Wild Goose Chase

ONE

Callahan

I arrive at my ex-girlfriend's house at ten o'clock at night with the prelude to a tension headache and mere dregs remaining of my self-respect. When Nicole called, it was like my brain went into autopilot. It didn't matter that we've been broken up for almost a year and a half, or that there are photos all over social media of her and her new husband to act as a reminder that her distress is no longer my problem to solve. The moment I heard her voice in that high octave she only achieves in moments of complete panic, I knew I was going to go to her, and I was going to do whatever it took to make everything better.

Unfortunately, by the time I realized that "whatever it took" might mean anything from killing a spider to burying a body, I was in too deep-which is to say, I was already turning onto her street. Any progress I made in talking myself down from helping her during the drive from the apartment over my antique store in Hampden to the unfamiliar address in Homeland she texted me disappears as soon as Nicole answers the door of the stately brick Colonial. She's clad in paint-speckled jeans and a sweat-stained T-shirt, her tight black curls wrangled into a bun atop her head. The most striking part, though, is the look of immense relief on her face.

"Cal. Thank god you're here," she says, and, without hesitation, as if it hasn't been seventeen months since we last saw each other, wraps her arms around my waist. Her incredulous laughter vibrates against my sternum.

For the first time in recent memory, some of the tightness evaporates from my shoulders. Yes, my brain says. Things are right again, at last. These curves, this warmth, the jasmine and musk scent enveloping me are all correct. But of course none of it is correct anymore; Nicole made that very clear when she ended our relationship on what would have been our fifteen-year dating anniversary. So I resist placing my hand on her hip or burying my nose in her hair, welcome the stress back into my body like an old acquaintance I'm not particularly fond of but still always greet when we run into each other, clear my throat, and step out of her embrace. "So, what's going on?"

She chews her lower lip in that nervous way of hers and a forgotten corner of my heart goes ahead and shatters to match the rest of it. "Ah, so, my great-aunt Vera-do you remember her?" She doesn't wait for me to answer. "She passed away in April."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I respond.

Nicole nods in quick acknowledgment before continuing. "She very generously left me her house-or rather, she left me this house. Isaiah and I moved in a few months ago, right before . . . uh, right before our wedding. I finally got around to cleaning out the attic tonight and . . . well, it's better if I just show you, I think."

I follow Nicole up the stairs, down a hallway, and into a small room filled with boxes, neatly stacked and labeled. She opens a door, revealing another much more compact set of stairs, and gestures for me to go up first. The attic is oven-like despite the autumnal chill outside, and I have to push up the sleeves of my sweater and use the back of my forearm to wipe away the sweat quickly accumulating at my hairline so it doesn't drip into my eyes.

"Thank you again for coming," Nicole says, turning toward me as the overhead light flickers on. "I really didn't know who else to call."

"No problem. This is actually a hobby of mine, exploring sweltering attics with my exes. I've been so busy lately, though. Good to have an excuse to get back into it." I smile through the sarcasm, and Nicole tilts her mouth slightly in return-a courtesy; we never did share the same sense of humor.

"You have other exes, then?" she asks with a tone of hopefulness in her voice that's like a knife plunged directly into my aorta. She seems so excited by the prospect that I've been able to move on after our split-and with enough haste that I might have collected several additional breakups in the meantime-that I don't have the heart to tell her the truth. Clearly, barring whatever has her currently in such a tizzy that she'd bother calling me of all people, Nicole is doing well. She's happy with her handsome firefighter husband and big, beautiful house. And I'm happy she's happy. Truly. Just because I haven't been nearly as successful in putting things behind me doesn't mean I need or want to make her feel guilty.

"Oh, sure, loads of 'em," I say, then clap my hands together and rub them, a sort of percussive transition into a quick subject change. "What can I do for you, then?"

"Right. So, I'm just going to get on with it," she responds. "There." She gestures to a large, boxy item in the corner, indicating that I should examine it myself.

My eyes wander over the queen-size electric orange and lime green quilt that obscures whatever lies beneath. "Late sixties, early seventies, based on the colors," I mumble as I approach it. The seam I rub between my fingers is egregiously crooked. "Not particularly well-crafted, though, sorry to say."

"I did not call you here at ten at night to look at an ugly quilt, Callahan. Under it."

"Right. Of course." I lift the corner of the quilt with caution in case a dismembered head or a rat king waits underneath. Although Nicole would certainly have relied upon stronger, braver Isaiah to take care of either of those, not her dorky antique dealer ex. With the oddly comforting realization that I'm not good enough to be called upon to fix a gross problem, I rip off the quilt like a Band-Aid.

The rectangular shape comes from a display case. And inside sits a gigantic taxidermy . . . goose?

To my admittedly untrained eye, it looks a lot like a Canada goose-the big gray and black ones that congregate near ponds and fly in Vs. Except this one doesn't have the usual coloring. Instead, it's almost all white, barring the top of the head and neck, which are a pale taupe. It's as if someone took a photo of it and turned the saturation and contrast way down, but in real life. Another variety, then? Or a genetic mutation?

Whatever it is, it's trouble. Big trouble.

I let out a low whistle.

"I know," she says.

"Nic."

"I know."

"This is a problem. This could be extremely illegal," I say. "There's a federal law prohibiting the possession of native birds in any way, shape, or form."

"I know," she replies for a third time, her voice now a quiet whine. "I googled it. Oh, Cal. I have a felonious dead goose in my attic!"

I shake my head, not taking my eyes off the bird in case it . . . what, moves? "I said, could be illegal. There's a chance, a small chance, that maybe . . ."

"Maybe what?" Nicole moves closer, peering over my shoulder as I bend to examine the wooden base. No markings or labels that I can see, though I would need to check it out more thoroughly, outside of its case, to be certain. A tap with my fingernail verifies that said case is glass, not acrylic.

"Maybe what, Cal?" Nicole repeats.

I straighten again and give my forehead another swipe. "There are a handful of circumstances where it's legal, mostly involving proper permitting at the time of mounting . . . though I think it would have a leg band if it was all done aboveboard. Or if it's quite old, like pre-1940ish, and you can prove it, you might be able to apply for a permit to have it legacied in. That would at least give you the necessary documentation and make it eligible for donation to a museum or a university or something so you can get rid of it."

"Well? Is it old enough ?"

I blink. "Why do you think I would know that?"

"Why wouldn't you? Don't you have a master's degree in this stuff?"

"I must have slept through most of my senior seminar on Precisely Dating Glass-Enclosed Taxidermy in Dim Light." I raise my eyebrows, catching another drip of sweat leisurely making its way down my forehead. Between the heat up here, the way Nicole is looking at me, and the situation in general, it's rather tempting to pass out.

Nicole groans and covers her face with her hands. "So, what should I do? The internet made it seem like the police will immediately throw me in jail if anyone ever finds out I have this."

"A hefty fine would be more likely," I say absently, remembering an article in The Sun a few years back about a New England woman having to pay a fifteen-thousand-dollar fine because she tried to sell a folding fan made of blue jay feathers on Facebook Marketplace. "Your options seem to be to cover it back up with the ugly quilt and pretend it doesn't exist, thereby leaving it as a problem for your next of kin, chuck it in the Inner Harbor and hope it sinks, or find out definitively where and when Goose Willis here is from . . ." I trail off as Nicole stands with arms crossed, giving me a death stare. "What? Do you prefer Liam Geeson? Tom Honks?"

"Callahan Zane Leitner, I know you are not trying to give this incredible burden that my late aunt foisted upon me a cute little nickname."

"You're right. I'm sorry. I know this must be stressful for you," I apologize, heroically resisting the urge to blurt out any of the other five pun names that just popped into my head. "Anyway, figure out this thing's origins and it'll still be illegal to sell, but with proper provenance you can at least keep it or donate it somewhere without summoning the wrath of the federal government."

She pauses for a moment, thinking over what I've said. "Yeah, okay. I want to do that. I want to donate it. So that it died for a good cause, at least. As much as I would like to throw the damn thing into the harbor. Icky dead bird in my house . . ." An exaggerated shudder goes through Nicole's body as she trails off, and I find my eyes drifting to her chest as it jiggles beneath her T-shirt. So strange to think those are the breasts that played such a pivotal role in all of my most formative sexual memories. But whatever memories her breasts are making these days are absolutely none of my business, so I forcibly return my attention to the goose.

"I could . . . research it a bit, I guess. See what I can figure out for you," I hear myself say. Wait, I could what now?

Nicole's sable eyes light up, full of the same open relief they held when I arrived. "You'd do that? Seriously?"

What am I supposed to say? No. I actually only said that because I was trying desperately to stop thinking about the first time I got to touch your boobs and blurted out the first non-boob thought I had. That would go over well, I'm sure. Besides, there is still a part of me that would go to the ends of the earth for this woman. Habit, I guess, after spending nearly half of our lives as not only lovers but friends. I'll always care for her. And I guess sometimes caring looks a lot like stupidity, because my actual response is "Sure. Why not?"

"Oh, thank you, Cal! Thank you so much. I knew you would know what to do." She leans in and kisses my cheek, enveloping me in her scent and a million more unwanted echoes of the past. "Isaiah should be home any minute. He can help you get the thing into your car."

"Help me what now?"

A faint, deep voice calling Nicole's name drifts up through the floorboards. "Oh, that's him now," she says with an excited smile. "Perfect timing."

I didn't really intend to offer to help research this goose. And I really, really didn't intend to take it into my own possession. I guess I assumed it would be staying here in the attic, and I would come visit it as needed, perhaps even establishing a nice, healthy, mature friendship with my ex and her husband in the process. Now this probably illicit bird is going to become my own personal liability? "Nic, wait! I never said I would take-"

But she's already hurrying down the narrow little staircase, eager to throw herself into Isaiah's muscly embrace.

Maybe I owe her this. Because her face never lit up the way it just did when we were together. That's a whole lot of years of not having the joy she deserved. It's not that I think it's all my fault exactly, but I'm sure it's not not either.

I stare at my unwelcome new companion in its case. The goose's glass eyes seem to look right past me, no matter the angle.

I sigh. "I really need to find a therapist, James Van Der Beak. This is getting ridiculous."

TWO

Callahan

I inherited from my mentor, Graham, one of the easiest commutes in the entire city when he willed me the apartment above Virtu Antiques and Collectibles three years ago. All I have to do is close the door, lock it, walk downstairs, and I'm in the shop. This morning, though, I need to check on the goose, which is hopefully still in the back of my Chevy Suburban (also formerly Graham's), so I leave through the rear fire escape instead. After ensuring the bird is still there and fully hidden beneath the hideous quilt that Nicole was plenty eager to also unload on me, I decide to take a brisk walk before heading into work. The fresh air and exertion will do me good. Maybe it will even disperse some of the nervous energy that kept me awake half the night thinking about the way things used to be. Before Graham died. Before Nicole left. Before I agreed to what I think might technically qualify as a criminal conspiracy.

Though I'm already running a bit late after my jaunt through Wyman Park, I pop into the coffee shop a few doors down from Virtu. I'm going to need my business partner, Harold, in as good a mood as possible today. Despite being a sixty-year-old man, Harold has always had the soul of a woman in her mid-twenties, so I figure a pumpkin muffin and oat milk vanilla latte will not go amiss.