Endangered

by Ann Littlewood

  “Denny’s hurt. Shot. He’s in surgery. I’m here with his father at the hospital outside Vancouver. Oh, Iris…”

  “Shot? What do you mean?”

  “Shot, with a gun. At the zoo. It’s bad.”

  “Marcie, I’m coming. It’ll be all right.” It had to be all right. I shoved down panic.

  “Don’t worry if you can’t come. I know you can’t leave Robby. I thought I should tell you.” She was crying again.

  “I’ll be there as quick as I can.”

  I dressed and left a note for my parents and aimed my car toward the hospital. I knew exactly where it was, thanks to my visit to Wanda Tipton.

  I drove empty streets to the Interstate, then north across the bridge and past Vancouver, past the zoo. It was a long way, time for too much thinking. Shot at the zoo. It had to be the Tiptons. What was Denny doing at the zoo this late? What if he died, like Liana had died? Like Rick had died. No, don’t go there.

  Too much time for thinking about Denny.

  Our plunge into a relationship years ago—no more thoughtful than my tryst with Craig—quickly chilled by the chaos he brought to my life. I was stuck forever with guilt about banishing him and taking up with Rick the next week.

  The wipers beat against the rain, brief victories, quick-spattered defeats.

  Marcie wasn’t at Legacy Hospital where I’d visited Wanda. Neither was Denny. The emergency room nurse told me where the Southwest Medical Center was, where trauma patients were delivered. Back on the freeway.

  Too much time for thinking about Denny.

  Denny’s friendship with Rick and enduring sense of responsibility toward me and Robby. His high-energy, relentless brainstorming, mining the worst-case conspiracy vein. His passion for all things cold-blooded. I owed him for adopting Rick’s iguana, Bessie Smith.

  Ire. He was the only one who called me Ire—she of the quick temper. To get my goat, sure, but also because he had the right to call me a special name?

  Fourth Plain Road, Mill Plain Road—one exit apart. How could anyone be expected to keep them straight? I made a U turn and got back on track.

  I found the right hospital, certain that Marcie and I were overreacting. The emergency room staff sent me to an adjoining building. A sign told me Surgery was on the second floor.

  She was huddled in the waiting area. A large man in a red and black plaid shirt sat next to her, sleeping with his head leaned back awkwardly against the top of the couch, hands folded across his round belly. A dazed young couple sat across from them, strangers in their own disaster. Marcie got up and hugged me, a real hug. We stood aside by the elevators to avoid disturbing the sleeping man, in an alcove with a glass wall between us and the darkness outside. Marcie was pale and her tidiness was breached—fine blond hair astray and lavender blouse rumpled.

  “He’s still in surgery. He was at the zoo when it happened. I don’t know why.”

  “He’s alive. No tears yet.” Wasted words, she was sobbing on my shoulder.

  Still in surgery. My mental shield of “really not that bad” shattered. “How did they know to call you?”

  “He still had my number in his wallet. I tracked down his dad. He lives out by Molalla.”

  “That’s Jack?” I’d never met Denny’s stepdad. His mother was long dead, and his biological father had never been part of his life. Jack snored irregularly. He was big—thick-bodied and tall—with frizzy brown hair gone thin on top.

  “Your boss is here, too. Not Mr. Crandall, the other one.”

  “Neal? Where?” The police or the night guard must have notified zoo management.

  “I don’t know. He was here a minute ago.”

  No sign of Neal. I talked to the person at the information station. The estimate was at least another hour before Denny was out of surgery. Since there was nothing more to say, we went back into the waiting area and sat staring at a TV set on the far wall, the volume set to a low mumble.

  A security guard walked through, scanning each of us, and walked on. “Where are the police?” I asked Marcie.

  “They were here. They left when I said I didn’t know anything and his father was on his way. I filled out the admissions form.”

  The thought of Denny actually dying seeped in, a cold spot at the pit of my stomach. I knew very well that death is an intractable, indigestible lump of reality. I sat and breathed in and out, my hands twitching.

  Denny’s step-father roused, focused on us briefly, and slumped back into sleep. Even conked out, something about him was reassuring. I finally figured out it was the whiff of livestock from his clothes.

  “You know Denny’s real name?” Marcie said out of some wandering train of thought. At least she wasn’t sobbing.

  I did know Denny’s real name and I nodded, but she didn’t notice.

  “It’s not Dennis. It’s Denali, the Native American name for Mt. McKinley. His mother named him Denali Loowit Stellar. Loowit is Mt. Saint Helens. She told him one was for his masculine side and one for his feminine side. Maybe she invented the Stellar part. She lived on one of those hippie farms in southern Oregon.”

  “He told me ‘Stellar’ was his dad’s name.”

  “Right.” She lapsed into silence.

  “Oakley. Come talk to us.” Neal with a Vancouver police officer, a woman. I stepped toward the alcove by the elevators, a glass-walled space with darkness beyond. Marcie’s eyes followed me, wide and blue in a white face. She didn’t get up, unwilling to intrude no matter how distraught she was.

  “What do you know about this?” Neal asked.

  The cop looked at him. “You can take a seat in the waiting area, Mr. Humboldt. I’ll let you know if I need you.” She had a long, angular face and square shoulders. She looked like no one to fool with.

  Neal didn’t do as she asked, but he stepped back and shut up, his mouth grim.

  “I don’t know anything,” I said. “Marcie called me.”

  The police woman digested that. “His girlfriend, the emergency contact.” Her name tag said “Hooker.” No wonder she looked tough. She glanced at the waiting area, picking out Marcie. “He was at the zoo with at least two other men. Mr. Humboldt said you might have something to add.”

  “Where at the zoo?” But I already knew.

  “The back side by Finley Road.”

  “Where the hospital is.” I felt sick to my stomach. “That’s where the illegal tortoises are, the confiscated ones that the zoo is holding in quarantine. I’d guess it was the Tipton brothers trying to steal them back. They’re broke and they can sell them for a lot of money. Gil Gettler is the deputy sheriff on the Tipton case.” Denny had been alone at his house, alone because Cheyenne had refused to move out of my house. What if she and Pete had been there? I could have three friends injured or dead, not just one. “They must have grabbed Denny and forced him into their car. Or else they tricked him into meeting them at the zoo.”

  “Does anyone live with him?”

  “No. Just his dog.” Strongbad, Denny’s dog, would bark like crazy. Unless they shot him, which might be too noisy. Poison?

  The officer cocked her head. “Any other reason you can think of that Mr. Stellar would be at the zoo?”

  I shook my head.

  Neal spoke in a quiet, flat voice. “He could have been bribed. He might have been part of this, and it went wrong. We have to consider the possibility.”

  “No,” I said. “No, we don’t. You know him, and I know him.” Blood rushed to my head and my knees shook. I gasped with the effort at self control, at not punching his treacherous face. “You would betray your own mother if you think that.”

  Neal flushed. “I don’t think it. It’s a possibility, a remote one. That’s all.”

  Hooker moved between us, her back to Neal.

  I
gathered myself to speak calmly. “He has a big aggressive dog. Can you call me and let me know if he’s still alive? They might have shot him. If he’s there, I’ll take care of him.” How I would do that would come later. My dogs hated Strongbad. His reptiles would be okay for a day or two.

  “We’ll check his house. Give me your number, and I’ll call you if I see him.”

  She scowled at Neal and left, cop gear jouncing on her waist. I turned my back on him, still angry, and sat again next to Marcie. Neal paced in the hallway.

  Time became gluey and elastic, infinite, a night without end. Two older men in rumpled suits came to see the young couple. They talked quietly, then all four stood in a huddle with their arms over each other’s shoulders while one of the older men prayed aloud. Marcie and I watched as dull-eyed as oxen. My romp with Craig felt like eons ago. Rain streaked the glass wall alongside us. Head and tail lights marked the road to the hospital.

  A doctor emerged through doors marked Emergency Exit Only Alarm Will Sound. Marcie jumped up. The doctor approached her and we woke his stepfather. Neal had disappeared. The doctor was a woman maybe thirty-five years old, with an ID tag giving a long East Indian name full of r’s and a’s. She told us in medical language what damage the bullet had done to Denny. It slipped off the surface of memory into oblivion.

  “So, Doc,” asked Jack, “is he going to make it or not?” He folded his thick arms tight around his chest, his jaw clenched.

  “I cannot promise you, much as I wish to,” she said. “He is young and in good health. That is in his favor. But it is a severe injury. We won’t know for a few days.”

  Jack nodded several times. Abruptly he stretched his elbows out to the side and rolled his shoulders, as if shaking off fear and uncertainty.

  “He is in the recovery room now. He will stay there until the anesthesia wears off. Then he will be moved to the ICU on the fifth floor. You may wait there if you wish. It will be at least an hour, maybe three, before you can see him.” She gave us the room number and left us.

  We moved to an almost identical waiting room on the fifth floor.

  I stood at the identical alcove by the elevators, looking out at the night. An ambulance wailed in the distance, silenced itself, and pulled into the ER. A few minutes later, a helicopter swung thumping overhead to drop down and land in front, bright lights, a gurney meeting it. Cars came and went from the parking lot. Denny’s catastrophe was one of many.

  A nurse, unnaturally awake and calm, told us we could see him. The private room with its bank of electronic equipment frightened me anew. Tubes and wires snaked from the equipment and hid under the sheet. We could see Denny’s face. He seemed absent from his body, all the quirky vitality gone.

  “He came through surgery,” the nurse said. “Now we have to wait.”

  It took some doing, but I talked Marcie into going home. There was nothing she could do for Denny. I said I would deal with Strongbad and his reptiles. My parents’ house was full-up, so I suggested Jack crash at my house, which he accepted. My place was much closer than his. I followed Marcie home in my car and saw her into her apartment. Jack trailed me in an old GMC pickup.

  My house was dark and neither Pete nor Cheyenne woke up when we tip-toed in. The house seemed alien without Robby and the dogs, as if I were an intruder.

  I fetched Jack a pillow and a sleeping bag and settled him on the living room sofa while I debated returning to my parents’ house. I’d likely wake them and maybe Robby as well. I left Pete and Cheyenne a note on the fridge, then took the easiest path and collapsed into my own bed without undressing.

  I woke up two hours later when Cheyenne screamed from the kitchen.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Barely conscious, I looked around for a weapon and failed to find one. If the Tiptons were downstairs…Why didn’t I have that gun-safe Hap wanted me to buy or at least a piece of pipe? I found my phone, dialed 911, and stepped out into the hallway.

  And heard Jack’s low rumble, apologizing.

  Cheyenne—tough, acerbic Cheyenne—was undone by finding a large stranger standing in the living room. I told the 911 operator that it was a misunderstanding and told Pete and Cheyenne that Jack was Denny’s stepfather. “What’s he doing here?” she demanded. Pete put away the kitchen knife. Jack was embarrassed and apologetic, which made no difference. Cheyenne rounded on me. “You could have told me! You could have said something. You can’t go on and on about those meth-addict murderers and then you sneak in with some guy we’ve never seen before without saying a word to us about it.”

  I pointed to the note on the fridge and tried to explain, but she wasn’t listening, I hadn’t had coffee, and the whole scene was hopeless. Before I could tell them about Denny, Pete nudged her out the door saying they would grab breakfast at Starbucks. She sputtered, “I can’t wait to get our own place.”

  My head throbbed and coffee did not cure it.

  It was Sunday and I had to go to work—Calvin wouldn’t be there. Jack fled to tend his calves. I was alone in a house that would have been quiet if the macaws hadn’t started screeching.

  I was finishing my cereal, eight-inch chef’s knife close at hand in case anyone thought this was an opportunity to jump me, when Officer Hooker called. She said that Denny’s house showed no sign of a break-in, but the front door was unlocked. His kidnappers might simply have knocked and he let them in. His van was parked in front of the house. No sign of a dog. I thanked her and asked for details on what had happened at the quarantine area. She was terse. “The security guard responded to an alarm and found a break-in underway, two men and your friend. The guard called 911. There was a struggle, a shot was fired, and the two men ran away out the gate.”

  “The gate was blocked open with a piece of two-by-four, right?”

  “What makes you think that?” The sharp tone confirmed I was right. More evidence that this was the Tiptons’ work.

  I explained that I’d been involved in an incident in the parking lot about ten days before and that there should be a police report about it. “Did they get any of the animals?”

  “Two turtles. The others seem to be accounted for. The curator says they were valuable.”

  “Listen, I just realized this. If Denny…When Denny wakes up, he can identify these guys. He’s not safe there without a guard.”

  “The hospital has a security force and they’ve flagged his room for just that reason.”

  “Oh. Good.” I hoped that was enough.

  She hung up.

  I drank more coffee and called the hospital. No one would tell me anything about Denny’s condition. I texted Marcie to call me, hoping she was still asleep and would find the message when she woke. She called a few minutes later. Her voice was strained. “They’re letting me sit in his room. He’s just lying here with tubes in him. He doesn’t look like Denny.”

  “He’s strong,” I said, dishing out reassurance by reflex. “Give him some time.” I told her I’d come to the hospital after work and asked her to call me if there was any change. It was clear she wasn’t budging. I put my bowl in the dishwasher and drove to my parents’ house to tell them what was going on.

  They had listened to the news and were upset about Denny and frightened for my safety. Camping with them wasn’t super-conscientious any more—it was a barely adequate measure. I shared what little I knew and promised to stay safe, although I was less and less confident I knew how to do that. Robby was usually with them on Sundays, so that was normal and safe, safer than day care. Or was it? I couldn’t decide.

  Exhausted from stress and lack of sleep, I drove to the zoo hoping to hear from Marcie that Denny had taken a turn for the better, hoping for a call from some police officer that the Tiptons were in custody.

  Hoping I’d make it through the day without hurting myself or anything else. It was soon clear I wouldn’t. A
t break, I crashed out in my car for an hour. No one busted me, and I emerged much more functional. Neal could give me grief if he wanted to. I’d tell him it beat an on-the-job injury.

  At lunch time, I grabbed a sandwich at the café and started back toward Birds, planning to eat on the way and try to catch up on work. Linda emerged from the Administration building and hollered at me.

  “Iris! Get in here and tell us what’s going on with Denny.”

  Thanks to clocking in late, I hadn’t talked to anybody about the night before. I turned around and walked back.

  She added, “If it’s not too much trouble.”

  Downstairs, all the chairs were full of keepers plus Jackie. I said to the accusing gazes, “You saw the memo Neal taped to the time clock. I don’t know anything more. Marcie’s there now.” I stood in the doorway and called Marcie. I clapped my phone shut to report that there was no new news.

  We pooled all the information we had. I shared what I’d seen and heard at the trauma center. Jackie said that George, the security guard, had accosted the thieves armed with his big flashlight and a loud voice. He’d seen them fleeing. “He’s lucky he wasn’t shot, too.”

  “George told me he saw two of them, wearing ski masks,” Pete added. “He thinks only one of them had a gun. Denny must have let them in the gate and the hospital. The front door wasn’t messed with.”

  I said, “Marion?”

  She said, “He really shouldn’t have a key. Policy says he shouldn’t.”

  “Marion?”

  She looked at me for an instant with her mouth open and thought better of it. “Two quarantine rooms were pried open,” she reported. “I lock them every night. He must have pulled the fire alarm while they were using a pry bar on the first one. They popped it open, but I think he sent them to the wrong one, and they busted into the next room. They grabbed a couple of torts and ran for it.”

  We couldn’t figure out at what point Denny had been shot. Pete said George had done his best to stop the bleeding.

  “His best wasn’t that good,” Marion said. “I had to mop up the blood this morning. What a way to start the day.”