Running folded his arms across his chest. “What for?”
“Because I plan to open an investigation.”
“Into what?”
I was beginning to believe Running had an ulterior motive—to drive me crazy. “What do you think? Sows are obviously being killed! I intend to find out why it’s happening, and who’s behind it.”
I didn’t give Running the opportunity to object, but hopped into the Ford, and turned on the engine. Hal grabbed his knapsack and hastily jumped in the passenger side. Not a word was spoken until we hit the main road.
“That went well, I think,” Hal offered. “Don’t you agree?”
I answered with a roll of my eyes.
Four
Daylight had barely dragged itself through my window when something soft and silky brushed against my skin.
Purrrrrrrrr!
Hal’s cat, Casanova, jumped up and joined me in bed, where he rubbed his head beneath my chin. Then he curled up on the pillow and emitted a loud meow, demanding to be petted.
Like master, like kitty. Stretching, I then rolled out of bed.
After jumping in the shower, I dried off and got dressed, all to an attentive audience of one. If I had a man half as interested in my every move as this cat, I wouldn’t be spending my nights alone.
Having finished with my morning toilette, I hightailed it downstairs to the kitchen.
Hmm. Figaro tuna or Friskies liver and chicken for breakfast? I began my daily search-and-rescue mission through the kitchen drawers, wondering why Hal couldn’t ever keep anything in the same damn place. Finally finding the opener, I opened the Figaro tuna and spooned it into a bowl. Then I placed it in front of him and held my breath. Casanova barely deigned to take a whiff before bestowing a disdainful glance upon me and sauntering out of the room.
Looking around, I couldn’t say that I much blamed him. I’d thought I was a lousy housekeeper before meeting Hal Ornish. Dishes were piled precariously in the sink, and samples of his weekly menu were hardened on top of the stove. Even I wouldn’t go in the refrigerator, afraid of what I might find there. I was close to forking over the money to hire a housekeeper.
As if that weren’t enough, a thunderous medley of snorts and snores shook the house. Hal was in fine form this morning. A newly opened bottle of Wild Turkey sat on the counter alongside a partially emptied glass. I was beginning to understand why it had been so easy for me to get a year-long lease here.
I grabbed my keys and was about to leave when Casanova flounced back into the room. Planting himself in front of the door, he blocked my exit.
“Okay, you little fur ball. But this is the only serving that you’re getting today. I’m beginning to think you’re addicted.”
I unearthed a new box of Tender Vittles, tore open a vacuum-sealed packet, and poured its contents into a dish.
Casanova played the true gourmand by first sniffing the offering, and then flipping a nugget onto the floor.
“Enjoy your smorgasbord,” I said and slipped out the door.
I’d taken up residence in the university section of Missoula, with its big trees and oh-so-proper houses. It wasn’t that I felt particularly respectable at this point in my life; Ornish’s rent had just been too cheap to turn down. Besides, I liked the area. The University was why Missoula had been nicknamed “the Berkeley of the Rockies.” The town was a liberal bastion in a sea of conservatives. More Birkenstocks than cowboy boots were worn by its residents, who could best be described as an interesting array of fruits and nuts.
I walked to where my Ford was parked, and roundly proceeded to curse out the local cops. Damn, damn, damn! Tucked against my windshield was yet another lousy parking ticket. Snatching it off, I shoved it inside the glove box where it could schmooze with its other relatives. I understood that the street had to be swept, but why couldn’t they just clean around me?
I turned onto Madison and crossed the bridge over the Clark Fork River, noting the usual brown schmutz that hung in the air. The dingy inversion, a by-product of exhaust from cars, pulp mills, and woodburning stoves, pressed down upon the town like the thin skin that mysteriously forms on chocolate pudding. Swinging left onto Broadway, I headed for my usual breakfast spot, the Oxford Saloon on Higgins Street.
A rundown 24/7 bar, the place has been around nearly as long as Missoula itself. There seemed little doubt that the joint still abided by the same outdated health codes. But if anyone ever dared mess with the Ox, they’d have found themselves tarred, feathered, and run out of town on the local rail. At six-thirty A.M., the place was packed with scruffy-looking cowboys, along with an assemblage of down-and-out derelicts. By eight A.M. the bar was in full swing. The result was a Western version of Hickey’s skid row saloon from O’Neill’s The Iceman Cometh. Except this dive had a little something extra—an enormous bison head hanging on its wall.
Contributing to the atmosphere was the ching, ching, ching of keno machines, which provided just the right amount of background noise. Surprisingly, a collection of rifles remained intact over the bar—especially when one considered the clientele who patronized the place. I had yet to figure out exactly what it was about the Ox that made it so special, but whatever it was, I always felt completely at home.
Abunch of black cowboy hats turned in my direction as I entered. As usual, I paid them no heed. Hopping onto my regular seat, I passed up the house special of brains and eggs, opting for a cup of oil-slicked coffee, a side of partially cooked bacon, and a plate of greasy hash browns. Mmm, mmm, mmm. What better way to start off the day than by loading up on carbohydrates, nitrates, and grease?
The bartender, Jonesy, filled my cup with lukewarm coffee. I topped it off with a dollop of room temperature milk. The pale liquid tenaciously floated on the surface rather than deign to mix in with the tepid brew.
“You want some gravy over those hash browns?” Jonesy asked as he placed a plate of artery-clogging calories before me.
“What? And wreck my diet? Don’t be silly.” I picked up a questionable-looking fork and dug in, taking comfort in the knowledge that my stomach was about to be well coated.
Jonesy poured himself a cup of joe. Then he pulled a couple of aspirin from his pocket, threw back his head, and downed them. It didn’t require the keen observation skills of a detective to conclude the guy was hungover. Even the tattooed crescent moon on his arm appeared slightly askew, as if it had also been on a bender.
“So, how was your weekend?” I genially inquired.
“Rough,” Jonesy admitted, and began to suck on a Marlboro. “I spent it running the trapline all the way from here up to the Blackfeet rez.”
“The trapline?” I discarded a slice of bacon that had barely kissed the griddle.
“That’s what I call hitting an entire string of bars. I like to see what all the other joints are up to. It helps give me new ideas for keeping my customers happy.”
I took a gander at the bleary-eyed crew. They were so happy, they could barely keep their butts from sliding off the stools.
“I don’t know, Jonesy. This gang looks pretty content. I don’t think you have to worry too much about stocking up on Citron Absolute or putting out a bunch of fancy hor d’oeuvres.”
“Maybe not. But I still consider it part of my job to get out there and check up on what’s going on.”
What it sounded like was a good excuse to guzzle all the booze that he could and charge it to the Ox as a business expense.
“Actually, you should be glad that I was out running the line this weekend. I came across something that I think will interest you.”
“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I turned the ketchup bottle over and pounded on the bottom. Congealed red paste plopped out.
“It was at the last place I landed, just east of the rez. Some little tutti-frutti was dancing up on the bar.”
Jonesy’s eyes grew blurry, as though the tutti-frutti was still dancing up a storm in his memory.
“Thanks, Jonesy, but Mel Gibs
on’s more my type.”
That snapped Jonesy back to reality. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to space out on you, but the babe was really hot.”
Talk about your ego boosts. Maybe it was time I had my breakfast with a different sort of crowd.
“It was what the babe was wearing. Not that she was dressed in all that much.” He chuckled at the memory while pouring me a refill, most of which landed in my saucer. “Mostly she had on this big Indian headdress that I think was made outta eagle feathers.”
Now I remembered why I ate at this place. The joint was a magnet for some of the best information around. Eagle feathers can be owned only by Native Americans, and then purely for ceremonial purposes. Any other use is illegal.
“Do you recall the name of the bar?”
“Sure do; Big Bertha’s Wildlife Sanctuary.”
How apropos. “I take it the place lives up to its name?”
“You betcha!” Jonesy heartily acknowledged.
I gave him a healthy tip.
“Thanks. Just do me a favor. Get me the babe’s name and number, in case she ends up being fired. Maybe I can convince the boss to introduce live entertainment here at the Ox. See what I mean about doing your homework?” Jonesy grinned.
I had to admit, he was more clever than I would’ve suspected.
“Oh, by the way, I should probably tell you that Big Bertha’s is also where the local militia hangs out.”
Naturally. After all, this was Montana. One would have to be naïve to assume that investigating anything here would be easy.
I made a mental note to pop into Big Bertha’s on my way back to the rez tonight. After paying my bill, I headed over to the office for a meeting with my new boss, Hank Turner, who was driving clear across the state from Billings. It was a toss-up as to whether I felt flattered or insulted. On the one hand, he was squeezing this visit into an already busy schedule. On the other, he apparently felt it was necessary to check up on me.
I arrived to find Hank Turner was already there. He sat slumped behind my desk looking like a vulture patiently waiting for a carcass on which to nosh. His broad shoulders were hunched so far forward that they resembled a pair of folded wings, while his chest sagged on top of a generous paunch. Heavy saddlebags beneath his eyes attested to the fact that Turner wasn’t getting much sleep these days. That made sense, considering he was in charge of the fourth-largest state in the Union and had only two agents at his disposal. Turner’s thinning hair and pasty complexion made him look like a senior citizen, though the guy was only fifty-two years old. I feared that I might be looking at my own future.
Turner must have arrived at the crack of dawn, judging by the nearly empty coffeepot. I grabbed the can of Folgers, planning to brew some more. Damn! He’d used up the last of the grounds. No problem; I’d just apply a nifty little trick I’d learned from my old boss, Charlie Hickok.
I picked up the mug I’d inherited from my predecessor. White on the outside, its interior was as brown as dry Sahara mud. My guess was that it hadn’t been cleaned since 1989. Add a little warm water, stir, and I instantly had myself a killer cup of reconstituted java.
“Nice mug,” Turner dryly noted.
Carolton’s taste definitely ran toward the risqué; the cup’s exterior was covered with line drawings of bunnies mating in a variety of sexual positions.
“Thanks. I believe it’s the Kama Sutra of rabbits.” What the hell. Maybe it would help to enhance my reputation within the Service. At this point, there wasn’t much that could make it any worse.
Turner didn’t crack a smile. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately?”
I first gave him the usual rundown of hunting violations and crank calls. “And I kicked around the Blackfeet reservation yesterday. I wanted to check out the area where Al Carolton had died.”
Turner cocked his head and blinked his tired eyes at me once. “Did you manage to find something that no one else has been able to, so far?” he queried, his voice tinged with sarcasm.
I took a deep breath, not wanting to start off on the wrong foot in my new field station. “Do you already have some sort of problem with me that I should know about?”
The corners of Turner’s mouth pulled down in dissatisfaction. “I just don’t want you to run around and waste time—so let’s get something straight right off. Here in Montana, you’re basically sticking your finger in the dyke and hoping the damn thing won’t burst. You’ve got to pick the worst crimes to work on and let the rest slide by.”
What he said made perfect sense. But there were still a few niggling questions that demanded an answer.
“I’m just curious as to why Carolton would have carried a rifle with him, yet never used it if he were being attacked by a bear.”
“That just goes to show how little you know about the critter, Porter. Say Agent Carolton happened to stumble upon a sow while she was feeding, or with her cubs. Unless he’d had his rifle raised, aimed, and ready to fire, she’d have been on him before he could even pull the trigger. No matter how much time you think you’ve got, you never have half as much as you need. At forty-four miles per hour, a bear will knock you down in a split second. You’re talking about an animal that runs nearly as fast as a greyhound and can beat the world’s swiftest human by thirty-five yards in a hundred-yard dash. Does that help to answer your question?”
I remembered that Turner and Carolton had been close friends, and understood why Turner wasn’t thrilled with my being here. Still, the information that I’d unearthed on the rez yesterday easily fell into his worst-crimes category.
“Well, the trip up there wasn’t a total waste. I bumped into the tribal game officer, Matthew Running, and learned that a number of grizzly sows have been killed since early spring, none of which were reported to Fish and Wildlife.”
I expected Turner to be enthusiastic about my discovery. Instead, he remained oddly silent.
“I’d like to open an investigation since it involves endangered species.”
“On the rez?” Turner disdainfully remarked. “Good luck.”
It wasn’t the reaction I’d hoped for. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Turner hunkered down even further in the chair. “For argument’s sake, let’s say it’s a Blackfeet Indian who’s running around killing these grizzlies. Maybe he’s selling the hides and claws to make a few extra bucks. Or maybe he just doesn’t like the damn things and this is his way of telling us feds to go shove it. Hell, for all we know, it could be the tribal game officer himself. In any case, nobody on the rez is going to help you out on this. And you know why not? It’s because all the Blackfeet are related in some way, and the one thing you don’t do is to rat out your family. You with me so far?”
I nodded.
“Now, on the other hand, let’s say it’s a white guy that’s sneaking onto the rez and whacking bears. Even better, you actually wind up catching him. Zippitty doo dah! Ain’t life grand! Now we’ve got ourselves a case. That is, unless his lawyer has half a brain and demands a jury trial. Then we’re left flapping bare-assed in the wind, ’cause I can tell you right now, there ain’t no jury in Montana that’s ever gonna convict the mope and send him off to jail. They’ll think, he may be a poacher, but he’s our poacher. In addition, at least one juror in a group of twelve fools will conclude, ‘I don’t like the government and I like grizzly bears even less.’ Then you’ve got yourself a hung jury, and the poacher’s acquitted. Either way, we’re dead meat.”
The cold coffee tasted bitter in my mouth. According to Turner, there was no hope at all—in which case, I might as well give up my badge and walk. I’d be damned if I’d do that!
“How about if the perp turns out to be Native American and I’m the one who catches him?” I countered.
Turner’s eyes sank so deep, they came to rest on top of his saddlebags. “Well now, wouldn’t that just be dandy? Then we can relive Custer’s Last Stand all over again.” He sighed and shook his head. “Listen, or
ders from the Puzzle Palace in D.C. are that we’re to be particularly sensitive when it comes to cases that take place on the rez. So, even if someone were to be prosecuted and we miraculously won, the guy would wind up with suspended jail time and a fine that he’d never bother to pay.”
I was well acquainted with such scenarios, having dealt with them many times myself. The head honchos seemed to take perverse pleasure in throwing logs in front of agents’ cases and making our jobs all the more difficult. As the sign Carolton had nailed above the office door said, COWS MAY COME AND COWS MAY GO. BUT THE BULL IN THIS PLACE GOES ON FOREVER.
“Is that all you’ve got for me?” Turner questioned.
I felt like David Copperfield trying to pull a rabbit out of a hat as I rummaged around in my mental file cabinet. Then I remembered the tip I’d received this morning.
“Well, I did hear about an eagle feather headdress that’s being worn by an exotic dancer. Somebody must have sold it to her illegally.”
Hank Turner perked right up. “Now that’s more like it! There’s a case we can sink our teeth into that’ll give us some bang for our buck. A dead grizzly’s only worth a misdemeanor, but selling eagle feathers will rack up a felony.”
Turner was right about that. The idiot who’d sold the eagle headdress could find himself not only in jail, but prohibited from owning a firearm, leaving the country, or voting for the rest of his natural life. All because the protection of eagles and grizzlies fell under two completely separate congressional acts. The Endangered Species Act had been purposely written so that it had a lot more bark than actual bite.
“Where was the headdress spotted?”
I wondered which Turner was more interested in—the eagle feathers or the dancer. “The girl works at a bar up near the Blackfeet rez. Someplace where the local militia hangs out.”
Turner stared at me a moment and then burst into laughter. “You’ve gotta love those bozos back in D.C. Not only does Malfunction Junction send me a woman, but a New Yorker to boot. What the hell did you do to get their dander up?”
A Killing Season Page 4
