by Barr, Nevada
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
CHAPTER One
CHAPTER Two
CHAPTER Three
CHAPTER Four
CHAPTER Five
CHAPTER Six
CHAPTER Seven
CHAPTER Eight
CHAPTER Nine
CHAPTER Ten
CHAPTER Eleven
CHAPTER Twelve
CHAPTER Thirteen
CHAPTER Fourteen
CHAPTER Fifteen
CHAPTER Sixteen
CHAPTER Seventeen
CHAPTER Eighteen
CHAPTER Nineteen
CHAPTER Twenty
CHAPTER Twenty-one
CHAPTER Twenty-two
CHAPTER Twenty-three
CHAPTER Twenty-four
CHAPTER Twenty-five
CHAPTER Twenty-six
CHAPTER Twenty-seven
CHAPTER Twenty-eight
Resounding praise for Nevada Barr, Anna Pigeon, and
ENDANGERED SPECIES
“Barr is a splendid storyteller.”—Los Angeles Times Book Review
“In Anna Pigeon, author Barr may have created the most appealing mystery series heroine to come along since Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone.” —The Cleveland Plain Dealer
“Vivid ... skillful ... Barr, a park ranger herself, has the tools to make the island seem real, from the wicked insect life to the glow of the moon on the Atlantic.” —Detroit Free Press
“Despite the many plot complications that claim Anna’s attention in this intricate mystery, Ms. Barr makes sure that she also has eyes for the eerie beauty of her isolated surroundings. No less than her heroine . . . the author seems to have immersed herself in everything strange and lovely about this place.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“Nevada Barr’s fifth Anna Pigeon is an Americanized, natural history version of the English country murder. . . . While the mystery in Endangered Species is expertly rendered, keeping us guessing most of the way, the strength of the novel lies in Barr’s host of deftly sketched and offbeat supporting players . . . and her striking depictions of the island’s environment.”
—San Francisco Examiner & Chronicle
“[An] estimable series . . . Barr writes evocatively about nature’s pleasures and perils, astutely about those who would protect the wilderness from those wishing to exploit it. . . . Anna continues to be a character to care about, flawed but resilient.”
—Orlando Sentinel
“Nevada Barr has carved out her own fictional fiefdom, creating a body of work like no other. To her intriguing depiction of the U.S. Forest Service, its mission and its members, she adds a storytelling skill that makes her Anna Pigeon novels tops in entertainment.” —The San Diego Union-Tribune
“A nifty thriller . . . Barr’s one heckuva writer. . . . Her tales read like Patricia Cornwell exploring the great outdoors.”
—The Clarion-Ledger
“Anna Pigeon is an outstanding example of the contemporary woman detective. She is smart, determined, and able enough to compete with anyone in the mystery business.”
—The Dallas Morning News
“Nevada Barr’s mysteries keep getting better and better.”
Susan Isaacs
“Anna Pigeon, Barr’s down-to-earth heroine, is a delight, with her no-nonsense approach to crime solving and her common-sense approach to life.” —Booklist
“No one delivers the thrill better than Nevada Barr. . . . Fans of the current crop of women mystery writers will love Anna Pigeon. . . . For those who read mysteries to figure out whodunit before the end, be warned: Barr will stump you almost every time.”
—The Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph
“Poetically written and exquisitely clued.” —Kirkus Reviews
“A refreshing change from the brash, wisecracking order of female PIs, Barr’s thoughtful and sensitive heroine rings true on every page.” —Publishers Weekly
“Nevada Barr is an accomplished storyteller. She understands about plot twists, narrative drive, comic relief, and the various other elements vital to the mix. . . . She also has a feeling for the solidity of mountains and the relentlessness of rivers, and what it is that can make a brilliant, star-filled desert night so scary.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“The book abounds with unusual and colorful characters and is imbued with Barr’s wonderful sense of place and the details of a park ranger’s daily life.” —The Denver Post
“Gals don’t get much tougher than Forest Service ranger Anna Pigeon. . . . Barr is as precise a craftswoman as Agatha Chris-tie. . . . She’s made the genre her own.”
—The San Jose Mercury News
“Endangered Species is a fabulous read.” —The Blood-Letter
Titles by Nevada Barr
Winter Study
Hard Truth
High Country
Flashback
Hunting Season
Blood Lure
Deep South
Liberty Falling
Blind Descent
Endangered Species
Firestorm
Ill Wind
A Superior Death
Track of the Cat
Bittersweet
Nonfiction
Seeking Enlightenment . . . Hat by Hat
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ENDANGERED SPECIES
A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 1997 by Nevada Barr.
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FOR CHRIS PEPE,
who makes me look good
and does it with such unfailing charm
I’m allowed to believe it’s all my own cleverness
Special thanks to Gary Barr,
Mary Barr, J. D. Lee,
and Newton Sikes
CHAPTER One
BLACK AND BLOOD-WARM water slammed into Anna’s back, rushing over her shoulders and down the front of her shirt. Closing her eyes against the salt sting, she clung to the turtle’s carapace and concentrated on keeping her footing as the wave dragged against her legs, sucked the sand from beneath her sneakers.
The loggerhead wouldn’t be washed unwillingly back into the Atlantic. There was little the turtle couldn’t handle in the sea. It was land, that unfamiliar and ever-changing universe, that had baffled her. For miles she’d swum from God knew where to lay her eggs on the beach of Cumberland Island, one of the Golden Isles off the coast of Georgia. In her tiny brain—or perhaps her great heart—instinct had programmed a map with such precision that out of thousands of miles of coastline she’d found her way back to this narrow ribbon of sand.
Anna ducked as another wave broke across her shoulders, and embraced the animal hard against her. The ripples of the loggerhead’s armored back, nearly a yard across, dug into her cheek where flesh thinned over bone. She could feel the powerful scrape of the creature’s back flipper against the sodden fabric of her trousered thigh.
Water flooded around her, warmer on the back of her neck than the mild summer air, and Anna wondered how turtles thought, how this turtle thought. On the chart that instinct tattooed on her soul, was there a picture? In whatever passed for a loggerhead’s mind’s eye, had she seen, remembered the flat, welcoming beaches?
“Sorry, old girl,” Anna muttered as she heaved against several hundred pounds of sea beast. A capricious tide had trenched out a four-foot-high sand and shell escarpment along fifty yards of ocean front. A week ago the sand had been flat; two weeks hence it would be again. Tonight it was proving impassable. Still, with the eternal patience that seemed endemic to turtles, rocks, and other long-lived, slow-moving creatures, the loggerhead had beached herself and started her trek inland.
Loggerheads coming ashore north and south of the ephemeral cliff were making their appointed rounds. Between drenchings, Anna could hear the delighted cries of park rangers, volunteers, and researchers celebrating the renewed cycle of this threatened species.
Over the past hour, since she’d been drafted into the turtle-midwifing business, Anna had received a crash course in the reproductive habits of the loggerhead. In an ideal world, they made their way up onto the beach, above high tide, dug a nest, laid their eggs, and buried them. Their role in the universe completed, they returned to the sea and, it was presumed, never looked back until four or five years rolled by and they again felt the urge to come home to nest.
The turtle Anna danced with in the crashing surf could not negotiate the sand cliff and was exhausting herself with the effort. Too tired to fight any longer, she was giving up.
“Holy shit, she’s laying. Give me your hat,” came an exasperated bellow near Anna’s ear. The words were carried on a gust of foul-smelling air. For an instant Anna thought she’d shoved her face too near the east end of the westbound turtle. When she realized it was Marty Schlessinger’s breath, she began to believe the rumors that the biologist ate roadkill.
The Atlantic drew back and the full weight of the loggerhead was laid again in Anna’s and Marty’s arms. “Don’t hurt her,” the biologist warned as Anna felt the little muscles in her sacroiliac stretch and complain.
“Fat chance,” she grumbled, but she braced herself, forearms on thighs, shoulder against shell, and held on.
In a sudden peace left behind by the receding waters, the moon pushed over an inky horizon to paint a path in silver over the ocean and onto the back of the turtle under Anna’s chin.
By the clear light she could see Marty Schlessinger’s face inches from her own. Thirty-four years of beachside living were etched in the lines of determination carved on either side of an uncompromising mouth set in a lean face. Long hair, worn in pigtails like Willie Nelson in his heyday, fell in thin ropes across the loggerhead’s shell.
The returning ocean forced Anna to her knees. Her thigh was wedged against the turtle’s carapace, the animal’s flipper hard against the outside of her leg.
“Hat, hat, hat,” Schlessinger growled.
Anna snatched off her baseball cap and poked it into the biologist’s groping fingers.
“Hold her,” Schlessinger ordered.
“Christ!” Anna breathed as the man relinquished his grip on the turtle to gather the eggs.
Unlike many sea turtles, the loggerhead’s egg-laying machinery was recessed beneath the rear of its shell, and Anna could not see the eggs. By the ecstatic groans coming from the biologist, she guessed the laying was a success.
“No!” Schlessinger yelled suddenly. Such was the horror in his voice that Anna was unpleasantly reminded that the coast of Georgia was the breeding grounds for the great white shark.
“What?” she demanded.
“Lost a baby.”
Anna was relieved but had the good sense to keep quiet. Schlessinger would consider the loss of a ranger’s leg somewhat less heartrending than that of an embryonic loggerhead.
Minutes ticked by. Waves banged at Anna’s back, tried to buckle her knees. Sand gritted between her teeth and salt sealed her eyes. The muscles in her arms and shoulders had progressed from ache, to jelly, to constant torturous throb. All sense of glamour and adventure was long since gone.
“This is getting to be work,” she grunted.
“Quiet,” Marty said.
Anna wedged her knee more firmly under the loggerhead’s shell and began counting back from one hundred. When she reached zero, she decided, Marty and the little loggers were on their own.
Zero came and went and still she held on. Numbers blurred. “I’m losing it,” she said.
“No. Not yet.”
Various retorts bottled up behind Anna’s teeth but she lacked breath to voice them.
A wave rushed between her knees, buoyed up the turtle, and gave her shoulders some respite. When the water receded and the weight settled again, she cried out.
“Hold her still,” Schlessinger snapped.
Anna tried. “In my next life I’m going to be bigger,” she hissed.
“Quiet,” Schlessinger said again. Then: “Okay. I guess that’s the lot. Let her down. Gently. Gently.”
Anna couldn’t unlock any part of her body. “Can’t,” she said finally.
“Oh for Christ’s sake.” With the next wave Schlessinger eased the weight of the turtle from the tripod Anna had made of her body. “At least you can hold these.” The biologist proffered Anna her National Park Service cap. It was full of leathery orbs a little larger than golf balls. “Careful,” he warned as Anna stretched stiff arms to receive them. “I counted.”
There was no mistaking the threat. Marty knew how many eggs were there. Should one turn up missing on Anna’s watch, there would be hell to pay.
She held the cap between her hands as if it were the Holy Grail.
Muttering instructions, the biologist turned the massive turtle back toward the sea and watched her shining shell till the ocean took her. “Fun’s over,” he said curtly. “Time to get to work.”
Oddly, Anna felt invigorated. The magic of the turtle eggs she carried was seeping into her tired bones. The glory of the loggerhead’s fight and her part in it filled her with a sense of accomplishment that diminished the ache in her back and legs. Slopping sand and water with every step, she squished up the darkened beach after Marty Schlessinger.
Just above the high-tide line Schlessinger stopped, locked folded arms across his narrow chest, and surveyed the dunes betw
een the water and the tangle of oak and palmetto that choked the interior of the island.
A three-quarter moon, free now of the sea, cast its light over the sand. Each twig and blade of grass was etched on one side with unnatural clarity, and on the other plunged into impenetrable shadow. The jungle beyond was light-less, a jagged wall of pine and live oak silhouetted against a faint glow from the mainland.
“This’ll do,” Schlessinger said and, dropping on all fours, began to dig like a dog after a particularly tasty bone. Sand, first dry, then clumped and wet, sprayed out between his skinny legs and over Anna’s shoe tops.
A shovel would have expedited the process. Anna didn’t know if Schlessinger was unprepared, a purist, or a fanatic. She suspected the latter two.
On Cumberland Island just over a week and already Anna knew all about the marine biologist. To be more precise, she knew all the gossip. Tonight was the first time she’d actually laid eyes on the man, though the first day she’d arrived the tar-paper shack Schlessinger called home had been pointed out along with other island landmarks.
The residents of Cumberland granted Marty Schlessinger the status usually reserved for warlocks and mad scientists. In his mid-thirties, he lived in a ramshackle house he’d inherited when, five years before, his wife, a daughter of one of Cumberland’s original landowners, had been killed in a crash.
Schlessinger’s bizarre reputation was not unearned. In his wake headless turtle carcasses and the mutilated corpses of animals killed on the island’s rudimentary road system turned up with nauseating regularity.
