. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged his shoulders.

He then peered up at the structure, apparently to reassure himself that nothing was about to fall down on us. He put his truck in gear, gunned the engine and quickly drove us through to the other side. We made it safely with nothing but a cinder or two landing and a splattering of drops of water from the fire hose raining down on the hood and windshield. Andy then pulled off onto the shoulder and turned off the engine.

I volunteered, Officer Fred seems to be a pretty thorough cop?

Yeah, he is. Always has been. But he can also be a pain in the neck.

I said to Andy, He seemed to be on friendly terms with you. How do you know him?

Mostly because he used to take shifts at my high school, patrolling the hallways. His real name is Peregrine Falco. ‘Perry’ Falco. But in school, we always called him Officer Fred. I don’t know why.

Why do you think he held onto my driver’s license? Am I a suspect?

No, of course not. But this is the Upper Plains of the Midwest. There aren’t that many crimes that take place, and the ones that do, there aren’t that many potential suspects, especially this time of night. They have to make the most of the ones they have.

Yeah, I suppose, I said. And if it is arson, they have to suspect every person who shows up. Arsonists are known to return to the scene of their crimes to watch the things they set on fire burn to the ground.

He asked, How do you happen to know that little tidbit? Watching crime shows?

Actually, I think it had more to do with my hanging around police stations. I grew up with an uncle who is also in law enforcement.

Me too, he said. My uncle is the police chief in Ada. Chief Joe Thistle.

I said, Mine’s in Boston.

What part of Boston does he patrol?

The whole thing, I said.

The whole thing! he exclaimed.

He doesn’t really ‘patrol’ it. He’s the Police Commissioner for the city.

Oh, wow. That’s serious.

At this moment, Office Fred returned. He seemed to have a grim look on his face.

Andy said, Uh oh, what’s this all about?

Officer Fred, on approaching, deliberately shown his flashlight in my eyes once more. He was handing me back my license, holding it out between two fingers. I had to use one of my hands as a visor so I could see to take it.

Officer Fred announced, You have a criminal record, Mr. Robinson. Vandalism. You are also on probation . . .

CHAPTER TWO

‘Kettle of Stars’

As we got underway again, I asked Andy Thistle, I suppose you’re wondering about my criminal past?

Well, I am curious, but I wasn’t going to ask.

It’s because, while a student, I appropriated a Manhattan public statue from its normal resting place and transported it several hundred blocks uptown.

Where was its normal resting place?

In front of the New York Public Library.

Oh! Are you talking about that lion statue? I heard about that. That was you?

Me and a few others.

Why’d you do it? Some kind of college prank?

Not really, but sort of.

Why did you?

Well, it seemed like a good idea, at the time.

Wasn’t it highly illegal.

The City Fathers seemed to think so. I had recently been awarded the Key to the City, so I thought that meant I could take a few liberties. Apparently, moving one of their statues wasn’t one of them. They took back the key.

He shook his head, Wow, stealing a public statue like that right in the middle of New York City.

Borrowed it.

As we left the burning bridge behind us, we emerged from the ravine onto a rolling but still fairly flat terrain. The road surface turned from asphalt into packed gravel, then back to pavement, and then to gravel again before Andy finally turned us off onto what looked like a long tractor path running down the side of a mowed field.

The path ran about a quarter-mile in and stopped at a dirt turnaround. Andy killed the engine and turned off the headlights. From what I could make out by the available light, we appeared to be out in the middle of nowhere.

So is this it?

This is it.

Where are we?

You’ll see.

He reached behind his seat back and handed me a small bundled sleeping bag and a bottle of drinking water. He took the same for himself. Then, in a low voice, he instructed me what to do:

Get out on your side, but don’t close the door; I’ll be getting out on your side too. As we go along, follow as close behind me as you can. I’ll be using the only flashlight and keeping it aimed at the ground, so try to step where I do and be quiet. Don’t talk at all until we get there and I give you the ‘all clear’. Okay?

Okay.

I followed his instructions, slipping out and waiting by the door. He slid out and then, after quietly clicking the door shut, he switched on his flashlight. He stood up but not fully. Instead, he remained in a partial crouch so he could keep the flashlight’s beam aimed low to the ground. He then moved off at a quick trot, and I had to step lively to keep up with him.

His squelching the flashlight’s illumination wasn’t doing him much good, and it wasn’t helping me at all. I had trouble seeing where he was stepping. I had to just wing it and hope he didn’t suddenly put on the brakes.

As we continued moving stealthily and silently across the open field, I felt as if we were a couple of Indian braves out on 3 a.m. patrol.

After we had traveled the length of a football field, a dark shape suddenly loomed up in front of us.

Andy raised his beam and shown the light on it briefly, and I saw it for what it was: a House Made of Straw. Not the kind like one the ‘Three Little Pigs’ had built. It was not exactly a ‘house’ and not exactly ‘made of straw’ either. Its walls were constructed of tightly-packed bales of hay, stacked and interlocking on the corners, and it was without a peaked roof, too. In fact, it was without any roof at all. As such, it looked more like a small fort than a house —and a sturdy one at that, not subject to being blown over by either a big bad wolf’s ‘huffing and puffing’ or a strong prairie gale.

Andy led us up to it. He lifted a canvas flap and we ducked inside. Once in, he lowered the flap and whispered,

We can talk now as long as we keep our voices low.

He aimed the light at a pickle jar in one corner.

Use that if you need to pee. I suggest we get into our sleeping bags and try to get a few hours’ sleep before daybreak.

We un-packed our sleeping bags and rolled them out on twin benches made of the same building-block material. Looking up I saw that I was wrong, it wasn’t completely lacking in a ‘roof’, if you consider the thin layer of camouflage netting stretched across it as qualifying.

With the flashlight off and our eyes adjusting to the darkness, the Milky Way gradually became more and more pronounced. With the night so clear and the humidity so low, every star seemed to stand out individually. The infinite depth-of-field was profound; almost creating a sensation of vertigo.

The Milky Way’s path of strewn stars reminded me somewhat of the crushed, oyster-shell driveway back at Cedar Tree, my Aunt Ruth’s summer cottage on Cape Cod. There, on certain moonlit nights, the shells in the driveway would appear as luminous and scattered as the Milky Way.

We both were silent taking it in. Then Andy finally commented, Kind of impressive, isn’t it? I don’t expect you get this kind of view back in New York City much?

I answered, Some stars, yes, but nothing like this. I have to say, if you went to all this trouble and brought me out here just to show me this, it was well worth it.

Andy said, "I’m glad you feel that way. I’ve grown up in this country my whole life, and sometimes when people from elsewhere have come to visit, they’ll ask me: how I can live in a place like this, so far away from civilization, a place that has no ocean and no shoreline? Well, . . . right up above us is one of our ‘oceans’ right there, and —as far as shorelines go— you’re lying on one. This land we’re on is part of an ancient geological formation called the Agassiz Beachline. Ten thousand years ago, more or less, this spot looked out on the largest inland lake that ever existed.

As I continued gazing upwards, I asked him, Are you having the same funny sensation I am?

What’s that?

"Whenever I shift my head, even just a little, the nearly invisible netting above us blots out some of the stars while it exposes others to view. It creates the illusion as though they’re moving, changing places. As though we’re looking into a dark kettle of floating stars.

Andy considered and said, Sounds poetic . . . I think maybe you’ve had too long a train ride.

That’s for sure.

Of course, they are moving around, you know.

Yeah, but not like fireflies.

Why don’t you take a nap?

Thanks, I will, but I still want to enjoy this view a little longer.

I didn’t bring you here just to show you this, you know. We are here on a mission.

What’s the mission?

I’m going to provide you a vital tool you’re going to need.

A vital tool?

For the house calls you’re going to make.

House calls?

Professor Pembleton will explain.

Who’s Professor Pembleton?

I’ll be taking you to see him tomorrow.

Is everyone out here always this close-mouthed?

Well, the people on your end were pretty mysterious about you, too. All the Twin Cities office told us was that they were sending us some hot shot from New York City.

They called me a ‘hot shot’?

Their words.

I am definitely not that.

Oh? You mean, you’re not some whiz kid when it comes to real estate dealing?

‘Real estate dealing’? I’ve never done any real estate dealing in my life, beyond playing Monopoly. The day before yesterday I was fulfilling the community service part of my probation, standing on a ladder and whitewashing graffiti off a railroad bridge. Then the probation people came and plucked me off it, put me on a train and told me to get off when I got here. I’m still waiting for somebody to fill me in on what this is all about.

Why do you think you were sent here?

I don’t know, but I think I may have a suspicion ‘who’.

He said, You mean ‘whom’.

I chuckled, Whatever.

Who do you suspect?

It may have been the doing of my guardian aunt, Aunt Ruth. Ever since I moved to Manhattan to go to school, she has been convinced that New York City is far too dangerous a place for anyone to live in. I think she figures that out here I can serve my time in a less dangerous environment.

Andy said, So, she called up the courts and they listened? She must have a lot of pull? Or was it your uncle, the Police Commissioner’s doing?

No, I suspect t she got the doctor from the hospital where I had previously been staying to write a letter recommending I be transferred out of the city for ‘health’ reasons.

Hospital? Why were you a patient, —if you don’t mind my asking?

I was involved in an industrial accident.

What sort of industrial accident?

I fell into a vat of soda and received some superficial burns, but they have all healed up.

‘Soda’? You mean, bicarbonate of soda?

Whoops, I forgot —‘Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore’— back East carbonated beverages are referred to as ‘soda’.

Oh, well, out here we call it ‘soda pop’ or just plain ‘pop’. What kind of pop did you fall into?

The brand was Okay Cola, and it was flat, no ‘pop’ to it –to begin with- then it became partially carbonated, turning it into a Fizz Tank. I was in it for quite a while before I was finally rescued.

Does any of this have to do with why you were sentenced to Community Service?

Actually, no. Well, a little bit yes.

You don’t have to go into it but I would just like to know how you fell in?

I didn’t fall in; I was thrown in.

How did that happen!

I was first made unconscious by being transported in the trunk of a car that was filling up with carbon monoxide. Then, after I passed out, I was summarily dumped into the drink — literally, the drink.

Wow! This happened in New York City?

The northern tip of Manhattan, yes.

Do you think maybe your Aunt Ruth has a point?

Well, those were unusual circumstances.

We were both quiet for a spell. He appeared to be digesting what I had told him.

I asked him, So, is my aunt correct? Am I going to be a lot safer out here?

Well, the biggest danger that used to be here is long gone.

What danger was that?

The ‘danger’ that has killed more people in North America than any other species.

What would that be?

Buffalo. There are no buffalo around anymore to gore and trample people when they try to shoot them from their horses by bow and arrow.

I reasoned, And the density of people living out here has got to be much less than in the Big Apple, so that probably translates into it being safer —fewer crazies, fewer criminals.

He concurred, Oh yeah, that’s undoubtedly true. Many people who live out here don’t bother locking their doors at night. But that’s not to say that there aren’t a few bad apples who will do bad things to others. Put it this way: I would say you’re living out here is probably less ‘dangerous’ but more ‘hazardous’ than in New York City

Why hazardous?

Because out here, you’ve got ‘Nature’, and Nature is what’s liable to get you killed.

How so?

The weather mainly —storms— also mosquitoes. Other hazards: maybe a black bear might chase you up a tree or a bull moose stomp you to death during rutting season.

When’s that?

Fall.

Thanks. I’ll watch out. What about rattlesnakes?

Oh yeah, we’ve got those. Two kinds in Minnesota. Massasauga rattlers up here in the northwest part of the State, and Timber rattlers mostly in the southeast, along the Mississippi River. But if your aunt was looking to get you out of the city and into the countryside for your health’s sake, then I think she probably sent you to a good spot, you’ll probably live through it, if you’re careful.

So what’s this ‘vital tool’ you’re going to be supplying me?

I’m hoping to capture a highly dramatic photo of the very animal you’re going to be working to save.

Highly dramatic, huh, where’s your camera?

It’s already out there.

Out where?

Out on the Booming Ground. I’ve already placed it. It operates by remote control.

What’s a Booming Ground?

It’s where the males of this species congregate.

Species . . being . . ?

"Uh,uh. It will be light in a few hours and you’ll see. This much I’ll tell you: its Latin name is Tympanuchus cupido pinnatus."

I tried bluffing, "Oh sure, Old Tympanuchus cupido, why didn’t you say so? Of course, I know what animal that is . . . I’m very familiar with that . . . You’re not going to tell me, are you?"

You have to wait.

"Okay, be that way, but —I took a little Latin— I can probably figure this out for myself: Tympanuchus . . . that sounds like ‘tympani’, maybe means ‘drum’ or something, right?"

I’m not saying.

"Cupido, of course, that refers to: Cupid, Valentines, Love Making . . . So does this thing drum when it’s making love? Are we talking about sexy drum majorettes and baton twirlers who are going to show up? That kind of thing?"

He snorted, I wish.

How long have you been a nature photographer?

I’m not one yet, but I’m hoping to be. Right now, I work for a local paper. Mostly I shoot high school sporting events, county fairs, tractor pulls, that kind of thing.

Exactly how do you plan to get this dramatic shot?

"Many people have tried before, but none have succeeded . . . yet. I’ve got a foolproof plan, however, that I’m sure is going to work. It’s going to be dramatic. So dramatic, it’ll end up on the cover of National Geographic, you watch."

Exactly what is this brilliant plan?

You’ll see. All will be revealed in its own time. Right now, we better get some shut eye.

Do we need to set an alarm clock. I’ve been known to be a heavy sleeper.

Don’t worry. They are the alarm clock.

CHAPTER THREE

‘Peep Show’

Andy nudged me in the ribs and whispered, Wake up.

Huh! . . . What?

Listen! They’re coming.

I listened . . . I couldn’t tell what he meant. It was dead silent. Dead still. I was about to speak when suddenly, almost imperceptibly, a sound began to register.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

I whispered back, I hear it! Can I get up and look?

No point. Not yet. It’s still too dark. They’re still too far off. Might as well stay where you are and be comfortable . . . but keep listening.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

It had a low, almost haunting intonation. Like someone blowing across the neck of an earthenware jug.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

As they drew closer, more joined the chorus. The sound made me think of marching monks in robes with hooded cowls, coming to perform some sacred outdoor rite.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

Ooo . . . loo . . . woo.

They finally drew up right outside and their intensity sharply