“I’m Iris Oakley.”
Denny nodded at him.
“From the zoo, right? Ken Meyers.” Medium height, about level with me. About my age, twenty-seven, or a little older. Calm dark eyes, brown hair. Denny and I watched him as if we’d never seen a man drink coffee before.
The electrician pulled on a jacket and left.
“Did you catch that pit bull?” I asked.
“Lord, it’s damp out there.” He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “She was happy to find a friend. She’s loaded up. I struck out with the other two.” A little pause separated each sentence. After Denny’s motor-mouthing, Ken sounded thoughtful and a little sluggish. “Lucky mutts. Cops shoot dogs if they have to. These ran off when Old Man Tipton fired a few rounds. I’ll try the live traps tomorrow.”
So there was actual gunfire. “We heard that the wife was taken to the hospital. Was it just the two of them?”
“No. They’ve got a couple of sons. Grown ones. They went to jail, too.”
This was way more interesting than Denny’s ramble. “Every agency in the state seems to be here.”
“Meth brings everyone together.” A chipped front tooth showed when he smiled.
“What do you do with the dogs?” I asked.
“Humane society. They’ll be out of the rain and fed. How’s it going with the parrots and turtles?”
“Turtles live in water. These are tortoises.” Denny was fed up with many things, among them bad taxonomy. “And we wouldn’t be sitting here if they’d let us load them.”
“I had a box turtle when I was a kid,” Ken said, unperturbed. “I guess the Tiptons liked having a lot of animals around.”
“Not pets,” Denny said. “That’s what I was expecting. A Burmese python, maybe. Green iguanas, monitor lizards. Those get too big, and people get rid of them.”
I said, “We think this was commercial. I spotted a stack of new cardboard boxes, just what you’d need for shipping tortoises. I suppose they made the sales by email. ” I turned to the remaining officer in the dining room. “You have the Tipton’s computer, right? You’ve got wildlife crimes here, not just drugs. Maybe you can find the source—whoever the Tiptons got the animals from.”
He looked up from his catalog. “Department of Agriculture was informed about the birds, and US Fish and Wildlife is involved. Also Washington State Fish and Wildlife.”
“You’ll share information with them, right?”
That earned me a tolerant nod.
Ken and I agreed that the Tiptons hadn’t spent much money on caring for their dogs. Ken said one had a skin condition that was common with dogs left outside. He was pleasant company, another animal person. But he finished his coffee all too soon and stood up. He washed his cup and left it in the dish drainer. On his way out, he said in my direction, “Watch out for rattlers. Drug dealers like their hot snakes.”
“That’s Denny’s job. The things that bite me aren’t venomous.”
When the cop started pushing buttons on his fancy cell phone, I inspected the kitchen cabinets and the back porch and learned nothing of any use. I sat down again. Denny went outside and juggled apples.
A long half an hour later, we were told to get our turtles out, the faster the better. We charged off to the meth barn. Two new sets of protective gear were waiting for us. The red tape in the barn’s kitchen area had been replaced with yellow tape. The garbage can, flasks, and tubing were gone. The air was a little better.
Denny rinsed tortoises in the sink and set them in a dish pan with a running commentary about each animal’s condition and species. I assembled cardboard boxes, taped the bottoms, and poked holes in the tops with a ball point pen. I found paper towels to dry off wet, struggling beasts and packed them up. Most of them had a high, rounded carapace on top—some with fancy yellow and brown markings—and a flat plastron on the bottom, four scaly legs, a beady-eyed head, and a neck with wrinkled skin. They ranged in size from tennis ball to volleyball. Two of them seemed flattened, not rounded. Denny said those were pancake tortoises. The littlest tortoise blew bubbles from its nose, and Denny was stricken with worry.
I moved the zoo van to the meth barn and left the engine running and the heater on. As Denny finished rinsing, I loaded tortoises in a drizzle. The deputy guarding the barn had disappeared. Pausing for a moment, I pulled off the claustrophobic mask and shoved the hood back, grateful for easy breathing. It wasn’t four o’clock yet, but the light was already dimming, clouds and twilight closing down the day. January in the great Pacific Northwest—cold and dark and wet. I wanted to go home, away from this sorry place with its ugly commerce. I wanted to hold my kid.
A half-grown Doberman emerged from the blackberries between the barns. Black and tan, uncropped floppy ears and a whippy tail. It looked skinny and scared. I made kissy noises toward it, but it crept back into the brambles. Ken had left bowls of dog food in the dog houses. I hoped the Dobe got to it before the bigger dogs ate it all. I suited up again and went back for another load.
I emerged from the barn for the third or fourth time balancing two boxes of clean tortoises when a woman materialized at my elbow. A wild cloud of gray hair was half-hidden under a dark green plastic parka. She was short and a bit plump, but that grandmotherly impression was countered by the rifle slung under her arm. No, it had two barrels. A shotgun?
Her voice was soft, but urgent. “Can you tell me what happened? Where are the Tiptons? Was anybody hurt?”
She was a decade or two older than my mother and definitely not an agency person. She seemed nervous, which made me like the shotgun even less. And she’d waited until the farm yard was empty, everyone inside the house or in one of the barns. I put the boxes in the van, uncovered my face, and aimed for a soothing tone. “The family was arrested for drug trafficking. No one was hurt.”
“The boys are in jail? Both of them?”
“Yes, and the father.”
The woman nodded and the shotgun muzzle dipped. Her forehead wrinkled with a fresh thought. “They arrested Wanda? Is she with Liana? She won’t do well without Liana.”
I relaxed a little. This was just a concerned neighbor. “Is Wanda the mother? We heard she’s in the hospital. Who’s Liana?”
The woman turned away. “Their girl. I hope she’s with Wanda.”
“We didn’t hear anything about a girl.”
The woman considered, looking over her shoulder at me. “Maybe she escaped. Yes, that’s possible.”
I couldn’t tell whether she was relieved or worried about that. I addressed what I was worried about. “Um, why the gun?”
“Perhaps you haven’t met the Tipton men.” She glanced around the farmyard. A formal nod. “I appreciate your assistance.” Before I could organize the questions I wanted to ask, she ducked under the crime scene tape and walked with an erect back into the woods and was gone.
I so did not want to come back here.
When the tortoises were all loaded, I took a peek at the parrots in the marijuana barn. They had eaten most of the food. I topped up the bowl again. “Listen, you guys,” I told them, “One more day in here and we’re all out of this place forever.”
Chapter Three
“Iris, you don’t know that these animals are smuggled.” Dr. Reynolds, the zoo’s veterinarian, spoke in a reasonable voice similar to the one I used with Robby, my toddler son. “It’s rare, but it’s legal to import wild birds with the proper permits, and then it’s legal to sell them. We don’t know for sure that they are wild caught. They could be captive-bred. Every one of those birds could be legitimate. We don’t have enough evidence.”
I was shut down in mid-rant about wildlife profiteers and how the zoo ought to move heaven and earth to see them arrested. It was eight in the morning, way too early for moral indignation. The vet—a slim, serious woman in a lab coat
—outranked me, and I had no choice but to simmer in silence. We were at the zoo’s hospital building, where Denny had taken over one of the three quarantine rooms for the tortoises. He and Dr. Reynolds had stayed late the night before to set up housing for them, while I’d defected to pick up my son. The tortoises were now sorted by species and housed in Denny’s best efforts at the right conditions for each, with particular attention to their humidity and food requirements.
He held the littlest one, which was still bubbling from its nose and looked to be on its last legs. I stifled another diatribe about the people who snatched it out of its native habitat where it could thrive for decades and sent it instead to an early death in Washington State.
“Can’t speak for the birds,” Denny said, “but some of these guys aren’t legal in trade.”
Yes.
“And that’s the curator’s job,” the vet said. “Neal will follow up.”
Denny thrust out the ailing animal, which was about four inches long and beautifully patterned with yellow lines radiating from each dark shell plate. Dr. Reynolds flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder, pried one leg out from its shell, and stuck the tortoise with a needle full of antibiotic. “Our job is to keep these healthy and let the justice system sort out the rest.” She put the tortoise back into its own little habitat. “Marian will set up the middle quarantine room for the Amazon parrots. The third one I have to reserve for zoo animals, so we’re maxed out. Where does Neal want to put the macaws?”
Good question. “He hasn’t said. Would you mind asking him?”
“I will. And, Iris, be sure that all your clothing is washed with disinfectant after you handle those birds. The Amazons are likely to be carrying viruses. Wipe out the van and the carriers with disinfectant. We need to protect the macaws from exposure to the Amazons and the zoo’s bird collection from exposure to either of them. I can test for herpesviruses and vaccinate over the next few days, but that isn’t any guarantee. Hygiene is essential.”
She was treating the Amazons as wild birds despite the quibbling.
“Also,” she added, “wear a face mask when you’re handling them.”
Right. I didn’t need any bird-borne diseases either.
“Let’s go,” I said to Denny.
He shook his head. “You don’t need me for parrots.”
“Neal says you’re going. He wouldn’t let me have anyone else.” I had tried for my friend Linda, the feline keeper, or Hap, the commissary manager. No luck. Neal had tagged me and Denny for this job, and me and Denny it would be. I herded him away from the torts to the employee parking lot, ignoring the reasons why he couldn’t possibly go.
I took the driver’s side of the van again. Denny driving and talking at the same time could be life-threatening. I stuck in a Shakira CD, one of the Spanish ones so I didn’t have to strain to understand her words over the heater. The only Spanish I knew was “mojito.”
DellaStreet woke up and, according to her little screen, began searching the airwaves for her mother ship, no doubt so she could learn once again that she wasn’t in Chicago. She had failed to find the Tipton farm yesterday, despite her advanced satellite communications, and wasn’t needed today. I sent her back into hibernation.
The rain was at it again, this time with wind tossing the tree tops around. There’s not enough coffee in the world for January in the Northwest.
Exit signs slipped past on the freeway. Denny was soon bored. “Why is Neal hot for a new aviary when the reptile building is just as decrepit?”
“The reptile building isn’t falling over. The aviary is. He’ll get around to Reptiles.”
“In my lifetime?”
I didn’t answer. After a few miles, he said, “Calvin will retire, and you’ll get to design it.”
Calvin Lorenz was senior keeper of Birds and my immediate supervisor. “He hasn’t resigned yet, and there’s no guarantee I’ll get his job when he does.” Calvin had been talking about retiring for years. If he did, then he wouldn’t be with his birds anymore. Arthritis battled with his love for everything in feathers.
“If you go for it, you’ll get it.” Denny stuck a foot on the dashboard, searching for a comfortable position.
“Maybe. More stressful.” Single parenting and a full-time job provided plenty enough stress. I didn’t feel like sharing my shaky decision that I would try for senior keeper.
A mile or two rolled by with Denny shifting on the seat, tapping a foot, adjusting the heater. He said, “Pete and Cheyenne have lasted a long time.”
I glanced at him. They were animal keepers hired two years ago who shared my house. “Why wouldn’t they? Cheyenne’s happy with the new elephant yard, and she’s on the design team for the new barn. Pete seems fine with being a floater. They’ve got a good deal living with me.” Why was this coming up? “Did you hear something?”
“No, just thinking about the future. Possible changes.”
“How adult.” Was this an opening to talk about how he had broken the heart of Marcie Altman, my best friend? I couldn’t find the strength.
Denny launched into lighting equipment for tortoises, all the ways to emulate sunshine. Since daylight mattered to birds as well, I listened with half my attention.
I pulled off the freeway onto increasingly narrow side roads. We found the farm with no trouble this time. The gate was open and the Animal Control van was back in yesterday’s slot, along with most of the vehicles we’d seen before. Ken was there, setting up live traps for the loose dogs in the pouring rain. He directed a chipped-tooth grin and a wave toward our van. The rogue photographer was also back, still in the black jacket and wool cap, a camera bag hanging from one shoulder. He backed up from the house, shooting it from various angles, unconcerned about the camera getting wet. His limp seemed to be a permanent feature rather than a recent injury. He turned his attention to the roving Boxer mix and snapped it as well. The dog backed away.
“Ire, check out the gate,” Denny said. He hopped out and pulled it partly shut to expose its greeting. I peered at it through the van window.
Bare plywood and red acrylic paint, the lettering possibly done with a child’s water color brush. The boards varied in age and decrepitude, no doubt created and wired to the gate as inspiration struck. The message was unambiguous, if incorrect: PRIVAT PROPERTY KEEP OUT. That was the most weathered. Others announced:
Trespassers will be shot!!!
Attack Dogs Lose on Property!!!
If you are Government, We Shoot to Kill. No Sellers, No Politicans, No Phonebooks Delivery, No Census, No Nothin.
Denny pushed the gate back open, got into the van, and shook his head like a wet dog. I held up a hand to block the spray. “Charming welcome. They didn’t figure out that red is the first color to fade.” My sign-painter father would be pleased with my analysis.
I drove us through the gate and across the muddy yard and parked close to the house. Aside from Ken and the photographer, no one was wandering around the property today. Too wet and windy. We went inside to check in. Before we’d left the night before, I had reported my visitor and what she said—that the raid had missed a Tipton, a girl. The sole deputy remaining had raised an eyebrow and turned away to make a cell phone call.
This morning I asked the deputy who seemed to be in charge, a solidly built woman with blond hair, whether they had learned anything about the missing Liana. She thought about it and apparently decided we couldn’t cause too much damage. “The mother’s been asking for her. She says she has a teenage daughter, but there’s no birth or school record of a girl associated with the Tiptons or with this address.”
“Which fits,” said Gil Gettler, the crew-cut one who’d been in the house with us the day before. “These people probably kept getting more and more isolated until that last kid was totally off the grid. Home birth out here and nobody’d ev
er know.”
I couldn’t imagine how big a paper trail my son Robby had already. Hospital birth, social security number, health insurance. Not yet three years old, my boy was totally documented.
“I wonder if she’s wherever the other Tiptons are staying,” said Gettler. “They’re not likely to have all that many options.”
“What?” I said. “They’re not in jail?”
The woman said, “You didn’t hear? We’ve got a judge who’d probably let Ted Kaczynski out on bail. The Tiptons were released yesterday.”
“It was a lot of bail,” Gettler said. “Nobody thought they’d make it.”
“Well, they did. And now nobody knows where the hell they are.” She turned to us. “Don’t worry. They’ve been warned not to show up here until we’re done with the place. So they must be camped out somewhere else.”
Denny and I exchanged a look. This did not sound good, but what choice did we have? We got on with the job. I moved the van close to the marijuana barn and quick-stepped inside before I was soaked. I was relieved to find that the heater was going and no more parrots had died. I unloaded pet carriers, stacking them inside by the buckets holding marijuana stumps. “Why’d you take all those down?” I asked the chubby electrician, pointing to the row of long fixtures leaned against the wall.
“Good for fingerprints,” he said. “You’ll get the birds out today? I need to shut this barn down.”
“I’m going to try.” I turned to Denny. “Get the nets, will you?” I pulled on a face mask and light-weight leather gloves. The gloves wouldn’t provide much protection against a bite, but thicker gloves made it hard to hold a bird gently. I went with the largest of the three nets I’d brought. The trick was to nab the bird flying, straight into the depths of the net where it would be surrounded by soft cloth, and not whack it with the rim. I stepped into the cage, hoping that the avian panic attack would send one into my clutches, but they all crowded away from me. I moved closer, and one finally lost his wits and flew past me. Bingo. I grabbed the back of its neck to control the beak, squeezed the wings together where they joined the body, and eased the bird out of the net.
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