“Well, I thought I did, too. But I couldn’t even tell what she was until she was right up on me.” Ron shrugged, still feeling foolish despite Holcomb’s manners.
“What do you think of the place, Mr. Riggs?” Holcomb raised his arms to encompass the room.
“I’m impressed. What I’ve seen of it. You’ve obviously gone to some great expense.” He made eye contact with Kate. There didn’t seem to be anything beyond mischief in her eyes. That gave him some relief. “You’ve got a nice lab here. And you certainly seem to have decent security around the place.”
Holcomb shrugged. “Yes. I need the security. You never can tell what kind of problems we might encounter here. I’m not particularly popular with a lot of powerful folk, just now.” He sighed. “But I’m used to it. I’m accustomed to making people angry.”
“So I’ve heard,” Ron admitted. Indeed. Ron knew that even a lot of people and organizations within the environmental movement did not care for Holcomb. Some said he that he caused more trouble than he was worth. There was his crackpot reputation, for one thing. He’d spent hundreds of thousands of dollars hunting for the Loch Ness Monster. And he’d claimed to have located a herd of Imperial mammoths living isolated and forgotten in Nepal. The claim concerning the mammoths had nearly proved true, but it had turned out to be a population of very large Indian elephants who were genetic throwbacks to another type of extinct species. While they were certainly mutants, they weren’t mammoths. And Holcomb had even gone chasing after Sasquatch in the wild country of the Northwest.
However, he also could be effective in saving wild places that were worth preserving. The USA was dotted with lands he had bought up and donated to various state governments around the nation. When he was feeling cooperative was when he did the most good. From what Ron had read, he was not feeling cooperative where this place was concerned.
“Tell me something, Mr. Riggs. What exactly are you doing here? Why is Fish and Wildlife back here after publishing that ridiculous impact statement?” Holcomb had his hand on Riggs’ shoulder and was leading him back out into the hallway. Ron allowed himself to be led.
“Actually, I’m just here to look for sign of a large constrictor, Mr. Holcomb.”
“Vance. Call me Vance. Please.”
“Um. Sure. You see…the folk from Salutations gave us a call. Said they were having trouble with pets disappearing. Dogs. A couple cats.”
“Cats wander off all the time,” Holcomb said. “Wander off and go feral and kill hundreds of birds a year. They’re pure hell on native birds.”
“Eh. Yes, sir. I know.”
“Ouch. Sorry, Ron. I get so used to preaching and teaching that I forget myself. Sorry.” Holcomb’s eyes were downcast. He truly seemed apologetic.
“So, we think it’s a python someone released. Maybe even an anaconda. It’s not that rare, you know. Maybe one of the soldiers who was stationed here years before this place was decommissioned decided the pet python he’d bought had gotten just a bit too large, and maybe he let it go in the woods, thinking he was doing the right thing. Happens frequently, as you well know.” Holcomb had led them down the hallway where Kate had disappeared when they’d come in. The rich man was taking Ron toward an opened doorway at the far end.
“I’m actually surprised they called you on this.”
“Matter of fact, the studio seemed rather concerned that they not break any environmental laws. I think they might have handled it themselves if they’d known that there’s no Federal protection for an alien species such as a python.”
Holcomb threw back his head and laughed. Ron was strangely reminded of Burt Lancaster in his later years. Not so much Holcomb’s physical appearance, but his mannerisms. “I can see some lame-brained executive making a dumb move like that. They were probably kicking themselves after you told them.” He pointed at Ron. “You did tell them, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
Holcomb threw back his head and laughed again. “I like you, Ron. You’ve got a good sense of humor.”
By then, they were at the doorway, and a pale light spilled out of the partially opened threshold. Vance Holcomb pushed it wide. Ron almost fell on his ass.
The room was huge. At least, huge for what it was. An office, apparently, but larger than any office in which Ron had ever set foot. A quick guess was that the room was easily three thousand square feet. Twice as big as Ron’s own house. It was brightly lit and luxuriously, if sparsely, appointed. If Holcomb liked to do good deeds with his money, he was certainly not averse to lavishing himself with it, either. “This is your office?” Ron’s voice was a squeak.
“Yes. Yes, it is. I like a big space where I work,” he said. “If I’ve got to be inside, then I need lots of room to make me feel at ease.”
“I see.” The place, though huge, was not at all crowded. In fact, for the size of the room there was actually a ridiculously small amount of furnishings.
Seeing the unspoken question on Ron’s face, Holcomb addressed it. “I take the Japanese view toward furnishings. Just what is necessary for comfort. Nothing more. Mainly, I just want the space.”
“I can understand that,” Ron told him, wondering what Holcomb would think of his own cluttered place. Ron followed Holcomb’s lead toward a huge desk that was larger than he had thought from across the room, and he had a seat in a big, solid-looking chair that was softly upholstered. Cow leather, he noticed, sitting there. Holcomb was certainly not one of the no-meat, no-furs crowd.
Holcomb took his post on his side of the desk, settling down in a chair that reeked of expense. There were even buttons on one of the great arms, and Ron wondered what the hell they were for. For just a second he thought of the floor opening up beneath him while Holcomb laughed maniacally. He banished the thought.
“What do you plan to do, provided you find evidence of a snake? Or if you actually find the snake, itself? Supposing that there is a snake.” The rich man found the humidor on the desktop, and he slid the top back along carefully fashioned grooves and took out a pair of cigars. “Do you take a cigar, Ron?” He offered one up.
“Sure,” Ron said. “I like a cigar now and again,” he lied. He figured if it was a cigar off of the desk of a billionaire, then it had to be expensive and he was willing to see what it was like. Holcomb trimmed both cigars and lit Ron’s for him, then his own. The two sat and sampled the flavor. Actually, for a non-smoker, Ron was handling it well. Not bad, he thought. I could get into this.
Holcomb chewed his cigar, puffed a great billow of smoke. “Well?”
“Oh. About the snake. Yes.” Ron took the cigar out of his mouth and looked at it, looked at Holcomb. “Well, we’re obligated to call in someone.”
“Someone?” Holcomb’s brow went up.
“One of the fellows who contracts with the state to capture problem animals. Usually, it’s gators, of course. But sometimes they can come in and take raccoons. And I guess snakes.” Ron did not like the look on Holcomb’s face. It wasn’t anger, exactly, but he didn’t look entirely happy.
“They kill those alligators. Correct? And the raccoons? They skin them all out and sell their pelts. All for being crowded out of their habitat by humans.”
“Um. Yes, sir. The alligators and the raccoon are sold to markets. Or, rather, their skins are. In the case of the gators, even the meat is sold.” Ron spread his hands. “The alligator in Florida is no longer endangered. You know that. It’s not a problem to harvest them from time to time anymore.”
Vance Holcomb leaned forward and eyed Ron, his demeanor no longer completely friendly. There was now an adversarial feel to their meeting. Maybe it had become a confrontation. “And what will happen to this snake? If it is a snake?”
“I’m not entirely sure, if they capture a large snake. I would assume that it would be worth more to a zoo alive than to someone dealing in leather goods.”
“But you aren’t certain?”
Ron slumped in the chair. He’d been enjoying the da
y, until then. “No. I honestly can’t say. But I don’t think it would just be killed outright. We don’t do things that way anymore.”
Holcomb rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. “Please. Spare me that. Of course things are still done that way.”
“Well…hell.” Ron wilted a bit more.
Holcomb turned his back on the desk, swiveling his chair. Ron saw him depress one of the buttons on the arm of the chair. On the far side of the room, what Ron had assumed was a wall slowly eased back in almost complete silence. If he strained, he could just hear the perfect whirring of finely tuned machinery. A gigantic window of truly impressive proportions was slowly revealed. Ron could see the view Holcomb had whenever he wished it. The forest was there, outside the great window, just beyond the chain link fence, no wooden barrier on this side of the compound. The view was impressive: cypress, gum, oaks, pines. Birds were moving across the afternoon sky, heading for roosts: ducks, birds of prey, egrets, cranes, storks. Incredibly, Ron saw a black bear moving at the verge of the forest, its snout testing the winds.
“I’ll be damned,” Ron said.
“This place must be protected, Mr. Riggs. I’m going to do whatever it takes to save it.”
“I don’t blame you,” he said, the cigar loose in his fingers, his voice feeling like a whisper.
“I think we’ll try to locate this snake before you and your animal killer do so. I really don’t want the wrong kind of people mucking about around here. Understand?”
“Understood, Mr. Holcomb.”
He faced Ron again, his face stern. “Please. Call me Vance.”
Chapter Ten
Walks Backward was at his position, as always. Behind him, the Flock was moving ahead, scouting. He surveyed the leavings of the route they had taken, running quickly from one side of the hunting pattern to the other. There: a bit of covering shed by one of last year’s youth; he ate it. On a sandy patch of ground: a great three-toed track left by one of the females; he scratched it out with his own great claws, until there was no track to see.
Behind the Flock, he kept his vigil, searching for sign his fellows had left, things for him to collect in his gullet or expunge from existence. They had learned that to continue to live, to continue to survive, all sign of their being must be kept from the Man.
They had lived in this place for a long time, the Flock. Most of their race had vanished, and they were the local remnant of once vast numbers who had hunted here, taking the prey that had come and gone, gift of a fickle sky. The Two, Mother and Father, held the history and told it each day, bit by bit as it came to them in the sunlight moments. Once, there had been other creatures who had lived in this land, other hunters and other prey. Horned antelope, smaller and quicker than the deer on which they now lived, had once danced across these scrubby prairies. Great, hairless mammoths had shared the spaces with them. Huge armored mammals had lumbered across the land. An endless parade of life, less now than in the times faded into history.
And then, almost a hundred generations before, the Man had come. They were tall, although not as tall as a member of the Flock. And they moved on two legs instead of four. The Flock had never seen any other land hunter who moved on two legs rather than four; just like themselves. This Man, this new hunter, was a competitor, perhaps equal to the Flock: the Flock who could race across the grasses as fast as any deer; who were slyer, more cunning than any cat or wolf; who were heavier than any other hunter, even than the bears. The Flock would push out these new things who came in numbers onto the Flock’s ground.
But the Flock had been in error. This new creature, this man, could kill like nothing else. They came down from the north in masses, and they could make fire, and could deliver their long teeth from a great distance. The Flocks fell dead for making war on this animal, this Man. Almost; they faded from the land.
An Egg Mother had seen what to do. An Egg Father had followed her. They would hide from this Man. They would hunt at night, when the new creature slept. And they would never again let Man know that the Flock was a part of the land. The first Walks Backward was born, was trained, lived his life, passed his knowledge down the line. The Flock had lived until today, until the now. They had hidden well from Man, who had come in numbers that were impossible for the Flock to reason. Everywhere, the Man had eaten everything, had even eaten the earth itself, pushing up big nests that covered the ground and fouled the water. The Flock had retreated and retreated.
Recalling all of this, Walks Backward did his job.
And the Scarlet rogue was endangering them all. Holding a crimson bit that he’d found, left behind by the rogue, Walks Backward lifted his head high, turned toward the hunting Flock. He wanted to scream it out to them, he wanted to tell them that the Scarlet must die, must be killed, and must be consumed by the Flock. He peered at shifting shadows, at youth and adult moving in an agile unit, hunting for food. He turned his snout up, tossed the bit of red into the air and snapped his gigantic mouth shut on it. The Scarlet was a bright taste in his mouth; a taste that brought up his hatred but which did not dull his patience. He was Walks Backward. It was not his place to decide anything. It was only for him to guard the rear, to hide the sign.
To protect the Flock.
Ahead, the Flock fell on the deer that had run from them for a mile, but had finally begun to slow from exhaustion.
Great, clawed feet lifted and dropped, tearing hide and flesh. A razored mouth opened wide and cut into flesh, ripping out a great killing chunk of meat. The Flock fell as a unit on the deer, feasting, calling out silently to one another. Life was good. In moments, they dispersed as a group, vanishing into the black shadows.
Soon, Walks Backward appeared. There was his share. A fine length of shank meat, still warm and wet. He tossed it up, caught it in his maw. Then, scratching the ground, adjusting the brush, he left no sign of their passing. Only someone on hands and knees could find even a spot of blood, a clue that something had killed here.
For now, the Flock was safe and fed.
For now.
Chapter Eleven
As he’d promised, the Colonel had taken Dodd back to his car and had left him there, waving as the little reporter got out of the truck. Dodd had waved back. “Goodbye, you crazy fascist bastard,” he said, when the man was beyond earshot.
And just as soon as Grisham was out of sight, Dodd had found his key, digging into this pocket and ignoring the pain of his cut and abraded hands. He’d dragged the key out, reopening the wounds and leaving fresh bloody prints on his pants and on the doorhandle as he’d jerked it open. Barely able to contain himself, he had started the engine, pushing the gas down too far and too fast for this idyllic town, peeling off and leaving a great black ribbon on the pavement. He could smell the stench of burning rubber even through the closed windows of the Buick. Tim didn’t care. He might not be much of a walker, but he could outdrive most folk.
Keeping one eye peeled for Salutations’ ever present security forces, he pushed the limits of the conservative posted speeds through each neighborhood, until he was back at The Executive where his employers had prepaid his room for the next month. Paying little attention to how he parked, he left the rental car canted over two parking spaces and bolted from it. By then, night had fallen and he was running across the lot, Yankee tourists eyeing him suspiciously. He ignored them all, the singles and the families and their raucous kiddies. Pulling the door to the lobby open with all of his strength, he burst in.
The door clacked loudly against the glass panel beside it as he drew it open too wide. But it was shatterproof glass, and so did not crack. But the rude noise brought all attention to Dodd. And for just a second, he realized what a sight he presented to everyone gathered.
There he was, standing at the entrance to the lobby. His clothing was torn, ripped in a dozen places. His hands were lacerated to the point of comedy, blood trickling from fingers and palms. His arms were crisscrossed with nasty scratches, the edges of the wounds black with crust
ed blood. His pale brown pants were tattered, and likewise stained with his blood. All eyes were on him, and he knew it. “Got lost. Fell down,” he said.
And he was racing across the lobby. An elevator opened for him, as if on cue. The pair of couples who had been waiting to take it cringed back and let Dodd have it all to himself. “Don’t you want to go up?” he asked, pointing a bloody finger at the roof.
One thin, pretty woman replied, “Ugh.” The doors closed and she was spared another instant of Dodd’s presence.
On the way up, Dodd stood at the door, bouncing, waiting impatiently for the elevator to arrive at the fourth floor, for the door to open. He was wishing he’d taken the stairs. Perhaps that would have been quicker. At the fourth, the door opened and he burst out. A young man who had been waiting for the elevator actually screeched at the ridiculous sight of Dodd propelling himself out of the elevator.
Down the hallways Dodd went, running, his weird, bouncing gait taking him along in a lopsided manner, head bobbing as he trotted. His normally curly hair was hanging in sweaty tendrils from his scalp, partially obscuring his face. At his room, he again fumbled in his pocket for a key, this time the security card that would open his door. And once again he tore open the dozen little wounds on his fingers as he took the key out and jammed it into the door, waiting crazily for the little green light to illuminate and allow him entrance to 455. The light flashed, the lock clicked open. He fell into the room with a triumphant yell, pulling the key out of the slot as he went past. The door slammed shut behind him.
Taking the digital camera from around his neck, he cast about for the cable necessary to download the photos into his laptop computer. Working with his stinging hands, he had only a little difficulty achieving what he wanted, turning the computer on, and downloading the shots.
The Flock Page 7
