Border Prey

by Jessica Speart

  I felt as if I were being bombarded with too much information. “Hold on a second! What I’m trying to figure out is if Pierpont could possibly be hooked up with Panfauna Associates, and if so, why. From what I understand, there’s an overabundance of chimps in research labs these days. Isn’t that correct?” I inquired.

  Kitrell nodded his head vigorously. “Uh huh. But the labs you’re referring to are those overseen by government agencies, where rules and regulations apply. All research conducted at universities and facilities which receive federal or state government grants has a large degree of transparency. The Freedom of Information Act allows us, as taxpayers, to see what testing our money is funding. The problem lies with private biotech companies. There’s no way for us to know what kind of secret research is going on inside those places. It’s these upstart companies that have trouble getting hold of chimps.”

  Kitrell had now gone over my head, and was soaring into the proverbial stratosphere.

  “If you expect me to follow along, you’re going to have to explain this a little better,” I told him.

  “Here’s the problem in a nutshell: there’s a moral dilemma in this country as to whether chimps should be used for medical experimentation. Because of this, labs funded by the government are under strict supervision regarding what kind of research can and cannot be performed. However, if one of these private companies decides to do some sort of secret testing, there’s no public watchdog to oversee what’s going on. But they still face one enormous obstacle: no legitimate lab will rent, or sell, their chimps to a facility without knowing what type of experiments will be done. So, these private companies have to hunt around to get hold of their own personal supply of primates. And that’s where the trouble begins.”

  Grizzly held up a finger the size of a small tree root. “First off, chimps cost between thirty-five to forty grand apiece. So a private company has to come up with mucho moolah to establish even a small colony of research chimps. They might be lucky enough to grab one or two primates from a university that’s lost its funding. Other than that, what do you suppose is the best way around the problem?”

  I promptly supplied the most logical answer. “To buy smuggled chimps, of course.”

  Kitrell flashed a stern smile, his teeth gleaming in the last of the brooding light. “You betcha. Probably with the help of some little mom and pop operation situated along the Tex—Mex border. Maybe one that does a quick turnover, laundering their primates with the claim that they’re being leased to the entertainment trade.” Dan held up a second stocky finger. “In addition, there’s a shortage of young chimps who aren’t infected with some disease as a result of testing done at a very young age. By smuggling chimps in, unscrupulous labs get their primates cheap and clean, all in one fell swoop.”

  “And that’s where Panfauna Associates comes in,” I murmured, my thoughts clicking together in mental Morse code. “Panfauna’s probably pipelining chimpanzees from Africa into Spain, and then flying them into Juarez, Mexico. After that, they’re trucked in along the border, all at a bargain price. What do you think?” My pulse pounded to the beat of a van’s tires transporting living cargo more precious than gold.

  Kitrell no longer looked like an angry prophet, but a man rip-roaring and ready for the adventure of a life-time. “What I think is, if this isn’t a smoking gun, we have one hell of a hot pistol.”

  Another piece of the puzzle fell into place as my memory pulled the handle on my mental slot machine. Click, click, click! Three cherries gaily lined up to reward me with a jackpot.

  “That’s it! This is what Cassandra was talking about!” I howled in elation.

  Grizzly swiftly grabbed my shoulders to stop me from falling off the rocks. “For chrissakes, Porter! Nobody’s asking you to sacrifice yourself to the gods over this. Keep your butt in place and your mind on where you are, or we’ll never get through this thing in one piece,” he gruffly admonished.

  He was right. I looked down at the sharp boulders below and my fear of heights came roaring up like a bullet train filled with screaming banshees. I quickly wriggled back until my rear-end hit a rock wall.

  “Don’t worry; you’re safe. And I think that’s about as far as you can go unless you plan to burrow into the next stone,” Kitrell teased. “Now, what were you babbling about before you almost pulled a Humpty Dumpty on me?”

  “Admiral Maynard is supposed to be receiving some sort of delivery late tonight along the border,” I revealed.

  “Where’d you hear this?” Kitrell asked.

  “I guess I’ve still got some contacts that you haven’t yet discovered,” I responded loftily.

  Grizzly pulled out a dust-bitten, wrinkled excuse for a handkerchief and waved it in surrender. Knowing the state of his laundry was worse than my own made me feel even better.

  “I’ve been getting information from F.U., Jr. and his girlfriend,” I disclosed.

  “Ah! The Texas Romeo and Juliet. Rebellious kids—don’t you just love ’em?” Kitrell gleefully rubbed his hands together. “She didn’t happen to tell you where this is supposed to be going down, did she?”

  “Somewhere along the Anapra Road. My guess is that delivery always takes place around the area where Timmy Tom was murdered, so we’ll have to arrive early and stake it out. That is, if you’re interested in coming along.”

  “Just try keeping me away.” Then Grizzly took a look around. “Unless you plan to descend in total darkness, I suggest we climb off this outcrop now. We can go to my trailer and have some dinner. By then, it should be time to head out.” He stood up, ready to take off. “And you’ll find it’s easier going down if you think of climbing as dancing to music. Just go with the flow.”

  That was a big help. I started to clamber down the rugged rock face, choosing a different route this time. Its trail was longer and more circuitous than the one I’d climbed up, but it pretty much guaranteed I’d arrive at my destination all in one piece. Even better, I found that Grizzly was right. I didn’t opt for a rhumba or fox trot, but came up with my very own form of break-dancing, sliding down on my fanny. Kitrell watched in amusement as I touched ground.

  “Here. Take this to remember your climb.” He held out a sharp, pyramid-shaped piece of granite.

  I had the feeling I’d be reminded of my adventure every time I sat down for the next week, but I took the proffered souvenir and stuck it in my pocket.

  Kitrell led the way to his trailer. Inside, he pulled out a match and lit a couple of kerosene lamps. He must have picked up on my sense of wariness. “Calm down, Porter. I’m not putting the moves on you with mood lighting. The place doesn’t have any electricity.”

  That was okay by me. Especially since I felt certain I wasn’t looking my best after hauling up and down that rock pile.

  Kitrell began to rummage through a lopsided aluminum kitchen cabinet. “Lucky thing I just stocked up. You’ve got yourself a real gourmet choice tonight: I can either fry us up some slices of Spam, or heat a can of franks ‘n’ beans.”

  His pantry was obviously no better supplied than my own. I selected the franks ‘n’ beans and Grizzly dumped the contents into a pot. When he headed outside to heat dinner over a campfire, I began to nose around.

  Besides an unmade bed and a threadbare couch, the only personal touches were framed photos scattered on every available surface. In one, Grizzly and a chimp intently signed to each other. Another showed a primate with long limbs loosely wrapped around Kitrell’s neck. I leaned in close to view a third picture, but the light was too dim. Picking up the photo, I walked over to a kerosene lantern. The lights danced along a black and white portrait of a younger Grizzly with a small chimpanzee. The infant could easily have passed as one of my childhood toys, with its jug-handle ears and flat, tiny nose. Instead, it was a living creature who gazed at Kitrell adoringly. The moment had been eternally captured as the two lightly touched lips and kissed.

  “That was Gracie as a baby.”

  Kitrell took
the photo from my hands and gently gazed at it, then put it down and walked back outside. I followed and sat by the campfire as he dished up two plates.

  “By now Gracie’s twelve years old, her hormones have kicked in, and she’s probably a hell-raising teenager.” The corners of Kitrell’s eyes crinkled in a smile, until he remembered where the chimp might be. “So what about you, Porter? Do you have any ties that bind?”

  Santou’s face flickered before me in the bonfire. I imagined I could feel his touch and my skin grew warm, as I momentarily surrendered to my own inner conflagration.

  “There was a man I planned to marry. But that changed,” I said quietly.

  “What happened?” Kitrell asked in the soft tone he’d used on the coyote.

  I shrugged. “Things didn’t work out. Sometimes life takes funny twists and turns.”

  Grizzly gave a knowing nod. “Let me guess: your job got in the way.”

  I looked at him in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

  “Why do you think I’m alone? We’re kindred souls, you and I. We’re both consumed by our work.”

  Santou’s face began to fade from the firelight. “I’m not so sure that’s something I want anymore,” I wistfully replied.

  “I don’t think people like us have a choice.” Grizzly’s voice curled around me. “It’s not only what we do; it’s who we are. That’s something that can never be compromised. Without your dreams, your spirit will shrivel up and die.”

  Kitrell was depressing the hell out of me. My dreams included having Santou back in my life.

  “Don’t worry, Porter. Your Prince Charming will come by some day,” he said consolingly.

  “I just hope I haven’t been knocked out cold by a smuggler at the time, so that Prince Charming doesn’t see me and passes right by,” I said morosely.

  “I can do you one better. Always make sure your cell phone is safely locked away in your glove compartment when hanging out with a questionable crowd,” Kitrell joked.

  The franks ‘n’ beans turned into a hard lump in the pit of my stomach. The fact that the cell phone had been shoved down Tyler’s throat hadn’t been made public yet.

  “How did you know about that little detail?” I asked.

  Grizzly’s eyes were as intense as those of the warrior whose image I’d seen on the rocks. “Juan told me about it. How else would I know?”

  I wordlessly nodded, reprimanding myself. Of course Fat Boy would have told him. What was wrong with me, anyway?

  “What about you? What do you dream of?” I asked in an attempt to thrust the warrior’s image from my mind.

  “My dream is to make sure that wild things stay wild. I don’t want to live in a world where we’re faced with one doomed species after another,” Grizzly said ardently.

  He looked up at the star-filled sky, and I followed his gaze, picking out one to wish upon.

  “Wild chimps have been on this planet a hell of a lot longer than man, and I’ll be damned if they’re going to go the way of the dodo or carrier pigeon as long as I’m around.”

  I heard the hoot of a great horned owl, and the night turned a little colder. Kitrell instinctively picked up on my reaction.

  “The problem is that people have become too separate from nature. Hell, even you’re not totally comfortable out here,” he snorted.

  “Of course I am!” I responded defensively, silently wondering what had been the giveaway.

  “Then what is it that you’re afraid of? Bogeymen in the dark?”

  The fire had begun to bank, casting menacing shadows all around. A hand clutched my arm, and I instinctively jumped.

  Grizzly let loose a low laugh. “Relax, Porter. We’re the only monsters out here. Not the animals.”

  It wasn’t the animals I feared.

  “You know what my dream is, Porter?” His words floated toward me on a wisp of smoke. “That someday soon people will stop experimenting on chimps, and let them have the life they were put on earth to live.”

  Fifteen

  The waning moon was high, its silver crescent spilling milky beams onto the rugged land below. My Ford crept along until I spotted a good-sized patch of foliage. I signaled to Kitrell, and we nosed our vehicles into the shrubs alongside the road. Neither of us spoke as we hiked in, edging tantalizingly close to the battered barbed wire that marked the New Mexico-Mexican border. I angled my watch to catch the glint of the moon. It was nearly midnight—the smuggling hour.

  I looked up from the path for a second and tripped across something lodged in the sandy track. As the ground rose up Grizzly pulled me back, helping to break my fall. I shot him a grateful glance, then looked to see what I’d tripped on. It appeared to be the body of a corpse, and it took all the self-control I had not to leap onto the man next to me. Kitrell would truly believe I was afraid of my own shadow, then.

  Get a grip! I scolded myself, and moved in for a closer gander. It was just a gnarled piece of juniper wood, its form contorted by the elements. I’d swear I heard the moonlight giggle.

  We continued on in silence. Finally, we hid in a dry-wash camouflaged by a veil of creosote branches, through which there was a good view. The snap of the desert wind sent a clump of tumbleweed rolling across the slashed barbed wire that lay in the dirt around us. The area was just one of many uncontrolled crossings along the 1,943-mile border. My gaze fell upon a single path leading from Mexico to the trampled wire. From there, it extended into the United States to intersect with a network of dirt roads. The trails ran across the tabletop of barren land before disappearing in different directions, as did the couriers who used them. El Pasoans claim that Mexico is creeping north. In truth, it’s more of a steady gallop.

  Having picked our spot, there was nothing to do now but wait. Over the years, I’ve come to notice that silence appears in different strengths. Tonight, the absence of noise in the desert was dense enough to be absolutely spooky. The quiet was so deep I could hear the beat, beat, beat of Kitrell’s heart. I had an insane urge to leap up and break the stillness with a deafening shout. The odor of meat cooking on the Mexican side of the border kept me from doing so. Most likely, the smell was coming from a smuggler’s camp.

  As the temperature began to lower my eyelids fluttered closed, and my limbs became as heavy as stone. Soon I was leaning back against Grizzly without giving it a second thought. Kitrell responded as if I were one of his chimps, and wrapped a protective arm around my chest. I allowed myself to be swallowed up, my senses drowning in the warmth that embraced me. It had been so long since I’d been held that I’d forgotten how good it felt.

  Perhaps there wouldn’t be any delivery tonight, after all. I might very well be the butt of another joke—an elaborate hoax planned by Cassandra and the admiral, along with Juan and Mother Krabbs. My mind wandered as I lightly dozed, my subconscious taking me far away. I thought of Mr. Max and Gracie, and wondered if they ever dreamt of nestling in their mothers’ arms, at peace in the place from which they’d been snatched.

  I’d nearly fallen asleep when the chilling sound of nails ripping across a hard surface jerked me out of my dreams, dragging me fully awake. I felt Kitrell’s body grow tense. The cry wailed through the night like a ghost come to life—a high-pitched shriek which reeked of terror. It was followed by the sound of tires crunching over the ground. I peeked through the creosote to discover the howl had been produced by slender branches of mesquite, shrilly keening where they scratched against metal. The oncoming headlights of a vehicle twitched in the night, as if caught in an epileptic seizure. A Suburban van bounced over the bumpy terrain, headed for a rutted dirt section of the Anapra Road.

  The van slowly pulled up, parking almost too close for comfort. Then the engine shut off, and the headlights were doused. All remained black and quiet. I began to think maybe the admiral had also been duped. Possibly all three of us were sitting here in the middle of the night, being played for fools while waiting for nothing.

  Then a pair of headlights bli
nked from out of the void in Mexico, stretching across the gaping darkness. The Suburban acknowledged the wink by flashing its own peepers. Then the rumble of a motor gradually grew closer as the second vehicle lumbered toward us from across the border.

  The Suburban suddenly started its engine and began to pull away, only to maneuver into position so that its rear lights now faced the border. Then the doors flew open, and a mini-explosion of fireworks tingled through my veins. Not only did Admiral Maynard step out of the van, but so did my tickle-and-chase pal, Johnny Lambert.

  The moonlight transformed them into pale marble statues as they stood side by side, waiting in the dark of night. Lambert and Maynard moved only when the approaching Mexican van came to a stop at the barbed wire fence. This vehicle had likewise turned and backed up, so that the rears of both vans now faced one another. The front doors of the Mexican van opened with a sharp metallic crack, then two men hopped out and silently began to unload their cargo.

  A wooden crate appeared, carefully carried by the hombres. It quickly disappeared into the Suburban’s bowels. My breath floated in and out, on a magic carpet of tiny, quick puffs. I could hear the crunch of the men’s boots and their grunts as they worked. I began to fear they could hear me, as well. I must have imagined a little too hard; the next second, my pager went off.

  My lips flew open in an involuntary gasp and Kitrell’s hand covered my mouth. The pager continued to quiver against my hip, and I was grateful it was in vibration mode. Even so, every nerve ending in my body fluttered as fast as a frightened bird. Grizzly’s arms pulled me tight to his chest, as if he feared I might fly off the ground. I reached up and removed his hand from my mouth. We hadn’t made a sound.

  Maynard and Johnny Lambert finished up, and finally all the men returned to their vans. Both motors roared to life and their headlights turned into four balls of fire. The mating ritual over, the vehicles pulled apart and headed in opposite directions.

  My eyes followed the Suburban’s lights, which bounced over the terrain before finally hitting the pavement. Then it took off like a homing pigeon, leaving no doubt in my mind as to where it was headed. Mount Riley loomed like a beacon, even in the dead of night: the Flying A ranch was the van’s destination.