After Clayton Yonder arrived at my house, I brought him into the living room to introduce him to our avian (and insect) dinner companions.

“These two beauties,” I said, delivering my boyfriend to the arm of the sofa on which two goldfinches were perched, “are Stella and Rochester.”

Much to my surprise, Clay reached out a hand. First Stella and then Rochester lifted a delicate foot, and allowed Clayton to shake it. Also on the arm of the sofa were Gwendolyn and Nigel, the adorable tufted titmouses. After emitting melodious and high-pitched twitters, they did the same.

The teeny, tiny swan, who had been resting on a small velvet pillow ever since I put her there, did not wait for introductions. Instead, she extended her wings, flew toward Clay, and landed on his shoulder.

“This is … was … is,” I said, trying to track her flight path with my eyes, “Florence.”

She moved a few inches closer to the new, large, and masculine presence in the room, and nestled against his neck.

I looked around and asked, “Where’s Byron? I want to…”

But before I could finish the sentence, our dragonfly-friend (about the size of a kaleidoscope with wings) shot out of the basement stairwell and to Clay’s delight and Florence’s dismay, began to fly figure eights around the only man and the only swan in the room. After about 15 seconds of dizzying acrobatics, Byron alighted on the lip of the lampshade closest to where Stella, Rochester, Gwendolyn, and Nigel were perched.

“Lastly,” I announced, almost triumphantly, “This is Archie.” Then, turning to the fireplace mantel where the Giant Chickadee seemed to have made himself at home, I continued, “Archie, the handsome man you see standing in front of you with a wee, little swan resting on his shoulder is Clayton Yonder. Lest you forget, he is the one who built you that wonderful bird feeder.”

Archie tilted his head (meaning his whole body) to one side and studied Clay for a long moment. Then he righted himself and thrust out a foot. Stepping forward with respectful solemnity, Clayton gently shook it.

The doorbell rang.

I did a quick doubletake, unsure why anyone would be visiting me so late in the day. Then I remembered, and called out, “Pizza!”

I cleared off the coffee table and brought plates from the kitchen for me and Clay. I left the plain pizza in its box, and broke the crust into small bites for Rochester, Stella, Nigel, Gwendolyn, and Florence, who abandoned Clay’s shoulder for the duration. Archie also joined the rest of us at the table. I left Byron to fly in and out of the basement in search of spiders and flies, as his appetite dictated.

Not talking much, we all happily picked at our food.

About half an hour later, after I had cleared away the debris, Clay – elbows on knees on the sofa where he was sitting – leaned forward. He briefly locked eyes with each of us. Then he said, “I enjoyed meeting you all, and I’m grateful to have been invited, but I’m here for a very specific reason. Before I explain…” He turned to me. “I need to know exactly what happened today … before you called me from your car. Why such a great sense of urgency?”

With the eyes of four birds, a swan, a dragonfly, and Archie all riveted on my face, I reiterated what I had previously told Clay. However, this time in great detail.

My boyfriend did not immediately respond, which left me with a few seconds to study him. Funny, isn’t it, how when we are with friends, family, lovers, we rarely take the time to remove ourselves from the intimacy of the interaction long enough to just … look?

So, I looked. And I liked what I saw. Clayton Younder was stocky and muscular in the way men get who don’t exercise in gyms, but mend fences. Track coyotes. Split logs. Rescue baby foxes. Plant trees. Clay’s eyes were a sun-drenched light blue, and the wrinkles at the corners somehow added veracity to the blond stubble on his cheeks. He had a thick neck and muscular forearms. But my favorite of his features was what I’ve always called “man’s hands.” Not slender. Not delicate. A little scared and bruised. But capable.

To others, Clayton Yonder may have looked a little beat up and weathered. To my mind, the man was absolutely gorgeous.

“So, here’s the deal,” he interrupted my silent adoration. “As you may not know,” he looked directly at the arm of the sofa and rim of the lampshade where Rochester, Stella, Nigel, Gwendolyn, Florence, Archie, and Byron were perched, “I work for the Wildlife Refuge System of the National Park Service. I am not, however, a conventional park ranger, and I don’t have a conventional job. My background is law enforcement, and for years, I specialized in identifying and apprehending serial killers.”

I moved from where I was sitting beside Clay to an armchair across from him, so I could watch his face. Until that moment, I guess I’d thought that he was born in a khaki shirt, dark green pants, carrying a gun, wearing a badge, and wading through wetlands in search of motherless raccoons that had dropped out of trees.

“About a year ago,” he continued, “the US Parks Service Police approached me with a proposition. Apparently, an unknown predator is decimating the wildlife population at Gossamer Gardens. That’s a privately owned park with acres of meadows, thousands of trees, waterways, and formal gardens in Somerset County. It’s been open to the public since 1947. At least, it was until now.”

I asked, “What happened that it isn’t open now?”

Clay turned to me, his eyes steady, but narrowed slightly in what I interpreted as … worry.

“What happened is slaughter.”

“Of innocent visitors to the park?”

“No. Of birds. Hundreds of them. Possibly thousands. Partially decapitated, but never eaten. Their corpses lying all over the grounds. In the grass. On walkways. On picnic tables. In water fountains.”

My eyes popped open, and my jaw dropped.

“Oh, my God,” I barely whispered. And my bird-friends – all perched on the arm of a chair beside me – began to twitter in dismay. Archie the Giant Chickadee, hopped from where he had been sitting with the others to my knee, and Byron the dragonfly, at first began to levitate unsteadily, and then to circle the living room in distress.

“Why … What…” I began.

“We don’t know what it is. It’s as elusive as it is bloodthirsty. If it were human, I’d call it a thrill killer.” For a moment, he looked down at his hands, as if from them he would find inspiration. Then, he raised his eyes and continued, “The Parks Service asked me to join what they’re calling the Avian Slaughter Task Force … ASTF … because their conventionally trained wildlife officers have not yet been able to identify the predator. Their thinking is that with my background of tracking bloodthirsty human beings, I might be able to detect a predator lower on the evolutionary scale.”

Clay turned to me. “That’s where you come in.”

“Me?” I exclaimed in horror.

“Uh huh.”

“But … But …” I stuttered. “Why me?”

“Because,” Special Investigator Clayton Yonder said somberly, “I believe that you and your friends,” he indicated the goldfinches, tufted titmouses, swan, dragonfly, and Archie the Giant Chickadee, “saw it – whatever it is – this afternoon. And that you can help me to do what I have to do.”

Copyright © Shelly Reuben, 2026. Shelly Reuben’s books have been nominated for Edgar, Prometheus, and Falcon awards. For more about her writing, visit www.shellyreuben.com