Who is Mackie Spence? (18 page)

I search for Mackie after the ceremony, but can't find her, which seems odd, because Mac was a big part of Number 26's recovery. And Mackie specifically said that she would attend the release.
Where is she?

I try her phone, but my call goes to voice mail. “Hi, it's me,” I say. “Number 26 just took off. Where are you?” I don't get a response and turn my cell off. We aren't supposed to use our phones around the animals. After everyone leaves, Beth, James, and I finish our cleaning and feeding chores. Animals not on sedatives are more alert because of the noise from the celebration. Number 26's release has been a party for them, too, just not as much fun as for us humans.

James and I take care of the raccoons first.

“Have you been around injured raccoons?” I ask James, as I scoop fresh food into a pail and he shoulders a water jug.

“Never. Where I lived we only saw them at night, and they ran away when they'd see people.”

“Where did you live?”

“Idaho. We lived on the backside of a foothill. Elk and moose walked through our yard every day.”

“Nice.”

Four raccoons greet us with open and alert eyes, rare in the afternoon when they usually sleep. So I use an extension pole to open the food trap and shove in plates of eggs, fruit, and nuts while keeping a safe distance. Most of the raccoons are older babies and adolescents that already have sharp claws on their finger-like toes. Getting near an awake and curious raccoon would be a big mistake.

When we finish, Beth meets us in the hallway.

“The outdoor waterfowl cage is a mess. The birds are really nervous today with all the extra activity,” she says. “I can use your help.”

This is not my favorite chore because goose poo sticks to everything like goo-glue. The cage and pools have to be thoroughly hosed down several times a week.

While Beth and I settle the three mallards, two Canadian geese, and a sea gull in nearby cages, James uses the jet setting on a hose to spray the interior. We refill the three deep round pools used for bathing. Next, we restock the birds' food containers with lettuce, seed, millet, barley, grubs, and crickets, adding some scratch on the side. Then we bring the birds back and quietly close the door.

“Jeremy,” Beth says. “Would you take care of the ducklings and goslings while I show James what has to be done for the baby fox we took in last week?”

As I walk to the baby waterfowl room, I puzzle more about Mackie. I message her:

No reply. Maybe she still doesn't have her phone to see my text. But there are other phones at her house that she could use to call me.
Why isn't she telling me what's going on?

Ducklings and goslings have their own special, warm interior room. I move the fluffy, young birds to cardboard boxes, enjoying their peeps and nudges for attention. Then I clean their wooden boxes and add fresh pine shavings.

Waterfowl are cuddly, friendly little guys. Being held doesn't terrify them, though they initially try to run away when I go to pick them up. That's hard-wired in their survival system. I stroke each duckling and gosling as I return the birds to their boxes.

But the animals are only temporary distractions. Mackie is on my mind.

I send her another message:

If someone found Mac's phone, they should respond, if only to learn how to contact the owner. Or maybe they don't intend to return her phone?

When we finish our work early, Beth, James, and I sit and eat leftover cookies.

“What I already miss is backcountry skiing,” James says. “I could take off from our house and within a half mile gain 200 feet. Sometimes I'd take snowshoes, but the snow was deep enough by the end of October that I could ski. Do you ski?”

As Beth and James chat, I pay enough attention to stay in the loop, but worry about Mackie.
What is she doing?

Close to six o'clock, the next shift of volunteers arrives.

I jog up the shelter's driveway to the road, looking at my phone. Nothing. I run home, partly because I feel cold, and partly because not hearing from Mackie makes me anxious. I feel frustrated because there isn't much I can do.
Get a grip. Settle down.
She will call. Of course she will.

After dinner, Mom asks, “Did you and Mackie decide on what you'll do tonight?”

“I haven't been able to reach her. She lost her phone last night at Kyle's. Guess I'll have to wait for her to call me,” I say, feeling glum.

“You could call her mom or dad,” Mom suggests.

Now I have a back-up plan. Maybe Mackie is eating dinner. I'll give it another half hour.

After brushing my teeth and taking a shower, I sit on my bed and check my cell phone. Still nothing. I try again:

She replies:

What?
I felt bad, like she's slapped me. It's kind of a rude message to send when we agreed last night to do something together this evening. If she didn't want to be with me, why didn't she say so yesterday? I feel an achy hurt, like I'm not wanted.

To counter my black cloud of a mood, I lie back on my pillow, plug in my earbuds, and listen to some tunes Wes sent me. I also begin playing a game on my notebook. “Am busy 2nite.”
What is that supposed to mean?
She's never sent a message like that before. Why now?

When Mom flings open my bedroom door and walks in unannounced, I'm completely out of it. She has a frown and looks worried. Motioning for me to take my earbuds out, she sits on the edge of my bed.

“I just spoke with Caitlin. She thought Mackie was with you because Mackie didn't come home for dinner. Do you know where she is?”

“No. Like I told you, we never made any definite plans. She texted me about an hour ago that she was busy. Why does Mrs. Spence think she's here?” I ask.

“I don't know, but you should call her back. She's worried. I think you should help find Mackie. Use my phone so she'll answer.” Mom looks tense. I send the number she's picked out.

Mackie's mom answers. “Stephanie?”

“No. It's Jeremy. I don't understand, did Mackie say she would be at our house?”

“Oh, Jeremy, thank you for calling, dear. We've been trying to find her.”

“You know she lost her phone last night, right?”

“Yes. She was upset about it this morning. She called Kyle and he didn't have it. After Nick and I left for the farmers' market, Mackie sent us a message that she was leaving to pick her phone up. But she didn't say who had it or where she was going.

“Noelle told us that Mackie left on her bicycle around one o'clock. That was the last any of us saw her. She sent me a message that she was going to the shelter, and then to your house. Did you see her at the shelter?” Mrs. Spence asks.

“Ah, no. She never showed up for the eagle release. Did the message she sent you come from her cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“I could ask Kyle if he knows anything new. Maybe someone dropped it by the Davenports' after you left for the market,” I suggest, knowing it's a long shot.

“Oh, thank you Jeremy. Please let us know right away if you learn anything,” Mrs. Spence says, and we say goodbye.

Mom looks serious. “Mackie's been gone for both lunch and dinner without her parents knowing where she is. That's not like her. Do you know anything about this?”

“No. Like I said, she sent me a message that she was busy tonight. Let me try Kyle.”

I tap:

I receive an immediate response:

Well, it had been worth a try. I try Mackie again:

No response. My mom and I look at each other. I try again:

My mom's phone buzzes. It's Nick Spence. She puts him on speakerphone.

“Stephanie, I'm terribly sorry to bother you. Was Jeremy able to reach Kyle?”

“Kyle sent a message that he hasn't seen Mackie. We've been trying to figure out where she might be,” Mom says.

“We've called everyone. Nobody's seen her. I hate to get the police involved, but we're flat out of options,” Mr. Spence says.

“I just sent a message asking if she still wanted to get together tonight, and she wrote ‘No,'” I say.

“Just now? This just happened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don't understand. We're worried that she might have had an accident. You know, lots of people don't pay good attention when they drive. Someone could have hit Mackie on her bike. Down home, we'd have scent dogs looking for her, but up here I've got nothing. And she sends you a one-word message. Just ‘No.' Oh, that fries me.”

“Uh, it doesn't seem like something she'd do on purpose,” I say. Mackie's being gone and not answering her mom and dad's calls really isn't like her.

Oh crap, there might be an explanation no one knows about.
She might have had another healing situation like with the orca. Maybe she's physically exhausted now. But since she has her phone back, why not just call someone to pick her up? She could call Jen who has her own car. On the other hand, Mackie has been very clear with me about no one besides us knowing what she can do. Still, it doesn't make sense for her to not have explained where she was when she replied to me. Why the secrecy when she knows I will understand and help her?

It worries me that the Spences have decided to contact the police. That is the last thing Mackie would want. It means she'll have lots of nosy people grilling her about where she's been all day. But why not tell her parents, or me for that matter, that she is okay?
Maybe because she's not okay.

Mom stares at me after ending the call. “Jeremy, Nick and Caitlin are worried sick. Why isn't Mackie calling them, but sending you text messages?”

“I don't know. It doesn't add up for me, either.”

It's nearly eight o'clock and dark outside. After Mom leaves, I pick up my phone and check to see if I've missed a new message. Nothing. Where is she? I try again to reason it out, but none of it makes sense. Then I send a group message to our friends:

Their responses come, fast.

From Jen:
Yeah! Let's find her. I can drive.

From Jon:
I'm in.

From Erica:
Me 2.

From Wendy:
I'll help.

From Ty:
Yes!

From Wes:
I'll drive.

My final message:
I'll go with wes and ty

With more coordinating, Wes and Jen arrange to drive to areas where we know Mackie might ride her bike. Now that we have a plan, I feel a little better. Still, it's not good. Nick Spence said he would call the police, so if Mackie is hurt they will find her. So far, they've found nothing. What if she's hurt and she's crawled away from the road? It doesn't explain her phone message to me.
Why didn't she write more than just ‘Am busy 2nite'?

Fifteen minutes later, Wes' tires spray gravel when he slams to a stop in our drive. Ty sits in the front, so I pop the back door and slide in.

“Jeremy.” Wes says. “What's going on? Did you and Mackie have a fight?”

“No,” I reply, surprised at his question. “We were supposed to get together tonight, but we didn't have any definite plans.”

“She's not just blowin' you off?” Ty asks.

“I don't think so. We didn't have a fight or anything. It was all good last night except that she lost her phone at Kyle's.” Ty's wondering if Mackie is staying away from me on purpose hasn't occurred to me. But nothing has added up tonight.

“Okay, then something must be wrong.” Wes says it so definitely that my defenses against thinking that something bad has happened to Mackie crash. I shudder.
Not Mackie!

Wes drives us around the eastern and northern island routes. Jennifer, Wendy, Erica, and Jon search the western and southern roads. I don't know exactly what we hope to accomplish, but it feels better than sitting alone, worrying, at home.

On the north side, something flickers near a curve in the road.
Whew!
It's a deer, moving slowly along the narrow gravel shoulder.

At ten thirty we meet at Jen's house. Everyone is really down. I call my mom to see if she has more news from the Spences. Nothing. The outlook for finding Mackie is getting worse with each passing hour.

“There has to be a good reason she's not home. Mackie doesn't do things like this,” Jen says.

“Yeah,” Ty agrees. “She's usually the one who gets us out of trouble.”

“We've looked everywhere that she would bike. And her parents have contacted half the island. We have to hope she calls and actually talks to someone,” Jon sums up.

Wes drops me off at home around eleven o'clock. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen. Mom looks nervous, and Dad looks more serious than I've seen him about pretty much anything.

“Your mom and I are going to bed, but if you hear anything about Mackie wake us up. Okay?” he says.

“Right,” I respond, wishing I had brought good news with me.

Once upstairs in my bedroom, I put my face in my hands to wipe away the tears on my cheeks. The last time I cried out of fear was when I was seven years old. Den Webster, the class bully, threw me on the ground and told me he was going to cut me up in little pieces and then flush me down the toilet. But this is different. I'm afraid
for
Mackie, not
of
her. It feels worse, in so many ways.

My phone lights up with an incoming call from a number I don't recognize.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Jeremy? This is Jilly Parker. Do you know who I am?”