Lethal Expedition (Short Story)

by James M. Tabor

  “This extremophile you brought back. Does it have a name?”

  “Not a scientific name yet. We called it Bloody Mary. It’s a red, viscous material.”

  “Is it rare?”

  “It could be a totally new species. We’ll know soon.”

  “Is it very valuable?”

  “It’s most likely a primitive, prehistoric organism, Agent Luciano. It might have been living in that cave for a million years.”

  “But new antibiotics … a huge market if it works, I’d assume?”

  “A huge if,” Hallie said. “And possibly years away. But yes, new drugs could be very valuable.”

  “Thank you.” Luciano switched off the recorder.

  “So what happens now?”

  “Senior counsel review.”

  “And then?”

  “One of two recommendations. Case closed. Or referral to the U.S. attorney.”

  “And then what would happen?”

  Luciano shrugged. “Beyond my pay grade, Dr. Leland.”

  Luciano gave her a card. “My cell number is written on the back. Call me if you remember anything that might be important.” He started for the door, then stopped.

  “One last thing, Dr. Leland.”

  “Yes?”

  “Would you be willing to take a polygraph test?”

  “Polygraph?” She hesitated, but had nothing to hide. “I guess so. But why?”

  “Thank you for your time. Someone will be in touch.”

  6

  Later that morning, Hallie’s chiming cell phone woke her. The caller ID showed “Stephen Redhorse, MD.”

  “You were in the Post this morning: ‘Government Expedition Turns Tragic.’ I didn’t know you’d come back. Why didn’t you call me?” He sounded more irritated than concerned.

  “Too tired and too beat up,” she said, though those weren’t the only reasons.

  “How are you?”

  “Not so bad. Maybe a mild concussion. I should be out later today. Where are you?”

  “In the hospital. My hospital.”

  “How’s D.C. General today?”

  “The ER is insane. Cops say that the Latin Kings took a huge coke shipment from Mexico and are dealing on Crip turf. It’s a shooting war out there.”

  “Sounds like the reservation.” She regretted that immediately.

  For a moment he didn’t reply. “You know those poor Indians can’t afford AK-47s. Rusty old shotguns, more like,” he added sarcastically. “Will you take some time off?”

  “A week,” she said. “Boss’s orders.”

  “I’m surprised you can stand being out of the lab that long.”

  “I haven’t even unpacked my expedition gear. There’s plenty to do.”

  “Look, I didn’t come right over because we have so many emergency cases and I’ve been sleeping here and …”

  “Don’t apologize. People there need you more than I do.” The silence stretched, and she thought, Why is it so easy to say the wrong thing now?

  “I would like to see you, though,” he said.

  “When’s your next day off?”

  “Thursday. Always subject to change, of course.”

  “Come out to the house Thursday evening, then. We’ll have a drink and catch up.”

  ***

  Stephen Redhorse was a tall, full-blooded Oglala Sioux with obsidian eyes and a black ponytail. They had become friends at Johns Hopkins, where she was working on her doctorate in microbiology and Redhorse on his in physics. He had dropped out of that program before earning his PhD and entered George Washington University’s medical school.

  “I can do a lot more for my people with that than with a physics doctorate,” he’d told Hallie. After earning his MD, he elected to specialize in emergency medicine and spent the last two years in D.C. General Hospital’s ER, as close to a MASH unit as any American city had produced.

  After Hallie came to work in Washington, they reunited as friends and before long became lovers. They’d been seeing each other that way for nine months when, one evening over steaks at the Old Ebbitt Grill, he’d said, “I think you should meet my family.”

  He had never mentioned them, and she wasn’t really at the meet-my-parents stage. Redhorse was handsome, bright, and liked the outdoors. He did good work at one of the nation’s worst hospitals, when he could have had a posh Georgetown practice. He was mostly gentle and considerate in bed.

  But he had a temper that flashed unpredictably at waiters, headlines, sometimes at her, but most often and most venomously at the government. He cursed every branch, department, and representative with equal vitriol. Lots of people—maybe most, these days—disliked the government. But Redhorse hated it. The longer they spent together, the more often that anger flared, usually after he’d had too much to drink.

  “Where are they?”

  “The Cheyenne River reservation in South Dakota.”

  It seemed important to him, and she had never been to South Dakota, and she was ready for a few days away from work.

  ***

  A few weeks later, they flew to Bismarck and drove south through frozen farmland that looked to Hallie like sheets of rusted, buckled iron. As they entered the reservation, the road changed from paved to dirt and passed under a crude, lodgepole-pine archway to which someone had nailed a hand-painted sign:

  WELCOME TO CHEYENNE RIVER

  Poorest rezervation in the US

  Highest suacide rate

  Enjoy your stay

  What Hallie first took to be derelict shacks with cracked windows and unhinged doors were occupied houses, surrounded by piles of trash and dog shit. Despite the January cold, an inordinate number of children and teenagers were outside fighting, some for fun and more in earnest. Many adults seemed unable to walk normally.

  They passed a headless white cat frozen into the rock-hard mud, then stopped in front of a yellow trailer tiger-striped with rust. Inside, it smelled like a bad nursing home. A frail woman reclined in a brown La-Z-Boy, watching a soap opera, and seemed neither surprised nor pleased to see them. She wore a dirty red robe and pink slippers. Her wrists and ankles looked as fragile as glass to Hallie, and her face was like dried leaves.

  “This is Hallie, Mama. I wrote you letters,” Redhorse said.

  “Don’t read no letters.” She lit a fresh Marlboro from the stub of her old one without looking away from the television.

  “Well, then, this is Hallie Leland. Hallie, this is my mother, Aziel.”

  “She your woman?”

  Redhorse glanced quickly at Hallie, who shrugged. “Yes.”

  Aziel raised her glass, gulped vodka, sucked hard on her cigarette.

  “Mama, where is Francie?”

  “She go with Nelson Iron Crow.”

  “Who?”

  “The crack man.”

  They sat on a stinking green couch and Hallie asked polite questions. It was like trying to converse with the dead. Aziel grunted occasionally, but she might have been clearing her phlegmy throat.

  Redhorse kept patting his thighs and looking at walls. Finally he said, “We have to go, Mama.” He walked over and kissed her on the forehead. She reached for something, his arm or maybe her glass, but passed out before her hand found what it sought.

  Outside, a bulky man in jeans, cowboy boots, and a tight black shirt leaned against their car.

  “Remember me?”

  “No. Should I?”

  “I used to beat your skinny ass.”

  “Edward Knows-the-Moon. You were drunk a lot. We were what, twelve?”

  “Why you come back here?”

  “To see my mother.”

  Knows-the-Moon laughed. He stared at Hallie. “Lucky you,” he said. It wasn’t clear which one he was pitying.

  Driving back to the motel, Redhorse said, “Eddie did kick my ass. Then I would go and beat on some other kid. Drink, drug, fuck, and fight. Nice life.”

  ***

  They were driving back to the airport that
night when blue lights flared behind them. Redhorse pulled over, but the trooper blasted his siren anyway. They sat waiting for a long time. Looking over her shoulder, Hallie saw a match flare and a cigarette tip glow red in the cruiser.

  The trooper came finally, a tall, bony man, military-creased brown shirt, flat-brimmed campaign hat tipped low over his eyes. Redhorse kept his hands on the wheel, looking straight ahead. She saw his jaw clenching.

  “License and registration, chief.”

  Redhorse said nothing but Hallie saw his face tighten. He held up the documents between two fingers without looking at the trooper.

  “I got you at ninety-two on radar, chief. What’s your hurry?”

  “Catching a plane in Bismarck,” Redhorse said.

  The trooper looked past Redhorse at Hallie. He drew in a long breath, let it out, staring at her the whole time, and said, “Huh.” Then: “Sit tight, chief. This won’t take long.”

  The ticket was for $295—$75 for the basic violation, and ten dollars for every mile over the speed limit.

  It was another two hours to the airport. After the stop, Redhorse said, “I hate those motherfuckers. My father was a Vietnam veteran. Marine. Two tours. When I was six, he drove an F-150 into a bridge abutment at a hundred and ten.”

  “My God. Was it an accident?”

  “No. But the cops said so.”

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t waste time on rigger deaths.”

  “Rigger?”

  “Cute little contraction of ‘red’ and ‘black.’ ”

  “You don’t think it was an accident?”

  “I think he tagged that bridge on purpose.”

  “Why? To get the insurance money?”

  “To get away from his fucking life.”

  Hallie couldn’t think of an adequate reply. They rode in silence for a while. Then Redhorse spoke: “After the accident, one said, ‘Too bad we can’t train ’em to do that.’ Said it looking right at me.” He paused, looked over at her.

  “And you wonder why I hate the fucking government.”

  Day Four: Wednesday

  7

  Hallie left the hospital on Tuesday afternoon. At home she ate a platter of scrambled eggs and four slices of toast and slept for twelve hours.

  The next day at about four P.M. she knocked and waited on the front porch of Kurt Ely’s house in Gaithersburg. She had gotten his address from the phone book. It had led her to a peeling, weedy neighborhood with rusting For Sale signs leaning in many of the front yards.

  “Can I help you?” In the doorway stood a fortyish woman, short and stout, wearing jeans, a man’s white shirt with the tail out, and black clogs. Hallie had expected someone younger, prettier.

  “Robin Ely?” she asked.

  The woman frowned. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Hallie Leland. I was on the expedition with your husband. I just got out of the hospital and—”

  “He wasn’t my husband.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What exactly was it you wanted?”

  “I came by to see Kurt’s wife—Robin. Kurt mentioned her. I thought she might like to know more about the expedition than what was in the newspapers.”

  The woman’s frown faded. “That was nice of you. I’m Madeleine Taylor. Robin was my sister, married to Kurt. Would you like to come in?”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’ve been packing, and I’m ready for a break. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please, Mrs. Taylor.”

  “Call me Maddy.” They sat on stools at the breakfast bar. Hallie could see cardboard boxes and a pile of women’s clothing on the dining room table.

  “It looks like you’re helping your sister move. She must be taking Kurt’s death hard.”

  Taylor set her cup down. “My sister is dead.”

  “What? I had no idea,” Hallie said. “I am so sorry. Kurt never mentioned that. I have brothers and …” She was still tired and raw inside, and just the thought of losing a brother made her eyes fill; Taylor’s did, too, and then they were both laughing self-consciously and wiping tears off their cheeks.

  “Is that why you’re here? Retrieving her things?” Hallie asked.

  “Yes. Let me ask you something. How well did you know Kurt?”

  “I met him for the first time on the expedition,” Hallie said, thinking, How much to tell this woman? “He was a competent caver. I don’t think he liked taking direction from a woman.”

  “You were the boss?”

  “The expedition leader. I had more experience in caves than either of the others. He was nice to the third member of our team, though. Devan Halsted was younger and less experienced.”

  “He wanted something.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Forget it.” Taylor moved the conversation back to Hallie, who talked about her brothers, and her job at CDC, and how she had ended up exploring supercaves. Taylor offered more coffee.

  Hallie said, “This must be very difficult for you. First losing Robin, and now Kurt.”

  “Not really.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Hallie, I’m not from Washington. Baltimore born and raised. We don’t mince words. I saw through Kurt from the get-go. I told Robby, I said, this man is ten miles of trouble and slick as goose shit. Do not marry him.”

  “Don’t misunderstand this, but how did you know that?”

  Taylor chuckled sourly. “Like sister, like sister. I spent some years with the same kind of shit heel. A broken nose and arm finally helped me see the light.”

  “But your sister went with him anyway?”

  “Oh, he could be utterly charming. I’ll give him that. A skill sociopaths share, apparently. Ted Bundy and all. The bastard started playing around six months after the wedding. Waitresses, stews, pole dancers, whatever fresh meat he could get his hands on.”

  “How long were they married?”

  “Four years. Six months ago, Robby finally told me the whole story.” Taylor closed her eyes, breathed deeply. “Some of it was shocking.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “He wasn’t just playing around. Kurt was sick. He made Robin do things.” Taylor described a couple that turned Hallie’s stomach. “Sometimes he hurt her.” Taylor looked away, and Hallie knew that she was debating whether to say more. She looked back. “Robin was not a strong person. Easily influenced. I think that’s why he married her.”

  “That’s terrible, Maddy. It must have been awful for you, too.”

  “My little sister. I said, ‘Robby, you should talk to the police. Those things he does.’ ”

  “Did she?”

  “No. I think she was afraid.”

  “You said that he must have wanted something from Devan.”

  “Sex, probably.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “He played around with men, too. Can you imagine?”

  “Oh.” So Ely had told the truth in his note. Or some of it, anyway.

  Taylor finished the coffee, looked at her watch. “The reason I’m here: after Robin died, I wanted to pick up some stuff. Things from our family, pictures, old jewelry, you know.”

  Hallie nodded.

  “The bastard wouldn’t let me have anything. Wouldn’t even let me in.”

  “How did you get in, then?”

  “Robby kept a spare key under a flowerpot out back.”

  The conversation ebbed. Hallie thought it was time to leave, but remembered something. “You said Kurt was, well, weird. Did it go beyond his marriage?”

  Taylor sighed. “He had a thing about the government.”

  “What kind of thing?”

  “Like a Timothy McVeigh kind of thing.”

  Hallie’s gut clenched. “What?”

  “That’s probably exaggerating. But he hated the government.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I know what Robby told me. Supposedly, his father got wounded in Vietnam but couldn’t get disability from the army.�
�

  “Why?”

  Maddy thought about that. “My guess? He was faking, if he was like Kurt. But then, since when did the government need a reason to fuck over somebody?”

  “What happened to him?”

  “He had a ratty apartment in Philly. Didn’t call for a while, so Kurt went up there. The old man had been dead on the floor for a week. Starved to death, apparently.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Kurt was never a model of mental health, but that put him into a real bad space.”

  “What did he do?”

  “The usual stuff. Letters to bigwigs, newspapers, 60 Minutes. Tried seeing people, too.”

  “Nothing happened?”

  “He got arrested for refusing to leave a senator’s office. After that he got worse. Robby said he started collecting diagrams of subway stations, sewer system maps, power plants.”

  “Was he planning some kind of attack?”

  “I wouldn’t have put it past him.”

  “But somebody would have picked up on a government scientist acting like that.”

  “You think? It took them, what, three years to get that anthrax scientist guy in D.C. And they still got the wrong man. Which they only figured out after he killed himself. You think they were having meetings about the fact that Kurt had some blueprints on his wall?”

  ***

  The two women walked to the door and stepped into blue evening. Only a few windows on the street glowed yellow. The streetlight in front of Ely’s house was out. A cat was whining, and Hallie caught a whiff of some rotting thing. She started to leave, then stopped and turned.

  “Maddy, if you don’t mind my asking, how did Robin die?”

  “I don’t mind. You’re a nice person, Hallie. She killed herself.”

  “What?”

  “That bastard drove her to it. Robin hung herself right here in the basement.”

  8

  Returning from her meeting with Maddy Taylor, Hallie stepped into her house and stopped. It took her one second to identify the stink—excrement—and one more to spot its source. Somebody had defecated in the middle of her small living room.

  In the kitchen, drawers had been pulled out, their contents dumped. Her bedroom had been ransacked, too—dresser emptied, mattress turned over, jewelry box smashed, its contents scattered on the floor. Most of it was costume stuff, but two pieces were precious to her. One was her great-grandfather’s gold watch chain and fob. The other was the Distinguished Service Cross her father had won in Vietnam. The medal itself was bronze and of little value, but to her its worth was immeasurable.