Endangered

by Ann Littlewood

  She drew back into herself a little.

  “I think Jerome called you from the jail and told you where some of his gold was buried. I think you left it at the bail bond office and came back to pick up him and the boys. I think they stayed here for a night. Am I right so far?”

  Pluvia picked up the shotgun. “You’re just after the money. Get out of here and don’t come back.”

  I sat frozen, afraid to move. “I don’t want the gold.” The shotgun pointed at me clotted the words in my throat. “I want Jeff and Tom in jail so I can go home again.”

  “Do I need to prove this is loaded?”

  “No.” I stood up slowly. “I just want to get my life back.”

  “You’ve abused my hospitality and lied to me.”

  I walked out of the house with my shoulder blades tingling and opened the passenger door. I looked over the car at her. Pluvia stood on her porch with the shotgun at her shoulder, sighting along the barrel. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

  Hap said quietly, “A handgun isn’t any good against that.”

  I glanced at the gun he held out of Pluvia’s sight. I got in and shut the door, my knees trembling and my breath short. “Just go.”

  Hap started the engine and backed the car out. The shotgun never wavered. As we pulled onto the road, a patrol car passed us going the other way.

  Hap drove for several minutes before he asked what had happened.

  My voice sounded harsh. “I didn’t learn a thing, and now she’ll never talk to me again. She’s lonely and she’s scared. But she wouldn’t tell me where they are.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know.”

  “I think she knows.”

  “Don’t go back there.”

  “I won’t.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  “Quit worrying,” said my mother. “It won’t help.”

  “I’m not worrying, I’m thinking.” That wasn’t strictly true. I was sitting on the floor with my back against the sofa, scratching under two dog collars at the same time and, yes, worrying. I’d failed totally with Pluvia and was no closer to returning home.

  Range and Winnie weren’t happy. Lack of a doggy door, muddy paws, and my mother’s fragile garden beds meant they were kept inside all day. They had good bladder control, but they didn’t have to like it. I’d taken them for a long walk and now they got their petting while Robby demonstrated “log rolling” and a crooked almost-somersault that Amanda had taught him today at day care. A small foot caught Range in the rear. He hopped up looking alarmed. “Careful, Robby.”

  It was bedtime for Robby and soon for me. Time to stand up and deal. Snack, bath, storybook. I was reluctant to cope. The security and support my parents provided had let me lapse into a half-child, half-adult stupor. The sense of being powerless over my own fate further nudged me toward a toxic state of mind. Every adult trait I’d ever struggled to acquire was slipping away. I needed to go home.

  The experience with Pluvia still vibrated, fear and self-recriminations bouncing around. I hadn’t seen any reason to mention the visit to my parents.

  Robby climbed on the back of the sofa behind me. My mother permitted this, on the grounds that the sofa was up against a wall instead of free-standing like mine and wouldn’t tip over. Robby would need to re-learn the rule when we went home. Someday.

  My father had vanished to the basement. My mother hunted through the papers on the dining room buffet. “The Portland Community College catalog came today. There’s a few child development classes that you might like.” She flipped it into my lap.

  I had to hand it to her, she played it well. I responded in kind. “Thanks. I’ll take a look.” Just as soon as bison tap-danced. She’d worked on me for years to go back to college and finish my degree. I recognized this catalog as the camel’s nose under the tent, the renewal of her campaign. In our last exciting episode, six months ago, shouting had ensued. Then, I could just leave. Now, if this escalated—as experience guaranteed it would—I had no place to run.

  Robby occupied himself running a plastic car over every inch of the sofa back and cushions.

  My mother settled in the dining room and spread work papers over half the table. “Iris,” she said without looking up. “Robby needs new shoes. His feet are growing so fast. I’ll take him shopping tomorrow.”

  “Mom, I’ll take care of it.”

  “You have so much on your mind. I don’t mind doing it.”

  “Mom, that’s my job.”

  She looked up. “Of course it is. Sorry I mentioned it. Didn’t mean to over-step.”

  Now her feelings were hurt. I stood up. “Come on, kid. Time to pick up toys. Do you want to open the toy bin or should I?”

  He climbed off the sofa and pulled up the lid to the toy bin—that was fun—and I started tossing Duplos and plastic animals in. “Robby, you help, too.” I cajoled and he did the least amount of work he could get away with.

  “Just leave it, Iris. I’ll take care of it,” my mother said.

  The wrangling disrupted her work, but he needed to learn to pick up his toys. I sat back on my heels. Which half of this lose/lose equation did I dislike the least? “Kiss Grandma good-night,” I said and then led him upstairs.

  ***

  The plan rose up out of failure and frustration. It germinated as I lay in bed realizing that being a prey species is just too inconvenient. It flourished over breakfast as I looked for a different angle to attack my troubles. On the way to work, it still looked, if not good, at least possible. Law enforcement was a crucial piece. Could I sell it to them? I waited until lunch break and called Gettler, but had to leave a message. He called back when I was cleaning the Penguinarium kitchen. Points to the man: he returned calls.

  “I know how to catch Jeff and Tom Tipton.”

  Gettler’s voice was flat. “I’m listening.”

  “They’re broke. They think their father hid more gold. They’re looking for it and they can’t find it. That’s why they busted into my house—to ask me if Jerome said anything about it before he died.”

  “Okay.”

  “Here’s the plan. I tell them I think their father’s last words weren’t about his pet birds. He was really telling where he hid the gold, but I need them to help me figure it out. I’ll say we’ll split whatever we find. They show up to talk to me, and you nab them. Or Portland Police. Whoever.”

  A pause. “Before I get too judgmental here, tell me how you think you can communicate with them.”

  “A note on the door of the farm. A note to Pluvia, the neighbor. The newspaper. Radio. That reporter, Craig Darsee, who’s looking for them. All of them.”

  “Then we’re supposed to follow you around twenty-four/seven until they decide to show up. And if we miss them, they throw you in their van, and you disappear. You do know one of them might have shot that girl, right?”

  Somehow I could sense he wasn’t enthusiastic. “You don’t think you could nail them? What would make it work better? I could wear a tracking device or a silent alarm button or—”

  “What would work better is you being patient. Let us do our job. We’re the ones trained to handle guys like them. I understand that you’re frustrated, and I wish we’d already apprehended them, but this idea of yours is a boatload of risk without much chance of success.”

  “You got a better idea or am I supposed to wait until they die of old age?”

  “Please tell me you won’t try this. No one can guarantee your safety if you do. You have a child, as I recall.”

  Rats. He’d played the parent card. “Okay. Fine. I’ll sit on my rear.” Growing wool, one of Hap’s sheep.

  “Good. Is that all?”

  “No, wait. Could Pluvia, the neighbor woman, have helped bail the Tiptons out?”

  “That was you ye
sterday in the black Crown Vic, right?”

  I remembered the patrol car we’d seen. “I went with a friend for safety. Pluvia didn’t tell me much and then she got mad and chased me away.”

  “She doesn’t have a car or a phone. We’re reasonably sure she didn’t pick the Tiptons up at the jail, and we know they aren’t hanging out at her place, so you might as well leave her alone.”

  No wonder my scenario surprised and upset her.

  “So who did deliver the money and pick them up?”

  Gettler was patient. “We don’t know.”

  “A friend of Jeff or Tom’s?”

  “Like I said, we don’t know. They were picked up after dark several blocks away from the jail.”

  If not Pluvia, who? The only person who might know was Pluvia herself.

  Dead end.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The next morning, Saturday, found me lying on my belly on the edge of the penguin pool wielding a long pole with a net at the end. A chunk of herring skin clogged the screen over a filter down near the bottom, and I didn’t want to drain the pool. The penguins were alarmed by the net, but fascinated by me flopping around trying to scrape the gunk off. They had a lot to say about it. I didn’t fall in, but all I accomplished was to get wet and smelly. I tried again with a length of coat hanger taped to the non-net end of the pole and fished out the obstruction at last. While moving my phone to a dry pair of pants, I noticed a message from Craig. I called back and we set up dinner to talk about his article.

  I scrubbed fish scales out of the sinks wondering if his goal was more than advice on his project. My female instincts said this was not really a work meeting, but they were rusty. Anyway, he would be hanging out at some up-scale bar, not wining and dining a stressed-out animal keeper. With his looks and killer smile, he shouldn’t lack for company, even if the bum leg put some women off. But it was me he called and somehow I’d said yes to an early dinner.

  What if Craig did have romance in mind? What about Ken? We’d shared two dates, one kiss. I was still a free agent. But now that I was “out there,” as Hap put it, the reasons I hadn’t pursued love emerged like elk at dusk and confronted me. Adjusting to widowhood, learning to parent, and warping myself into a thoughtful adult took all I had. A potential partner—was that more than I could handle? But loneliness and lust weren’t going to stay back in the hills forever. I wiped down the stainless steel counters wishing I could stop thinking and just roll with it. But no. That’s the thing about simple physical tasks—too much time to think.

  Was I attracted to Ken because he was the first option in a long, long time or for better reasons? Maybe seeing Craig would clarify that, not that I felt any rush to settle on one of them. This was the most romantic excitement I’d had in years and, despite all the fretting, the truth was—I was liking it. Liking it a lot. This was the bright spot in my tattered, disrupted life. Surely I could be a responsible adult and still date two men. Besides, I didn’t have to be totally prudent in every single aspect of my life. I flipped the sponge into the sink with a flourish. “Hell, no, dammit.”

  Oops. I couldn’t keep expecting my parents to pick up child care. I called Amanda and talked to her daughter, Courtney, who helped with day care when high school was out. Courtney was happy to walk the few blocks to my parents and spend the evening in our bedroom playing with Robby. I’d need to Google directions to the restaurant and wash my hair to get the fish smell out. This dating business took a lot of preparation.

  The advantage of the restaurant Craig picked was the curved booths. He met me with a smile that would have thawed a harder heart than mine and sat close enough for body heat to register. He wore a gray dress shirt, the top button undone, no tie. Black pants, a sports jacket. I wasn’t used to men who dressed with style. He’d gone with the shaved-two-days-ago look. He looked quick and smart and worldly.

  And I couldn’t find Liberia on a map.

  I ordered a glass of wine, but he overrode me.

  “Bring a bottle,” he told the waiter. “It’s a special night.”

  He vanquished the initial awkwardness by leaning over the napkins and silverware to show me prints of photos for his article. “I’d like your opinion about these, which ones will have the most impact.” He’d captured the bleakness and the busyness at the Tipton farm, wet people in uniforms walking here and there. Denny leaned on the zoo van, looking loose-jointed and sullen. I toted an animal carrier full of parrots out of the barn. The Boxer mix snarled at a state trooper.

  I admired his photography talent as we ate and managed not to dribble sauce on the prints. Our lunch at the zoo taught me that he wasn’t going to ask any hard questions until I’d eaten. Smart man. His hand brushed mine as he held my glass and refilled it without asking first. Well, I didn’t have to drink two glasses. But it was good wine and I did.

  For dessert, he suggested a glass of port. “Why not?” I said. Port sounded sophisticated. That wasn’t my strong suit, but I could learn. Dinner had ballasted the wine—I felt full and relaxed, but not buzzed. He asked about the tortoises, and I told him about the chip that the vet found. “My boss is making the arrangements to ship them back to Madagascar. That should make a cool ending to your story.”

  “Good point. That’s a satisfying wrap-up to the conservation theme. You’ve added a lot of depth, but I can’t finish this thing until Jeff and Tom are in custody. I’m still looking for a connection to the groups Jerome was funding, and only the sons can tell me.”

  “‘In custody’ sounds like the perfect place for an interview.”

  “I’ll be pleased to have them locked up and you safe.” He eased an arm over my shoulders. “I’ve never met a woman like you. I’ve known women who really cared about their work, but that’s usually about money or power. It’s different with you, more about nurture.”

  I straightened up. “That sounds totally mush-brained. It’s about respecting each creature for what it is. It’s about…” I’d never put into words what mattered most to me about my job.

  Craig said, “Never mush-brained. Tell me how that little monkey is doing.”

  I sipped my port, settled into his arm, and told him about the positive developments with the mandrill family. The port was delicious. This date was most excellent.

  He said, “I took a few more shots of you that I like. Some from the Tipton place and one from the zoo. You photograph well. Not all attractive women do.”

  I checked my bullshit alarm. It seemed to be out of order. Body heat and those highwayman eyes were undoing my better judgment button by button.

  The second advantage of this restaurant was that it resided in a hotel. I wasn’t terribly surprised to learn that the other photos and the draft article Craig wanted to show me were in his room. How could he afford to stay in a hotel? Maybe it was just for tonight.

  A glass of wine. Or two. A guy I wouldn’t have to face at work the next day. A two year drought. My regression into feckless adolescence? I got into the elevator with him.

  We stood apart as I consulted my adult self. She wouldn’t be in that elevator—she would have told him to bring the pictures and article down. Apparently she was off duty. Inside his room, the closed door behind me, I couldn’t stop the grin sliding across my face.

  He stopped short. “You wanted to see the pictures, right?”

  I reached around his neck and my mouth covered his. He broke away eventually and kissed my collarbone alongside my throat. He smelled so good. He felt good. Ah, men. What a great idea they are. I fought us both into a semblance of self control until the concept of “condom” was in place. Then we went for the buttons and belts.

  He wanted to hold back like a gentleman, but I wasn’t having it. After the first urgent, fumbling explosion, we tried it again his way, a slower pace. That worked just as well.

  I dozed on the bed, curl
ed within his arms. My skin had come alive. My hair, my fingernails, alive.

  I’d honored Rick with grief and my level-best parenting of our son. He peered from the shadows and nodded. It was okay to get on with my life.

  And get on I must. Reluctantly, I uncurled and rolled out of bed. I rummaged on the floor for my clothes in the faint street light coming through the curtains.

  Craig sat up. “Hey, c’mon back here.”

  “Responsibility calls.” I stood up clutching my good jeans and a bra. “I guess I never told you. I’ve got a two-year-old. I have to get back.”

  Seeing him leaning against the headboard, rubbing his bare chest in consternation, I wanted to kiss him again. Nope. I’d never stop.

  He didn’t say anything, watching as I dressed. Safely covered, I sat down next to him and trailed my fingers across his chest. “That was fantastic. Totally irresponsible and awesome.”

  “You’re really going to walk out on me.”

  He wasn’t angry, was he? “I failed to give satisfaction?”

  “Oh, yes. But not enough of it.” He reached for me, and I slipped away.

  At the door, I said, “I have no idea where we go from here. I hope…” I wasn’t sure what I hoped for.

  He didn’t say anything and I left. Maybe he was mad at me for walking away. Well, I had reason to think he’d had his share of fun.

  And I felt just great.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  “Marcie. Stop crying. Breathe. Tell me what happened.” Half asleep, I had the phone in a death grip. It was midnight and I stood in the upstairs bathroom hoping the call hadn’t awakened my parents.

  “Oh, Iris. I thought you should know. I wanted you to at least know. Whatever you want to do. I left all those messages.”

  “I was out to dinner and left the phone in the bathroom to charge. I didn’t see the messages. Marcie, tell me what’s happened.”