Endangered

by Ann Littlewood

  Think? This was not a moment when thinking was an option. I stood up. “I can’t deal with this now.”

  “Wait. You haven’t had the good news yet.”

  I sat and tried to listen.

  “A post office in Kelso found one of the tortoises. A clerk heard it moving around in a package. Postal Inspection Services notified all the post offices in southern Washington, and they found the other one, too. So they’ll be back just as soon as the deputy who opened the boxes gets himself here.”

  “Good. Great.” I was still sinking into a pool of dismay. I sat up straighter. Focus. Breathe. “That means that the Tiptons will stay broke, assuming they don’t get paid until delivery. And now the police have the name and address of one or two of their customers.”

  “We’ll have to see how that plays out. Apparently the clerk already bragged to the media, so it won’t be any secret.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Might not make any difference.”

  I stood up again.

  Neal turned toward his computer. “You think about my suggestion. I’ll try to work with you on this.” He scowled at me. “Also, I’d like to be informed immediately about anything that affects your safety, work-related or not.”

  “Sure,” I mumbled and got out of there. What could he do about my safety? Let me move into the Penguinarium with Robby and two dogs?

  I headed toward Birds, then remembered I was at Primates for the afternoon. That brought me by the lions, who were inside, and then to the young tigers. It was a cold, blustery day with fitful rain. They didn’t care. They were Amur tigers, formerly known as Siberian tigers, adapted to climates far colder than this. They scoffed at our paltry winters. One of the sisters was in the pool slamming a floating Boomer ball around. The other paced the rim and yowled, sticking out a paw to bat at the big red ball whenever it was within reach.

  The one in the pool—Katrina—lunged out, water sheeting off her sides, and chased Nadia down into the moat. Nadia raced back up and whirled around to grapple with her sibling, long tails flying. Young, healthy, beautiful. Full of life.

  I’d never bothered to plan my career and now it turned out my job was a dead end. I liked my job, but “dead end” was depressing. And financially scary. Perspective trickled in. I’d trade a better job for a guarantee of Denny’s survival in a heartbeat. I absorbed what I could of the tigers’ vigor and trudged to Primates.

  The mandrill troop looked good and gave my mood another tiny boost. The baby crept around on Violet’s lap, little jerky movements. I waved to get his attention and he looked at me, big-eyed and alert. He was beyond adorable. I stalled for a few minutes. Sky ambled over and, to my surprise, Violet didn’t flee. He made a casual pass at grooming her shoulder, nothing like Carmine’s beauty-school-graduate expertise, and sniffed at his son. The baby froze as the big muzzle came close, but didn’t freak out. Violet seemed unconcerned and perhaps a trifle smug. This baby business was working out for her. She had gone from Cinderella sleeping on the hearth to princess of the troop, a status she hadn’t enjoyed since she was in estrus.

  I found Kip at the cotton-top tamarins. “Kip, listen to this. Sky just groomed Violet so he could get close to the baby. You were right—he was never aggressing at Violet, he just wanted to see the baby.” Sky would never be the monkey equivalent of my dad—that wasn’t in the mandrill repertoire—but maybe he wouldn’t terrorize his son in Jerome Tipton style.

  Kip shrugged a no-big-deal shrug, but a hint of relief gave her away. “He hates it when the baby cries. He threatens everyone in sight and chases Violet. But now Violet lets the baby nurse so there’s no crying, and everyone has settled down. I told you it would be fine.”

  Sure she did. “The baby looks great.”

  “Mr. Crandall asked a donor to name him. It’s ‘Mtoki.’”

  “Which means?”

  “It’s a banana dish from the Cameroon. Supposed to be great stuff.”

  “I like the sound of it. Mandrills are from the Cameroon, right?”

  Kip looked ever so slightly impressed. “Yes, they are. Mtoki is way better than ‘Butchy’.”

  This was an ancient grudge from a Diana monkey that Mr. Crandall had named after a city councilman’s nephew.

  Calvin might have total confidence in my skills, but Kip didn’t. I scrubbed cages and fixed diets under her careful eye until quitting time. Nonetheless, I found opportunities to list the reasons college was impossible.

  I had a full-time job that left me physically tired.

  I had a pre-schooler. Time I spent on school would come out of time with Robby.

  I had to find roommates just to meet my bills. The only way to pay for tuition was loans and how was I going to pay those back?

  And the big one—I wasn’t that good at studying. I’d passed all my classes my freshman and sophomore year, but I gave Marcie’s tutoring most of the credit.

  It was impossible.

  But other people with kids and jobs did it. How did they pull it off? No matter, it wouldn’t work for me.

  I’d been happy with my job until I found out I was stuck. I’d go back to being happy with it again.

  ***

  I was inspecting Comice pears at New Seasons grocery store in southeast Portland when my phone rang. Craig. Three days after I’d tossed caution to the wind. It felt like weeks. I stepped into the wine aisle where it was quieter.

  “Hey,” he said. “Haven’t heard from you.” His voice was neutral, cautious.

  “I was thinking the same.” I intended to match the neutral tone, but maybe that was too cold? Nope. I’d had a bad day, and he should have checked in with me before this.

  “I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from me. You took off pretty fast.”

  I’d hurt his feelings by not staying for breakfast? My heart sank a little. “I told you—it was great, but I had to get back to my kid.”

  “How’s your friend? The news said he was hurt pretty bad.” Still neutral.

  So this was a business call. Research. Now my feelings were hurt. “It looks like he’ll live. He looks a little better every day.”

  “He’s getting good care?”

  “Bullet wounds are business as usual for the trauma center. They seem to know what they’re doing.”

  “Good. You must be pretty upset anyway. Hey, could I see you again? Maybe tomorrow night?” His voice had warmed and shifted to personal.

  That was better. “I’d like that. But I’m losing my mind right now with Denny and work and everything else. My life is in chaos. Can I call you tomorrow and let you know?”

  “Yes, you can.”

  I didn’t want to hang up. Three friendships were on the wane. I could use a new one. “Wait. Did you hear the two stolen tortoises were found?”

  “That fast.”

  “Yeah, and they’re still alive. A tiny piece of good news.”

  We both breathed for a minute. “Have you found out anything new?” Lame…I walked back to the fruit section. I needed to get home.

  “Just what the news has. I’m really frustrated. Nothing’s working out.” He added, “Except for Saturday night.”

  “That did work out pretty well.” I smiled at the apples, relieved. He wasn’t staying mad. Maybe we had a future. I tucked the phone under my ear to free my hands and bagged up organic Fujis. Expensive, but my mother wanted organic.

  “Atlantic turned me down, but I’ve pitched Harper’s and they’re nibbling. Some of the online sites pay fairly well, so I’m negotiating there.”

  “Um, I have a new theory.” I told him about the third man while I selected carrots. I dropped one and had to put the phone down for a few seconds. “Say that again?”

  “I said I like it. Your theory. I’m wondering how I can confirm it. Where are you?”<
br />
  “Grocery shopping.” I told him my plan to lure the whole pack of them out of hiding by telling them I knew where the gold was. “I tried to get Gettler, the deputy sheriff, to buy into it. He thinks I’m a lunatic.” A woman with an infant in a front pack stepped away from me.

  “He’s entitled to his opinion.” A pause. “For that to work, you’d need to be pretty convincing. Not that I think this is a good idea.”

  “I could be convincing.” Milk. We needed one-percent and some half-and-half.

  “Try me.”

  “Where would they put string cheese? It’s not with the rest of the cheese. Oh, I forgot they have two sections. I misheard Jerome’s last words. I finally figured out what he really meant and it points to where he hid his stash.”

  A pause. “They’ve failed with you once.”

  “I can make the case. And they’re stumped. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have tried for the tortoises. Did the Tipton van have a GPS gismo?” I’d forgotten lettuce. I headed back to the produce section.

  “I can find out.”

  “I think Jerome buried his stash in the forest around the house or off the main road. Everything in those woods looks the same—fir trees, sword ferns, fallen logs. He’d either have to bury it by a landmark, which isn’t all that reliable, or use the GPS. He could pick up the GPS coordinates of his hidey-hole from the device—I tested that with the one in the zoo’s van—and write them down.” Coffee. Peet’s or another brand? They were out of Peet’s French Roast. An experimental brand, then.

  “We’re looking for a string of numbers.” Craig didn’t sound excited.

  I parked the cart at the self-serve bins. “Yup. That’s why the barn was searched. And probably the house, after all the agencies left. But the Tiptons and their buddy didn’t find it. Hold on, I have to bag up some granola.”

  “Did you really find a piece of paper with coordinates? You’re not making this up?” Now he sounded interested.

  “See? I convinced you. But I can’t figure out how to make it work without risking my life. Or how to make it work, period. It’s not like we’re Facebook friends. I can’t communicate with them.” I tossed the granola into the cart.

  “Let me think about it. Where’d you find the numbers?”

  “Think away. I’m stumped.” I was in the checkout line and distracted by loading groceries onto the belt. What I needed was a partner. Craig was smart and energetic. He could help me figure this out.

  He said, “On second thought, Gettler was right. This is a terrible idea, for you, anyway. I’ll find a way to tell them I found that piece of paper, and we’ll take it from there. You don’t have to be part of it. But you and I should meet first, when you aren’t distracted.”

  “Um, you do remember that one of them shot Liana?” The teenage boy ahead of me gave me a concerned look. I smiled.

  “I haven’t forgotten. I’ll take precautions.”

  “Like working with Gettler.”

  “Exactly. I think I can get him on board easier than a woman could. No offense.”

  Yes, offense…for about a second. This sounded great. But only for another second. “Hey, I didn’t mean to set you up. You don’t have to do this. It’s truly risky.” Now the clerk was looking at me.

  “I can take care of myself.”

  Lame or not, he did seem as though he could do that. Hope flared that he would bust the Tiptons, get his article, and just possibly join me in the bedroom of my own home. How fine would that be?

  He said, “As long as those boys are still in the wind, you need to be careful. There could be wild cards from some terrorist group that Jerome associated with. Listen, I did a feature on witness protection programs. I know how to keep you safe, so call me if anything happens. Promise?”

  “Sure.” I walked out of the store with heavy bags and a lighter step.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  After dinner, my mother wanted us to watch How to Train Your Dragon. I walked the dogs first, keeping watch for Tiptons or home-grown terrorists jumping out at me. We got soaked and the dogs shook all over the kitchen. I didn’t catch their feet in time to keep prints off the rug. I flurried around with a towel.

  My father declined the cartoon feature in favor of finishing the dishes, so the three of us settled in front of the TV. Robby was glued to my lap, entranced. It was fun, but the scarier scenes inspired him to point at the screen and protest—“Him hurt on arm! Bad fire!”

  “It’s not real, honey,” I said. “It’s pretend. Nobody really got hurt.” I could never tell if my commentary made any sense to him. How could it not be real if it was right in front of his eyes?

  I liked the movie’s concept—that understanding the dragons could turn enemies into allies and that yelling was not the optimal training technique. Still, it was upsetting Robby. I announced that it was bedtime and shut it off.

  My mother said, “I’m so sorry. A friend said it was fine for little ones. I should have researched it more. I hope Robby can sleep.”

  “Mom, he’ll survive. Don’t beat yourself up.” I repressed a guilty delight that the parenting boo-boo was not my fault and carried my child upstairs.

  For his bedtime story, Robby wanted an old favorite, a Beatrix Potter book called A Fierce Bad Rabbit. He demonstrated with dramatic re-enactments using his stuffed bunny how the bad rabbit fought dragons, but it wasn’t clear whether it actually won. I explained that his armadillo was really a species of good dragon that would protect him while he slept. Thankfully, he bought that and tucked it under his chin when he lay down.

  My poor boy, exiled from his home, missing his friends Pete and Cheyenne, saddled with a mother who half the time was over-wrought by her troubles.

  I stretched out alongside him and almost fell asleep myself.

  Damn. The macaws had to be fed.

  I grumped about Neal as my father and I drove through slanting rain to my house yet again. Any curator worth the title could find a place to store those birds where someone else could look after them. I wasn’t even getting overtime pay for this.

  My father, tall in the passenger seat, wasn’t interested in my resentments. “You’ve been out a lot lately. I’d be happier if you’d tell me what you’re up to. Don’t mean to pry into your personal life, but your safety is my business.”

  A lot of people seemed to feel that way. I couldn’t complain. Where to start? I’d provided regular reports on Denny. I told him about the stolen tortoises being recovered, about my hospital visit with Pluvia and Wanda, and my conviction that someone else was helping the Tiptons. “And I seem to be dating two men.”

  We sat in the car in front of my house, reluctant to face the wet, as he absorbed all this.

  He said, “Two. Complicated.”

  I opened the door.

  “The job is okay?”

  “No problems. My boss said to take the time I needed to look after Denny. Not that Marcie will let me near him.” I shut the door again.

  “Your housemates moved to Denny’s, right? What makes them think they’ll be any safer there?”

  “Someone needs to look after Denny’s animals.” Which led to telling him that they were moving out permanently in a month.

  Which somehow led to telling him about Calvin retiring.

  “You going to try for the position? Your boss owes you after all this trouble with the Tiptons.”

  “‘Fraid not. It requires a college degree.”

  I had to wait for his response.

  “You’re going to let that stop you?” He sounded curious rather than challenging.

  “Well, it’s impossible.”

  “We can help with the tuition.”

  “Thanks, but it’s still impossible.”

  “Now why is that? You did all right for the two years you stayed
.”

  “Dad. Listen. All I want to major in is biology, and I can’t cut it. Calculus? Organic chemistry? No way. If all it meant was learning more about real animals, I’d be fine. But that’s not how it goes. And I need a major that relates to my job, so it’s not going to be Creative Knitting Studies or something. And I don’t have the time anyway.”

  I got out of the car and shut the door. He did, too. He would have to tell my mother and I’d have to deal with that. How long could she hold off from “I told you so?” Then I would snap at her and we’d be stuck in the same house because of the Tiptons. Argh!

  We collected real estate fliers and ads for gutter cleaning from the porch. I calmed down a little. My house felt cold and barren, lonely and a little spooky. The macaws yelled at us, which made it feel more like home. Maybe I’d miss them after they were gone. My father came down to the basement with me. I inspected the half-nude bird for feathers growing back and found a hint of regrowth.

  The cage was due for a cleaning and I started in on it. The less-plucked bird, the one that had begun to warm up to me, flirted with my father instead. He, or maybe she, hung in front of him grasping the wire with feet and beak. I suggested rubbing his face at the base of the beak, with all due caution. My father tried it, the bird loved it, and I was relegated to char woman. The other bird let me scratch his forehead, but only out of politeness. “You are the new Jerome Tipton,” I told my father, who made a face. But he didn’t quit petting the bird.

  When I was done, he examined the cage and stopped at the basement door. “Look here. Is this the way it was?” It was barely closed, not enough for the latch to engage. The deadbolt wasn’t turned.

  Not good. Not good at all. I tensed up and glanced around. “I left it locked. Pete must have gone out and not closed it right.”

  “Or someone broke in.”

  No evidence of the signature Tipton pry bar. “It’s a good deadbolt and nothing looks damaged.” That reassured me not at all.

  “Good deadbolts can be picked with a couple of bobby pins.”

  How did he happen to know that?

  He shook his head at me. “There’s a video online that shows how to do it. Let’s take a look around upstairs.”