The pick-up hit a pot hole and the chassis shook with the fury of a gale force wind as I desperately fought to stay on the road. Then I saw the black top ahead. I sped out the gate and over the cattleguard so fast that my teeth rattled. I glanced back at the Suburban, but it was no longer on top of me. It had turned around just short of the gate, apparently believing I’d been taught a lesson.
My rage matched the roar of my pick-up’s engine. Oh, no you don’t! No anonymous menace was going to get the better of me. I slammed on the brakes and reversed direction as my Ford let out an astonished screech. Then my F-150 gleefully charged into action.
It wasn’t long before I was on the Suburban’s rear end. My Ford zipped in and out, taking calculated nips at his bumper, persistent as a mosquito drawing blood. I laughed as I caught sight of the sticker plastered on the tailgate: Gun Control Means Using Both Hands. Apparently I’d lassoed myself a real macho cowboy.
I kept up the role of tormentor, buzzing close behind, until the second gate came into sight. Only then did I finally slow down, knowing the Suburban would have to slam on its brakes and come to a halt.
I had a fast decision to make. I could pull my .38, or opt for something with more fire power. I swiftly reached back and slid the mini-14 rifle out of its case behind me. Then I stopped the pick-up and jumped out to stand in shooting position, the gun steady in both hands, my right arm locked and my index finger curled against the trigger. I decided my new friend was right: it really is best to practice gun control.
The Suburban’s car door swung open and out sprang my assailant, with his own bolt action rifle.
“Stop where you are! I’m a federal agent.” That little tidbit would either make him think twice, or shoot me on the spot.
My antagonist remained standing where he was, his rifle aimed at my heart. “Prove it,” he tartly commanded.
“Lower your rifle and I’ll get out my badge,” I retorted.
“And let you take a shot at me? What do you think I am, some kind of fool?”
We continued to glare at each other in a wild West stand-off.
“Why don’t we both lower our rifles for a moment?” I suggested.
Mr. Macho looked at me and cracked a “screw you” smile. “Okay. But we’ve gotta do it on the count of three.”
Something told me this was the kind of guy that would cheat. I noticed his hands were quivering. In fact, so was his entire body. Either he was coming down off a fix, or had the shakes due to a drinking problem. Either way, he wasn’t dealing with a full deck.
“Forget it. You were the one trying to kill me, remember? Put your rifle down right now, or I’ll blow your damned head off.”
My broken-down cowboy must have gathered I meant it. He hesitated only a second, then dropped the rifle to his side.
“All the way to the ground,” I instructed, visibly tightening my grip on the trigger.
Mr. Macho did as he was told. Then I reached inside my pocket, pulled out my badge, and threw it to him.
“My, my, my,” he chuckled and flashed a grin to reveal a set of dingy teeth. “You and me got something in common.”
“Yeah? What’s that?” I asked.
“I used to be with Fish and Wildlife, too,” he responded.
I looked at the bonzai buckaroo. The man’s body was thin as a split rail fence. Bloodshot eyes stared out from beneath a beat-up cowboy hat. He reached in his shirt pocket, pulled out a ragged cigarette, and struck a match against the bottom of his boot. I put my rifle away, and retrieved my badge.
“Nice boots,” I remarked. The leather was embellished with the initials, “J.L. You wouldn’t happen to be Johnny Lambert by any chance, would you?”
The guy took a drag on his cigarette. “How’d you know?” he asked, looking impressed.
“Let’s just say your reputation precedes you,” I responded.
“Oh, that,” he remarked. “A guy’s got to make a living. Besides, it was a set-up.”
Why do the guilty always come up with the same excuse?
“Do you want to explain why you were trying to kill me?” I inquired.
“Oh, come on,” Johnny chuckled. “That was just a little tickle-and-chase. You’re not gonna hold that against me, are you?”
I was tempted to pull my .38 revolver and do a little tickle-and-chase of my own. “You haven’t answered my question.”
“I do believe there’s a sign outside warning what happens to trespassers. Since you’re on private property, maybe you’d like to explain what you’re doing here,” he retorted, his eyes suddenly hard.
Either Johnny Lambert was schizophrenic, or something had suddenly made him feel pretty sure of himself.
“F.U. Krabbs told me about the ranch, so I decided to come by and check it out,” I answered.
“Oh, yeah? And did he know you were showing up here today?” Johnny Lambert demanded.
“Why should he care?” I parried. “After all, the ranch is now owned by Southwest Heritage Trust.”
Johnny Lambert stared blankly, as though I’d spoken gibberish.
“Or didn’t you know that?” I challenged. “I assume they’re the people issuing you a paycheck these days.”
His complexion turned deep red. “Of course I know who they are,” he blustered. “It’s just that Mr. Krabbs still likes to come and visit the ranch from time to time. When you mentioned his name, I figured he must be meeting you here.”
“Nope. But he did mention you’d be happy to show me around. So, how about it?” I bluffed.
“Mr. Krabbs told you that?” he asked suspiciously.
I nodded my head. “Why? Is there something wrong?”
“Yeah,” Johnny Lambert retorted. “For one thing, he doesn’t own the land anymore. Remember? I take my orders from other people these days.”
“I understand that Southwest Heritage Trust is an environmental group. This is a land trust, isn’t it?” I inquired.
“So what? They’re still particular about who they allow on the Flying A.”
“And why is that?” I shot back.
Johnny Lambert’s cigarette had burned past the filter, and was now an angry stub in his fingertips. Either he was big into pain, or had weighty things on his mind. He finally reacted with a start, dropping the butt and grinding it beneath his heel. “It’s ’cause folks in these parts aren’t too crazy about conservation groups. You never know when some nut might decide to come out here and try something funny.”
“That’s true. Except I’m not just anyone: I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. You remember us; we’re the good guys. Besides, you’re the ranch manager here, aren’t you? That should give you some clout.”
Johnny Lambert flashed another screw you smile at me. “Fish and Wildlife must have been looking for a pushy bitch when they hired you.”
“And they got what they wanted. So why don’t you unlock the gate and take me for a tour of the grounds?” I suggested.
Johnny Lambert opened the passenger door of his Suburban and waved me inside, then walked over to the alarm pad and punched in the access code. The gate silently swung open and we drove on through.
The Flying A looked like every other ranch in New Mexico, pucker dry and bare. The only color came from a wiry stand of ocotillo. Tiny red blossoms covered the tips of the plant’s long green stems, but the flowers weren’t merely decorative. Their blooms cleverly camouflaged a series of prickly sharp spines running along the edge of each deadly stalk.
A gray loggerhead shrike flew down and gingerly perched on one of the plant’s branches. It looked like a feathered bandito, with a wide slash of black covering its face. Tightly gripped in the marauder’s sharply hooked beak lay a small brown mouse, its limbs quivering.
My head knows that nature is no sweet fantasy, but my soul still recoils when the natural order of things turns harsh.
My pulse pounded in rhythm with the rodent’s rapidly beating heart as though I, too, felt a trap closing
inexorably around me. The bird lifted its head high, as victorious as an Aztec warrior presenting a sacrificial offering to the gods. Then the shrike thrust down hard, brutally impaling its tiny victim on one of the plant’s razor-edged spikes.
A premonitory tremor ran through me as I remembered the shrike’s nickname: the butcher bird. I tore my eyes from the sight and focused on the motionless clouds whose bellies were tinged pink, reflecting the fiery desert floor. Cows lazily grazed on sparse clumps of grass, in sharp contrast to the violence only a moment before. I took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. The desert’s exposed soul was not a romantic sight.
A large mesa loomed up ahead. The butte gleamed like a mirage in the hazy heat, its top as flat as a drill sergeant’s closely cropped haircut. I caught sight of a pole barn butting up against its front as we drew close, along with a corral containing a goodly number of horses. We drove to the mesa’s opposite end, where a large, circular water tank proved to be the major draw for the area’s livestock. A green GMC pick-up was heading toward us.
“Is that Dr. Pierpont?” I asked, hoping to bump into my mystery man.
“Who?” Johnny Lambert responded, with all the guilelessness of a mangy coyote.
“You know, the scientist who’s cloning the Krabbs dog here at the Flying A,” I said, wishing I had an ocotillo plant handy to prod some sense into him.
“Oh. You know about that,” Lambert responded with a chuckle. “Don’t that beat all? Have you ever heard of such bullshit? Hell, when I think of what I could do with three million bucks.” He shook his head in mournful contemplation.
I doubted that helping to save the world was at the top of his list.
“So, is that Pierpont?” I persisted. I rolled down the car window and was smacked in the face with a gust of hot air, followed by a light shake-and-bake coating of manure-tinged dust.
“No way,” Johnny Lambert commented with a contemptuous sniff. “Pierpont doesn’t believe in mixing with us common folk.”
Lambert appeared to be right; the GMC that sidled up alongside us held a couple of cowboys.
“Who you got there with you, Johnny?” asked the driver.
He didn’t appear to leave his pick-up very much; the man’s clothes were as clean and freshly pressed as a city slicker’s duds. His partner had a more rough and tumble look. A five o’clock shadow covered the lower portion of his face, though it was only seven o’clock in the morning.
“This here’s the new Fish and Wildlife agent, Rachel Porter,” Johnny replied. “She stopped by and wanted a quick look around, so I’m giving her the five-cent tour. That okay with you boys?”
“Sure. No problem,” Mr. Clean responded with a disquieting smile. “It’s just that you know we like to be kept informed of what’s going on at all times.” Though the words were softly spoken, there was no question that Johnny Lambert was being reprimanded.
The spic-and-span cowboy turned his attention to me. “We prefer visits to be by appointment only, ma’am.”
“Actually, I’m a special agent. Not a ma’am, if you don’t mind,” I corrected him. “And why all the formality with appointments? Isn’t that being just a bit paranoid?”
His partner opened his mouth to speak, but Mr. Clean held up a hand and stopped him. “I guess you haven’t heard about the philosophical disagreement that’s going on in these parts. There are a lot of development folks who’d rather be raking in big money by building second-home communities than leaving the range wild and free.” Mr. Clean gazed out over the horizon, as if he were posing for a TV commercial. “But at Southwest Heritage Trust, we’re dedicated to making sure the land will be used in perpetuity for ranching. By placing the Flying A in our trust, Mr. Krabbs knows it will never be open to public use.”
“I’m all for that. But what’s the problem with my stopping by unannounced?” I questioned.
Mr. Clean appeared annoyed that I wasn’t quite getting it. “A group of locals already suspect that we’re taking over the land in a secret plot to do away with grazing. Having you show up here adds to the perception that we’re trying to stop development because of some three-legged, six-eyed tadpole.”
“So you think my presence will give the Trust a bad reputation?” I inquired dubiously.
“You got it,” replied his partner in a voice as cold as a New England winter.
“I’d still like to finish my tour. Or should I find a reason to get a warrant in order to do that?” I pleasantly inquired.
“No, go right ahead, Agent Porter. Just be sure and call the next time you want to come by.” Mr. Clean smiled and tipped the brim of his hat in farewell.
I caught sight of two Uzis hanging on the gun rack attached to the pick-up’s rear window as it headed away from us. So much for tradition of Winchester rifles.
“I take it those were your employers?” I asked.
“Yeah. Two of ’em, anyway,” Lambert drawled.
“How many people are involved with running the Trust?” I inquired.
“Who the hell knows?” he responded. “Too damn many of them. I miss the days when it was just F.U. and me out here on the range. Now, there’s a guy who knows how to have fun.”
I’m not sure Lizzie would have agreed with him.
The next highlight on our tour was a cluster of motor homes, which gave the area the appearance of a trailer park.
“Are those Pierpont’s quarters?” Maybe he lived in one and did his research in the others.
“No. That’s housing supplied by Southwest Heritage for some of its workers,” Johnny Lambert replied.
I counted twenty trailers in all. “Isn’t it unusual for a ranch to house so many of its employees on the grounds?”
“Southwest likes to keep everyone happy,” Lambert remarked.
Or keep them all close to the vest. “So, how many other scientists are working on this cloning project for F.U.?” I casually inquired.
He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “For a Fish and Wildlife agent, you sure have a hell of a lot of questions that have nothing to do with wildlife. If you want an answer to that one, why don’t you go to the source and ask Pierpont?”
“Great idea,” I agreed. “What say we head on over and see him. He told me to stop by whenever I was around.”
Lambert responded with a chuckle. “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter, Porter. I have specific instructions that he’s not to be bothered by anyone.”
“But we’re good friends,” I insisted. “I’m certain he wouldn’t mind just this once.”
“Maybe you don’t care if my ass gets fried, but I sure as hell do. If you’re so friendly with the guy, make your own arrangements to meet him. I plan to keep this job,” Lambert firmly responded.
So far, my trip to the Flying A was turning out to be pretty much of a bust. That is, until I spotted a cherry red Jeep Cherokee bouncing along not far from us. I didn’t need binoculars to identify its driver; the sun glinting off a copper colored Afro revealed that Pierpont was behind the wheel.
I hollered out, waving my arms like a shipwrecked sailor in the hope of getting his attention. But Pierpont wasn’t letting on, if he noticed. I could stay sedately in my seat and let fate take its course, or grab hold of the steering wheel, plunk my foot down on top of Lambert’s, and be captain of my own destiny. I figured it was a no-brainer.
“What the hell are you doing?” Johnny Lambert sputtered as I wrestled for control of the car.
“Sorry,” I responded, veering the Suburban to the left, as I pushed hard on the accelerator. “You can blame it on Frank Sinatra.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Lambert fumed, trying to shove me away with his elbow.
I deflected the move and initiated my own elbow attack. “I’ve gotta do things my way,” I retorted.
“Goddammit, Porter! You’re out of your friggin’ mind!”
Maybe so, but I was also getting what I wanted. My leg remained firmly planted though Johnny Lambert tried to shov
e me off. It must have looked to an outsider as if I were trying to hump the guy, and I was tempted to tell him to sit back and enjoy it.
I didn’t remove my foot from off Lambert’s boot until the Cherokee loomed dangerously close. Then I slammed on the brake and we screeched to a halt just inches away from the Jeep.
Pierpont calmly sat with that eternal smile, making it hard to tell if his nerves had been rattled. His prosthetic devices remained clamped to the steering wheel, glistening like two hot silver pokers.
“Well, Agent Porter. You certainly have a unique way of making yourself known,” he remarked.
The fact that my antic hadn’t fazed the man totally impressed me.
“I happened to be in the neighborhood when I saw you driving by, and thought this might be the perfect time for a visit. I know Lizzie would love for me to report back on how well your work is progressing,” I suggested with a smile.
Evidently my wattage wasn’t up to snuff. Pierpont’s stare hardened behind his bottle lens glasses.
“I don’t know how you found my lab, but as I told you, the work I do is very delicate. You’d be wise to stay out of my business.” Pierpont’s eyes next shifted to Johnny Lambert. “I’m afraid I’ll have to report this to your superiors.”
Pierpont took off, his Afro springing up and down like Ten-Karat with a bad perm.
“Yeah, I can see what good friends the two of you are,” Johnny Lambert commented sourly.
“I must have caught him on a bad day,” I absentmindedly replied, wondering how F.U. could be so blind to the scam going on.
“You know what’s scary about you, Porter?” Lambert asked, turning to drive back.
I shook my head, curious as to how a former agent would sum up my character.
“The fact that you honestly believe your mission is so important, you’ll go to any lengths to do it.”
I remained silent, knowing what he said was true. I waited until Lambert deposited me at my pick-up to ask him the question which had been preying on my mind ever since our chase.
“By the way, how is it that you know Timmy Tom Tyler?” I inquired.
Border Prey Page 13
