Eagle
Two bald eagles circled over the bay as the photographer adjusted the focus on his camera. Something flashed across the lens, little more than a blur and he lifted his head to scan the sky through unaided eyes. There it was. The biggest bird he'd ever seen. Lifting the camera, he caught the creature in the frame, and nearly dropped his Nikon. Regaining his target he fired off every shot he could, following his subject across the sky until it disappeared into the dark green of the distance forest. Only when he was sure it wasn't coming back did he lower the camera. It had been a fresh roll, 36 shots. Some had to come out.
Shivering in excitement he carefully packed the Nikon in the padded aluminum case and snapped it shut while flipping the tumblers on the locks. Clutching the case to his chest like the treasure it was he stumbled back to the turn out and climbed into the car. The case seat-belted into the passenger's seat and flinging gravel, he headed south.
****
"Goddamn cheap sons-a-bitches!" he growled three days later. He glared at the offending scrap of paper in his hand. Three hundred buck! A lousy three hundred bucks for pictures of a flying kid! What kind of shit was that? The harsh buzz of his doorbell made him crumple the check in his fist and as he yanked the door open he snarled "What do ya want?"
"Mr. Richmond?" A man in the tailored black suit held up a leather wallet with a gold shield and FBI identification.
Irritation morphed into guilt even though there was no rational reason. The man held up an 8x10 copy of one of his shots he'd taken of the flying boy.
"Where was this taken?"
****
The black SUV with tinted windows all around rolled up to the town's only diner and parked. The four men that climbed out sent an instant alert to the entire populace. Feds. No local police ever dressed like that, not in Alaska.
The youngest of the group stepped quickly up to the diner and held the door for his three elders. The man that entered first stopped just inside and scanned the room. Thirteen occupants, two servers, the cook and ten customers. Seven women, six men, all over the age of thirty.
"What can I do for you," one of the waitresses said in a flat tone.
"I am looking for Ernest Task," the man said.
"Task?" She looked puzzled. "We got no Tasks in this town."
The man pulled a note pad from the inside pocket of his coat and consulted it.
"T S A A K," he spelled.
"What chu want Ern for?" a weathered man in his sixties asked.
"Government business," the man replied.
"You got a warrant?" another man asked.
"We just need to talk to him," the agent said. "As far as we know he has broken no laws."
"Them whalers again, I bet," the weathered man said.
"Ern ain't been out on the boat in months," another said.
"Probably them loggers then," said a third.
"Boy sure don't like loggers," the weathered man agreed.
The agent broke in. "Where can we find him?"
