by Lee Mims
“My dear, I’ve been ready for this day all my life!”
I pulled the tarp back.
A huge inhalation of breath from Watson. Tears sprang to his eyes. I went to stand beside him and patted him on the back. “Not in my wildest imagination did I expect it would be this … perfect,” Watson said, dropping to his knees. He reached out and ran a trembling hand over the exposed skeleton. “And what a masterful job someone already has done in getting the excavation started. Why the entire length has been exposed to a depth of 18 inches or more.”
“Yes,” I said. “And, I want you to know as much as possible about Clinton Baker, the young man who discovered Cecil and did all this work. ”
“I’d like that very much,” Watson said quietly as he took in Cecil’s perfect form. I let him soak in the miracle before him. Shortly he said, “More often than not it’s impossible to understand why things happen the way they do. We can only react to what we are given in life, and I for one intend to do everything in my power to see that young man gets the credit he so richly deserves for this monumental find.”
As we gazed at Cecil, stretched before us in plain view, a weak autumn sun shone down on us. I closed my eyes momentarily, imagining the world when he’d been the top predator in a tropical paradise. When North Carolina was located just a few degrees above the equator, part of the giant continent, Pangaea. When the Atlantic Ocean was forming, creating the rift valleys known today as the Triassic Basins. Back then they were vast inland lakes and swamps where creatures like Cecil lived and died and became the gas the Lauderbachs now sought.
Watson pulled his calipers and other measuring tools from his satchel and we set about measuring every imaginable detail about Cecil. He took more photographs as well, and all the while we discussed who would get a coveted position on the soon-to-be prestigious excavation team. When we finished, I pulled the camouflage tarp back into place and proceeded to tie down the corners that had twine.
Watson stopped repacking his satchel long enough to look at his watch. “We need to hurry along, dear, if we’re going to get me to the airport in time for my flight back home.”
“No problem,” I said, holding the bottom left corner of the tarp in my fingers. “You don’t happen to have some twine and a knife in your satchel do you?”
“Twine, yes. A knife, no. I had to bring my things through airport security, remember?”
“Right. I’ll bring one next time I come and you’re right. We’d better hurry.” We hustled back to the Hummer and booked it for the airport, all the while jabbering about our next meeting—Watson said he’d email the date and time—and who he would be calling in the next few days.
Detective Sergeant Chris Bryant was having a drink with Bud, Henri, and Will when I got home. The first thing I noticed when I sat down on a bar stool in the kitchen to join them was that Henri was even more radiant than usual. She sat on a stool opposite Chris, casually swinging a leg clad in skin-tight, designer jeans and sipping a glass of white wine. Glossy red toenails peeked from her black, cutout suede Prada booties.
My practical mind went to the fact that they cost more than Chris made in week, but hell, that wasn’t my problem. She was happy and glad to see me and that was all I cared about right now.
Our upcoming wedding dominated the conversation. Surprisingly, Chris seemed eager to join in a discussion of such foolish trivialities as to a change in the lead singer of the band they’d booked and how a different china pattern had to be chosen for the dinner as their first choice had been discontinued. As their laughter and banter bounced around me, I studied Chris. Not for the first time since I’d met him, I wondered what his life had been like in the military. Had he seen combat?
I would have thought talks of china, linen, and puff pastries would seem silly to him. But then, maybe that was why he seemed to be having such a good time. Maybe he had seen the worst of the worst and now, spending time among those he’d spent most of his life protecting in one way or another, was what he wanted.
“What do you think, Mom?” Henri asked, tossing her silky mane of blond hair over her shoulder with a flick of her hand.
Totally clueless of what I was supposed to be thinking about, I took the easy way out. “I think I’m lucky to have a whole family of party animals who can take care of planning all this and have fun doing it.”
“I think that was a left-handed compliment, kids,” Bud said dryly. “But we’ll take it, right?”
“But that still doesn’t answer the question of whether she wants to order P.F. Chang’s and start the weekend here or if we should go out. What say you, Mom?”
“Definitely P.F. Chang’s!” I said.
TWENTY
Our order arrived and as we dug into the delicious food Henri said, “Chris has been keeping me up-to-date on what’s been going on with you, Mom, and I’ve been relaying everything to Will. All about the fossil and the game poachers … ”
“Oh?” I said.
Chris shrugged. “Henri’s been worried about you,” he said, “and there’s no need for that. This is a simple case of workplace chicanery that needs to be addressed before someone gets hurt.”
“I’ve been wondering, Mom,” Will said. “Why don’t you just tell the landowners about the poachers?”
Workplace chicanery? “I have, but it’s more complicated than poachers. One of their long-time, trusted employees is involved and they refuse to believe me.”
Lifting a barbecued shrimp from the carton with his chopsticks, Chris said, “I’ve got several friends who are enforcement officers for the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission.” He placed the shrimp on his plate and continued. “They tell me almost anything you do to a wild hog on your property is illegal except shooting them. The season is open all year long because they do so much environmental damage, not just to crops, but to indigenous species. If you enclose them, transport them—even on your own property—it’s illegal and you can face stiff fines or jail time.”
“So all you have to do is catch one of these guys in the act of moving a wild hog to a release location,” Bud said, “then arrest them, or have your friends do it, and the Lauderbachs will have to face reality and kick them off the property.”
“Easy peasy,” Chris said.
“That’s way better than your plan, Cleo,” Bud said, slathering his egg roll with hot Chinese mustard before taking a giant bite.
“What plan?” Chris asked.
“The same one I still think you’ll need to use,” I said indignantly, tossing eye daggers at Bud. “How else do you propose to know when they are going to move one of the boars?”
“That’s true,” Bud said thoughtfully.
“What plan?” Chris asked again, more firmly this time.
“Well,” Bud said. “We were thinking that it might be a good idea if we had Butcher, the guy who sets up these hunts, set one up for me. Then I’d be privy to all the particulars you’d need as to when and where on the farm such a move would take place. Speaking from an efficiency standpoint, it would save lots of man hours for your friends at Wildlife Resources.”
“Wait,” Chris said, clearly trying to keep his temper in check. “We don’t know for sure that Mr. Butcher is the point man on this scheme … ”
I jumped in. “Remember how you said it was okay for me to accidentally find out things?” I said, but didn’t wait for his reply. “Well, a neighbor of ours—an avid hunter—was passing on one of his hunting stories to Bud, and mentioned that he knew of a real estate developer in Baltimore who arranged trophy hunts for an aberrant strain of wild boar right here in North Carolina. Well, that was just too much of a coincidence, and I had to be in the area anyway—a fitting for my wedding … attire—so we thought we’d kill two birds with one stone and drop by and see if this guy was the one I saw at the hog pens that day.”
Chris looked at Bud and me like we’d
both sprouted full beards. I could feel the tension mounting in the room like a pressure cooker suddenly turned to high heat.
Fortunately Henri let some steam out of the pot. “Oh, Mom!” she gushed. “You’ve had your final fitting? Who’s the designer?”
I was about to answer her when Chris lifted his shoulders, holding out both palms. “Well?” he asked. “Was Butcher the guy you saw at the hog pens?”
“Sure was,” I said, proud I could offer at least one piece of concrete evidence regarding the actual existence of a rather bizarre scheme that up to now, only I had witnessed.
“And more than that,” Bud said. “She found conceptual designs in Butcher’s office for turning the Lauderbach farm into an exclusive hunting community.”
Chris sat back in his seat, his anger replaced by confusion. “A hunting community? Did the Lauderbachs hire him?”
“Not that we know of,” I said.
“So, Dad,” Will said. “Are you going to pretend to be a trophy hunter?”
“No!” Chris said emphatically, giving Bud and me another stern look. “He’s not!”
“Good,” Will said, “’cause that sounds like a plan that could turn into a real cluster...”
“Finally,” Chris cut in. “A voice of sanity at the table.”
“Well, how should I answer the email Butcher sent me right before I got here?” Bud asked. “He offered me a hunting time on Wednesday at dawn and wanted a response. I told him I’d get right back to him.”
Chris sighed heavily. “Jeez Louise. Ask him where he wants to meet you. Depends on the place, but if it’s somewhere I can work with and if I can get everyone in place in time, well, I might be willing to let you help us.”
Saturday morning, as soon as I felt a call would be appropriate, I phoned the Lauderbachs and asked if they’d like to have a well update from me. I didn’t know what kind of reaction I’d get from them and was relieved when Annette sounded delighted to hear from me and invited me “down to the house” for coffee.
Both Lauderbachs were seated in an eating area off the kitchen. The table, which seated six, was oriented long ways beside a bay of windows. Ruby bustled through a swinging door from the kitchen carrying two large, steaming bowls.
She placed the buttered grits and scrambled eggs on an antique sideboard beside a large platter holding piles of bacon on one side and stacks of pancakes on the other. Sara and Mia were just finishing their meal as I entered the room.
“Hi!” said Sara brightly. “Mia and I were just coming to see if you’d mind if we ask Jackie a few follow-up questions.”
“Sure,” I said. “Are you helping on the paper, too, Mia?”
“Only in an editorial capacity,” Mia said seriously. “Sara isn’t known for her grammatical brilliance!”
“Sad but true,” Sara said. Then to her parents: “We’re going shopping later. Mia needs more shoes.”
“That’s good, dear,” Annette said. “You girls just be sure you don’t get in Cleo’s way while you’re at the well.”
“They’re fine,” I assured Annette. “And Sara, you’ll be glad to know I’m here to tell your folks that fracking is just a few days away. You don’t want to miss that part of the operation. It’s the most controversial and the part I want you to be sure to get right in your paper.”
“Sounds good,” Sara said as she and Mia pushed through the swinging door, which bounced right back in as a young man I hadn’t met yet entered.
“Oh, how nice. Junior’s here,” Annette said. Then, smiling proudly, she turned to me. “Cleo, I’d like you to meet our oldest son, Arthur Junior. We call him Junior.”
“Nice to meet you,” Junior said, offering his hand for a shake. I found it damp, limp, and disappointing. Not at all like his father’s. I couldn’t help noticing his mom jeans, black tie-ups, and white socks. Again, no comparison with his dapper dad.“Junior,” Annette addressed her son. “Ms. Cooper is our liaison with Greenlite Energy. She keeps us informed on all matters of importance about our well.”
“We hope she’s here to confirm some good news,” Arthur said from his wheelchair at the table.
“I am,” I said. “Everything’s back on track. The company decided to take the junk at the bottom of the hole as a good thing and cemented up about a hundred feet and started the turn again, using a wider arc. When they’ve completed the horizontal run and perforated the different sections of casing, it will be time to do the actual fracking. At that time, the trucks will start coming in.”
“So you’re fairly certain that our first well, the one all the other wells are riding on, is going to come in and save us?” Annette asked, her eyes sparkling with joy.
“There’s never a guarantee until the commodity starts flowing, but I can say I feel very good about it.” Everyone at the table but Junior clapped and shouted hoorays.
“What kind of trucks,” he asked seriously.
“There will be several kinds,” I said. “Some will be dump trucks carrying sand. There will also be chemical trucks and trucks bringing the items we require to actually fracture the well. Then there could be as many as twenty high-powered pumping trucks and they’ll operate for three to five days, twenty-four hours a day.”
Junior pulled a face. “I imagine we’ll get some neighbor complaints,” he grumped.
“If the high-frequency noises created every thirty minutes by the crew beating the rust off drill pipes before connecting them hasn’t bothered anyone, I doubt the trucks will. They mostly create low-frequency noise. There will also be noise related to building enough water pressure to make fissures in the shale so the gas can be released.
Junior grunted and I continued. “This will be the most unpleasant phase of the operation, but the good news is it’s over in a few days. After that, the well will produce for thirty years or more and during that time, besides an occasional maintenance truck, there will be little activity around it and no noise created by it.
“When will production begin?” Junior asked.
“Just as soon as a connector pipe is laid by Greenlite. It’s the pipe that connects your wellhead to the line that runs to the compressor station about 40 miles from here. In order to keep natural gas in the lines at the proper level of pressure, it has to go through the compressor station.”
Hoping I’d satisfied the family curmudgeon, I looked back to the Lauderbachs, “Any more questions?”
Junior persisted. “You didn’t mention the underground explosion that actually fractures the rock.”
“I believe you’re referring to the perforation gun,” I said. “After we complete the horizontal length of the well, we’ll case the hole. Once the cement is dry, a perforation device is lowered into the hole all the way to the end of the horizontal run. A number of shaped charges, set at intervals along the pipe, are then fired, using a detonation line.
Those charges blast holes through the casing and shatter the surrounding shale so the gas can escape. Then the sand, water, and a very small percentage of chemicals are pumped into the well and out into the surrounding shale to hold the fractures open. This procedure is repeated until the entire horizontal portion of the well is perforated and fracked.”
“So for the next few days,” Junior said, “there will be just the drilling crew at the well, then after that there will be lots of activity, then thirty years of peace, quiet, and money?”
“That pretty much sums it up,” I smiled. “Until we start Lauderbach #2. The company will probably change out crews for that. Give these guys some home time, or they could just send them right to work on it.”
Junior served a plate and pulled up a chair. Annette said, “Won’t you have some breakfast, Cleo? Ruby always makes plenty.”
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ve got to get back. Call me if you have any questions.”
When I left, I noticed a faded red Honda Civic parked
beside me. Its sides were banged up and the backseat was littered with fast-food bags, suggesting it was a student’s car. Then I noticed something else. On the back seat was a device, which looked like a clamp set at a forty-five degree angle on a wooden stand. It briefly intrigued me because it struck a cord in my memory banks, as though I should know what it was, but I didn’t, and with so much on my mind, I quickly forgot about it.
Sara and Mia were still at the well when I got back, so I invited them in to watch me analyze one of the samples taken while I was gone. Following that, I let them spend a few minutes looking at samples under the microscope. While they did, I made small talk, asking casually, “How much longer before Junior gets his degree in animal science?”
“Oh he’s not studying that stuff,” laughed Mia.
“Mia!” Sara said. “That’s a secret. You know you’re not supposed to tell anyone!”
“Sor-rie!” she said.
Sara looked at me and said, “Junior hasn’t been able to bring himself to tell Mom and Dad the truth. He’s actually finishing up his bachelor of arts in … religious studies at the end of this semester … ”
“Yeah!” hooted Mia. “There’s oodles of demand in the workplace for graduates with a degree in religious studies!”
“Stop it,” Sara snapped. “He has a minor in business.” Then to me she said, “You have to understand, my mom and dad have had lots of, well … issues with Junior. He’s dropped out of school several times to, as Mom says, ‘find his way.’ When he went back this last time, about three years ago, he basically just told them what they wanted to hear. That he’d get a degree in animal science and come home and run the farm.”
“He’s the black sheep of—”
“Shush, Mia!” Sara huffed. “He’s just different that’s all.”
“What do you think will happen when your folks do find out?” I asked. “I mean, he won’t know anything about animal science for one thing. And, if he’s planning on using his minor in business, more than likely he’ll find he needs an advanced degree.”
