If Elvis were alive, he would be seventy-six years old. He would be one of the wealthiest performers on the planet, and if my dream was any indication, he would be an avid falconer.
That was the message I was sent in my sleep: If you really want to find Elvis, get yourself a falcon and take it way up north. That's where he's been living for some time, and if you can trust my late-night synapses, he's really let himself go. Of course, I wasn't able to make this discovery alone. There were plenty of townspeople willing to be bribed for more information and participation in my search. It became apparent that, somehow, Elvis really didn't want to stay hidden. It's just that once he went into seclusion, way back in 1977 it seemed like a good idea. Jumping out of the spotlight at that point seemed like the best possible solution to all his woes. But now, with Johnny Cash, Roy Orbison and Jerry Lee Lewis gone, he's ready to take in all the glory that his past has to offer.
Except he's stuck in Montana, living a hermit's life, It was the guy who ran the general store that told me what to do. He even loaned me a peregrine he said would bring E out of the hills. This cost me a wad of bills, but seemed to worth it, especially since his granddaughter agreed to take me up in the hills and get pointed in the right direction. Once we got to an open patch in the trees, she showed me how to heft the great bird into the air. We watched it circle, and then make a lightning descent. On the next rise was a battered shack, with a bent figure standing on the decaying roof. He held the falcon on his arm, protected by a thick, leather glove. He was so busy admiring the bird that he didn't notice as I approached from below. He was feeding it strips of raw meat when I called out to him. There was a look of surprise, then of resignation. He looked at the falcon and then back at me. Discovered.
When I awoke, I wondered if I would have the same success with Jim Morrison.