The Zoo Crew (Zoo Crew series Book 1)

by Dustin Stevens

  "Yes, but it wasn't that simple. I met with the parents two or three different times. Talked to the doctor that would be handling the procedure. Everything. They even had an attorney draw up an official looking contract."

  Drake nodded. "So this is a contract dispute? Something has gone wrong and you need me to take a look at it?"

  Again Beth's eyes glassed over. "You have no idea how much I wish it were that simple."

  She paused and took another bite of burrito. Forced it down as a tear slid from her eye.

  "The second I signed the contract, everything changed. Part of the contract was I was given a place to stay. Turns out in a bunkhouse with about a dozen girls. All either pregnant or having just given birth."

  Drake's eyes widened.

  "Constant supervision," Beth continued. "That nice lady that came to see me suddenly turned into Hitler. Monitored everything we did. Who we talked to. What we ate."

  "What?" Drake asked, made a face. "What in the world did you sign on to?"

  Beth shook her head. Her lip quivered. "I didn't know until it was too late. I swear to God I didn't know."

  Drake waited for her to regain her composure.

  "What I soon realized was I wasn't just acting as a surrogate. I was involved in a ring. A ring of people that find poor, single, unattached females like myself and offer them the one thing they don't have."

  "And in exchange, they get healthy vessels to serve as surrogates," Drake thought out loud.

  Beth nodded. “And the girls are given peanuts."

  "Who are the fathers?"

  Beth shrugged. "The second it's born, the mother is cut loose. Child Services takes the child, the mother disappears."

  Drake thought back to the hearing just the day before. Felt bile rise in the back of his throat.

  “Disappears?”

  Beth nodded. “Most of the girls, pretty much all of them, aren’t from around here. Once their job is done, they go back I guess.”

  Dozens more questions sprang to mind. Drake ignored them. "And the girls just allow this to happen?"

  "Like I said," Beth continued, "they watch us constantly. And believe me, the people they have watching aren't the kind you ever want to cross. Most of the girls are too scared, too poor, too irrelevant to ever speak out."

  "So how are you here now?"

  Beth shook her head. "They don't lock us up. There's too many to do that. Somebody would notice. But they restrict us from ever using a car, put the fear of God in us about what would happen if we ever tried anything.

  “I have no doubt I'm being watched now."

  Drake leaned back in his chair. Wanted to look around and see who was watching. Fought the urge.

  Over half the sandwich remained in front of him. Any trace of appetite was gone.

  So many questions. So very few answers.

  "So why come to me?" Drake asked. "I'm a law student, I'm not a police officer."

  "I know..." Beth said. "But I can't go to the police. I have no idea who all is involved in this, but it's big."

  Drake leaned forward, rested his elbows on the table. He stared down at his sandwich. Shook his head. "Beth, I'm sorry. I am. I don't know much about this stuff, but it sounds awful.

  "At the same time, I'm not sure what all I can do. You need law enforcement. You need protective custody. I'm not even a full attorney yet."

  "I know," Beth whispered.

  "I mean, I'm happy to make a few phone calls. Talk to some people, but..."

  Beth's head shot up. Her eyes flicked around the room. "No. Don't. You can't tell anyone we've had this conversation."

  "Okay, okay," Drake said. "Calm down."

  With quick movements, she balled her burrito into its wrapper. "I should be going. I shouldn’t have bothered you."

  "Wait, don't be like that," Drake said. "It's not that I don't want to help."

  "I know," Beth said. "There's just nothing you can do."

  She leaned down and gave him another one-armed hug. "Thank you for meeting with me. For buying me lunch."

  "Please, don't go," Drake replied.

  Beth pulled back, eyes again wet. "I have to."

  Just like that she was gone. Behind her sat a very confused Drake and a half-eaten turkey sandwich.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Notch lowered the binoculars.

  Smiled.

  A self-satisfied smile that managed to display two things at once. His stained, dirty teeth, and his rotten soul.

  He watched Beth Haggerty waddle out of the front door of the Food Zoo. Head towards the bus stop on the corner.

  She had told them she was making a library run. He’d been told to keep an eye on her anyway.

  Notch watched as a bus pulled up and Beth climbed in. He leaned back the driver's seat in the front of his truck and waited as it slid on past him.

  Grabbed his cell-phone and thumbed it on.

  One ring.

  "You spot her?" the same thin, nasal, female voice asked.

  There were very few people on the planet that talked to Notch in such a pointed manner. Given what she was paying him, he had no problem letting her be one of them.

  Besides, they both knew it was all a front for the girls. Everybody in the organization was scared shitless of him.

  The moment her tone crossed from a front to disrespect, he would put an end to it.

  "Yeah," Notch said. "She made a trip over to campus. Had lunch with some guy."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. He wasn't wearing a nametag."

  Silence was the only response.

  "He looked young. Not a professor type. They hugged like old friends when he showed up."

  "How long was she inside?"

  Notch glanced at the dash. "Twenty-three minutes."

  "Did they leave together?"

  "Nope."

  More silence.

  "You want me to stay on him?"

  "No," the female said. "I want you to stay on her. Catch up with her. Have a little chat."

  The smile grew wider on Notch face. "Make an example of her?"

  "No! Remind her that these little field trips of hers won't be tolerated, but under no circumstances risk the health of the baby."

  Notch steamed. He did not appreciate being snapped at. This bitch had no idea how close she was to offending him.

  "So keep it cosmetic?" he pushed out through gritted teeth.

  "Yes. And try to do it before she gets back. I'd like the other girls to see what happens when they go off-script."

  "Without having to witness it," Notch said. "Got it."

  A moment of silence passed.

  "You know what?" the female said. "Don't. Don't touch her or even talk to her. She's in her eighth month. The Berg's are paying too much for that baby to risk anything."

  Notch' eyes bulged. "So we let her walk on this?"

  "Doesn't she have family?"

  The sadistic smile returned. Fast. "She has that cousin."

  "Yeah," the female said. "Don't put her in the hospital. Damned sure not the morgue. But let Beth know we disapprove."

  "With pleasure," Notch said.

  The female grunted softly, but said nothing. Ended the call without further acknowledgement or instruction.

  Notch tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and eased out onto the street. He wasn't quite known for his self-restraint, but something told him this was still going to be fun.

  Chapter Fifteen

  There are two types of cowboy boots.

  The western, or as most old-timers preferred to say, the classic, and the roper.

  Both are made from calfskin. Both have a heel for riding.

  The similarities stop there.

  The classic uses a much higher boot shaft that stops below the knee. It features a pointed toe and curved heel, both for ease of use in the saddle.

  The roper is a much shorter boot, stopping just past the ankle, some even featuring laces. It has a much shorter heel, which is squar
ed off, and a rounded toe.

  To Sheriff Spore, ropers are an abomination to everything Montana stands for.

  Rather hypocritical when considering that he himself hasn't been on a horse in ages. Has never ranched. Stopped hunting years ago.

  Yet, by Montana logic, if a man has a mustache and boots, he is a cowboy.

  Sheriff Hardy Spore may not believe in a lot of things after twenty years as Sheriff of Missoula County, but he damn sure believes in Montana logic.

  The wooden heels of his western style boots clacked loudly against his desk as he settled his feet atop it. Leaned back in his chair. Dropped his tan Stetson hat to his knee. Laced his fingers behind his head.

  Three o'clock on Friday afternoon. The mess at the Meigs barn was taken care of. The Griz season opened tomorrow.

  Quitting time was just a couple of hours away.

  Despite his trim, hardpan appearance, Spore was a man old beyond his years. Twenty-five years working in law enforcement, even in a place like Missoula County, were taking their toll.

  Already he found himself letting things slide that a decade before would have demanded his attention. Found himself eyeing the sofa on one wall in his office each afternoon with more longing.

  He unlaced his fingers and extended his right hand to his desk. Latched onto the bottle of old-style RC Cola he just brought from the fridge. Popped the cap against the corner of the desk.

  The soda was half way to his mouth when the phone rang in his office. Not his dispatch line, calling to let him know someone had just a hit deer or smashed a mailbox.

  Not even his cell-phone.

  The cell-phone. The phone that only had one number in it. No name attached.

  Spore's mouth went dry. Odds were they were just calling to make sure the barn situation was under wraps.

  Still, he hated every time that phone rang. Hated even more that he had to carry it at all.

  "Sheriff Spore," he answered. More for anybody outside his office that might be listening than the caller. They knew he was. Wouldn't be calling otherwise.

  "Head's up," the same female voice said to him. Thin and nasal. Seemed to grate his nerves every time. "We might have another situation for you soon."

  "Soon?"

  "Soon." No further explanation.

  Spore lowered his feet to the floor. Circled his desk. Pushed his office door shut.

  "Anything more concrete? And what type of situation?"

  "I can't answer either one," she said. "I don't know."

  "Then why are you calling me?" He was irritated. Tried not to let it show.

  Too much.

  Still, she picked up on it. "I'm calling to tell your lazy ass that you might actually have to earn the enormous retainer we send you every month. That going to be a problem?"

  "No ma'am," Spore said. He wasn't afraid of her. She didn’t even come to his shoulder.

  The people that often accompanied her frightened the piss out of him.

  "I was just hoping you might have a little bit more information for me to work with. It would be helpful."

  "Again, I don't have any," she said. A bit of the edge was gone. "This is a courtesy call, nothing more."

  "Notch?" Spore asked. He closed his eyes as he asked. Hated even saying the name.

  "Yes. About an hour ago I told him to pay someone a visit. He was told not to harm her beyond repair, but you know how he can get sometimes."

  Spore thought back to the mess in the barn.

  "I think we all do," Spore whispered. "Thank you for the warning."

  The line was already dead.

  Spore exhaled and flipped the phone closed. Went back to his chair, ran a hand through his short cropped hair.

  Quitting time had just gotten a lot further off.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Patricia Harken slumped into the patterned office chair and rubbed her eyes. The chair gave the appearance of being padded, but was hard as a rock.

  Fitting, all things considered.

  Across from her, Dr. Schievers sat and rubbed his eyes as well. His desktop computer told him it was Friday afternoon, but it didn't matter.

  Every day just seemed to meld into one unending marathon. Each one as tedious and demoralizing as the one before.

  "How the hell did we end up here?" Dr. Schievers asked. He didn't remove his hand from over his eyes. Didn't even look at Harken as he asked it.

  As vague as the question was, Harken knew what he meant. "I don't know.”

  The thing is, she did know. They both did.

  It had started three years earlier. Not the ring or the roles they now played in it, but the events that led them to it.

  At the time, Harken was a recent widower. Alone. Tired. Depressed.

  Dr. Schievers was going through the motions of a marriage that had been dead for almost a decade. He and his wife put on the face and made the rounds about town, but it ended there. Separate bedrooms. Separate vacations. Separate lives.

  The first time they met was through a situation similar to what they now did for the ring.

  A single, teenage mother gave birth to a child nobody wanted. Dr. Schievers delivered the baby, called child services. Harken picked up the phone. Came by the next day to sign the documents.

  One minute they were discussing the welfare of the child. The next they were shoving papers from his desktop to the floor. The very same desktop that now sat between them.

  The fling lasted less than a year. Both sides saw the inherent foolishness in what they were doing. Decided to end things.

  By that time though, the damage was done.

  Or rather, the pictures were taken.

  Once the conglomerate had a stack a photos that could bury them personally and professionally, neither one had a choice. They were forced to take part.

  They both tried to fool themselves and say they were in it for the money. Both knew that was bullshit.

  They were in it because they had no other choice.

  "You think it will ever end?" Harken asked.

  Dr. Schievers dropped his hand to his side. Shook his head. "I don't know how it would. It would take something pretty big to make them pull out of this. You know how much money they're making on this baby alone?"

  "I heard three hundred grand," Harken whispered.

  "At least," Dr. Schievers said. "They give the girl's a small piece. Grease our pockets. They're still making a killing. Several million dollars a year in cash, easy."

  "Where do they find these people?" Harken asked. "The average income in Missoula is what? Twenty-eight thousand?"

  "Twenty-six," Dr. Schievers corrected. "Whoever they are, they definitely aren't local."

  Harken chewed the idea in silence. "Meaning we're probably not the only place they're doing this."

  "Probably not," Dr. Schievers said. Resignation in his voice.

  He gave another sigh and leaned forward. Slid some paperwork across the desk.

  "Standard forms, you know the drill. One is the official release from the hospital to Missoula County. The other is the full acknowledgement that the baby left with a clean bill of health. Will return for all regular check-ups, to be performed as charity care by the hospital."

  Harken pulled them towards her. Signed her name by the yellow tabs without even reading the forms.

  This was their fourth transfer of the year already. She knew what they said.

  "You taking him straight out from here?" Dr. Schievers asked.

  A look of sadness passed over Harken's face. "You know, more than once I've thought about that. Thought about what would happen if I just jumped on I-90 and took off.

  "East for Billings. West to Seattle. It wouldn't matter. Just...took off."

  "And?"

  "And every time I do, I come back to the same images in my mind. Images like what Notch did to that girl in the barn. I see myself hanging there. Or worse, I see what he would do to the baby.

  "So, I stay. And I deliver the kid there. Deposit the checks when
they arrive every month. Try to pretend it isn't killing me inside."

  Dr. Schievers nodded. "I vacillate between shame and anger. Try to tell myself the kids are going to a better place.

  "End of the day though, I cash the checks some as you do."

  Harken nodded. Slid the papers off the desk and deposited them into her briefcase. Rose to leave.

  "Any idea when the next one will be here?"

  "Two weeks. Three at the most."

  Another sad nod. "I'll see you then."

  Dr. Schievers waited until she was outside the office, already half way to the nursery, before he replied. "I'll see you then."

  Chapter Seventeen

  Few things in the world match the excitement of a college town on football Saturdays.

  And make no mistake, Missoula is most definitely a college town.

  As a point of reference, the town itself totals somewhere around forty-five thousand people. Another twenty or so populate the surrounding County.

  Washington-Grizzly Stadium holds over twenty-five thousand. It has been sold out for years on end. Regardless if the Griz are playing Yellowbud Tech or Montana State, one in three people in the area are showing up to see it.

  Among those getting ready for the game was the Zoo Crew.

  When most people in the country say they are getting ready, they mean they are picking out their favorite team apparel to wear. In Montana, those choices are made the night before.

  Getting ready means they are on hand at eight a.m. game day to start tailgating.

  A few years before, the Crew had considered staging their own tailgate. They entered into the lottery for a parking spot, lugged everything downtown, put on a spread for any fellow fans that wandered by.

  That lasted exactly two games. They fast discovered that the effort far outweighed the rewards.

  More important, Drake and Kade both realized that it chewed into their ability to get inside and watch the games.

  A mortal sin if there ever was one.

  Instead, the Crew used their various affiliations to roam the grounds. They'd start at the law school tailgate for appetizers. A few beers for Kade.

  After twenty or thirty minutes of awkward conversation with the law students, they'd head to one put on by a group of fire jumpers.