Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  His mood began to soften, which promoted me to say, “You don’t know for sure Lillian was murdered.”

  “She was; I could smell it in the smoke. But that’s not the only reason. You never sat with Duncan’s aunt and watched a Montana sunrise. Rachel was lionhearted in her day. Now she knows she’s in for a long, cold trip if she doesn’t get her packing done. She needs those owls.”

  He glanced at the digital microscope. “You were going to show me something.”

  I lifted the mastodon tusk from the cupboard and placed it on the desk. “A message from the Ice Age,” I told him.

  Tomlinson managed a smile. “Really? I haven’t heard a word from those folks in years.”

  SIXTEEN

  At noon the next day, in the palmetto heat of inland Florida, Mick swung a machete, tossed a branch aside, then turned his ear to the sky. He listened for a moment before asking, “Was that a trombone? Or maybe a Jet Ski?”

  An elephant is what he’d heard, Toby trumpeting somewhere to the north. I had suspected we were near the Albright property but had no idea it was that close. I hadn’t told Fallsdown about the Albright family pet, so kept it to myself. “It could have been. How many people are you expecting?”

  Mick, who’d already made it clear he didn’t trust me, said, “You ask a lot of questions.”

  Rather than remind him I also paid you eight hundred dollars, I followed Tomlinson’s advice from the night before. I said, “Sorry. Duncan warned me about that.”

  Behind me, I could feel Fallsdown listening.

  Mick said, “About what?” then asked Duncan, “What did you tell this dude?”

  I said, “I found my first megalodon teeth a couple of days ago. That’s no big deal to someone like you, but I’m a little overeager. Dunk told me to keep my mouth shut, that I could learn a lot.”

  “That’s true.” Mick turned to Duncan. “You gave him good advice.”

  I said, “The teeth and some other fossils are in the car, if you’re interested. And this big whale vertebra, really incredible. Plus, some manatee ribs.”

  “Dugong, not manatee,” Mick said, then shared his irritation with Fallsdown, who was clearing his throat. “Are you sure this guy’s a biologist?”

  “He’s got a nice setup,” Dunk replied. “Lots of aquariums. I’ve been in his lab.”

  “His laboratory?” Mick chuckled. “A biologist who doesn’t even know the difference between a modern manatee and dugongs from the Pliocene. That’s what a college degree will get you out here.” Chiding me, he added, “They’re the same genus, Sirenia, but totally different animals. Where’d you get your diploma? I’ve met a lot of preppy so-called paleontologists, biologists—the whole list. Get you guys out in the field, you’re clueless.”

  I reminded myself of Tomlinson’s advice: Put your brain in wind tunnel mode and let Mick’s bullshit blow right through you. Which is why I replied, “Sirenia—sure. Sirens, mermaids on the rocks. The Latin root. I should’ve known.”

  Mick, wearing a backpack larger than my dive bag, fanned a haze of mosquitoes from his face and continued toward the creek. “You’re in my dojo now. Finn couldn’t stomach classroom cowboys—that’s what he called people like you. And this collector you want to meet, he’s almost as good as Finn was.” He hacked a few more limbs before curiosity got the best of him. “Where’d you find the meg teeth?”

  I had been undecided whether to admit I knew Leland Albright. If I did, I wanted to observe Mick’s reaction but spoke to his back anyway, saying, “I know a guy who owns an old phosphate mine near here. His stepson took me around.”

  “Sure you do. What’s his name?”

  When I told him, the magic tour guide stopped as if I had said a magic word. “You mean Albright as in Mammoth Ridge Mines?”

  “Leland Albright. I’m doing an assessment of his property. It’s business, so I can’t say much else.”

  “Mr. Albright wants your expert opinion?”

  “Water quality, not fossils.” I forced a smile into my tone. “It’s not likely the subject of fossils will come up, but I was going to ask anyway. Would you mind if I contact you? I’m sure Albright’s company would pay a consulting fee.”

  Mick’s ego unfurled like flower. “He let you on the property?” When I nodded, he became deferential. “Well . . . you couldn’t find anyone better. How much are we talking?”

  “That’s up to me,” I said.

  Duncan, who was smiling, stopped to retie his shoes so we could walk ahead in private.

  I continued, “On consulting jobs, fees vary. You probably know this, but the contractor—that’s me—he gets something for his trouble if he hires an expert from another field. Whatever you bill hourly, I would add a percentage and pass it along to Albright’s company.” I lowered my voice. “But that’s strictly between us if it happens.”

  Mick liked that. “Hell, just smart business. Sure . . . occasionally I provide expert advice if the money’s right. But let me get this straight. You’re talking about the Mammoth Ridge property—just north of here? They closed down years ago.”

  I said, “I spent almost three hours touring the place Sunday.”

  “No shit?”

  “Strictly between us,” I said. “When I go back, it would be nice to have an expert along. Leland Albright—have you met him?”

  “Of course. Well . . . not actually, but I’d like to.”

  “That’s who hired me. What I’ll tell Leland is, I need unlimited access to the property. If he says okay, you’re in. But you can’t wander off by yourself. I’m serious about wanting to learn how to bone hunt.”

  Mick talked about his respect for professionalism, then asked me, “Aside from meg teeth and the dugong rib, what did you find?”

  I let a whiff of fever creep into my voice. “Enough to get me hooked. This ridge the stepson showed me, it was pure bone. Fragments, mostly, and that was the problem. I didn’t know what I was looking at. Megalodon teeth everywhere. A whale vertebra, of course, I recognized. With someone like you, though—”

  “The key,” Mick said, “is training all the senses to find bones, not just the eyes. Describe the ridge you were on. I’ve heard rumors about a spot there—Finn got a hard-on just talking about it. Christ, but it couldn’t be the same place.” He touched a meg tooth that he wore as a necklace on a gold chain.

  I explained that the area was the bend of an ancient river and, presumably, draglines had created the ridge. “Below the ridge was what might have been a creek until it was drained by digging. I could tell by the tree line. Oaks, I think, grew along the bank.”

  “What color were the leaves?”

  “I don’t know . . . sort of reddish, I guess.”

  “Those were swamp maples,” he corrected, but was getting into it. “Did you see any really big bones? What you thought were dugong could have been points off a mammoth rib. Or mastodon, but they’re rarer.”

  I let him watch me think back. “Yeah . . . now that you mention it, maybe I missed something so damn obvious—”

  “What?”

  “Fossilized wood—that’s what I assumed it was. Do you ever find petrified tree limbs?”

  “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “Was there a lot of it?”

  “I don’t know. I kicked some aside. But, like I said, I’m new at this.”

  Mick’s eyes, dulled by smoking cannabis all morning, sparked. He waited until Duncan had caught up, then went into lecture mode to hide his excitement. “It’s a learning process. Me, I’m different. I was born with a gift and I thank God every day. Finn recognized it; used me as a tool, but also as a teacher. Old Man Finn’s ego”—Mick’s machete severed the top of a bush—“You would not believe what an asshole he could be. But Finn knew. The bones either speak to you or they don’t, and there aren’t many like me. Doesn’t mean you can’t learn. What I tel
l students is . . .”

  While Mick lectured, I looked back at Dunk. His expression told me Well played.

  Soon, Jet Skis: a two-cycle whine on the sudden musk of fresh water. The creek, framed by foliage, appeared: a slow-flowing stream, amber-glazed rocks, banks eroded naturally, but also in huge chunks that had been cut away by digging. Man spores, too: bottles, plastic, a flattened beer carton seeded in raw earth. This was no virgin spot. Pirate fossil mining had been done here.

  The Jet Skis closer now, Mick said, “That’s them.” Then turned to Fallsdown and got serious while he lit his pipe. “The blood feud guy I mentioned, he’s not coming. Finn hated him, and vice versa, so I wasn’t surprised when he backed out. Instead, he’s sending his grunts to get a feel for what you might have to offer. Stay cool, okay? I’ve never met the people he’s sending.”

  Fallsdown, wearing jeans, long sleeves, and a red neckerchief, was sopped with sweat, not cool, but had no problem staying composed. “Why not keep it simple? I could meet the guy at a Starbucks instead of humping our asses through a mile of mosquitoes.”

  A quarter mile, more like it. Our rental car was parked off the road on a survey lane, Mick’s truck behind us. I had left the car’s doors unlocked—for a reason. I suspected we were being set up and had laid a trap of my own.

  Mick asked, “You want the truth about why we’re here?”

  To me Dunk said, “The Fawnee brave has forgotten the Skin code of honor.”

  “Like I would lie to you,” Mick laughed, striking another match. “Here’s the deal: River bottoms are public land. It’s illegal to collect artifacts from a place like this. The man—don’t even ask his name—he needs something on you in case you turn against him. See? That’s why his feud with Finn was never settled. They’re both assholes and they both had enough to hang each other, so it would’ve been mutually . . . What was that Cold War term?”

  Two Jets Skis skidded around the bend. Mick finished, but I wasn’t listening. On the lead ski was Harris Sanford, the good-looking blond guy I had embarrassed in front of Owen by deep-sixing his rifle. Behind Harris was a man wearing a Harley vest, sleeveless, and a helmet with a tinted face shield. It wasn’t Harris’s beer-drinking buddy from Sunday. Too muscular.

  The psycho biker, possibly.

  Dunk was thinking the same thing. So was Mick, suddenly so nervous he dropped his pipe while his eyes focused on the guy. Finally, dismissive laughter, and he retrieved his pipe, saying, “Lighten up, boys. No steel hook, and he’s not wearing gloves. The gangbanger I warned you about lost his left hand.”

  Dunk, unconvinced, replied, “Ski Mask, yeah. I remember he wore gloves. But the way he handled his weapon wasn’t a guy with a hook.”

  Mick said, “Not a hook—pinchers on a cable, more like a crab,” speaking in confidence from the side of his mouth while he waved at the Jet Skiers.

  I was in the trees, watching, waiting, when a third Jet Ski appeared: a woman, a shorty wet suit protruding from her shorts, yellow neoprene, short dark hair, her body skinny enough to need warmth on this hot afternoon.

  The woman and I made eye contact—her reaction was mild disapproval.

  When Harris recognized me, a stronger reaction.

  • • •

  AFTER GLARING AT ME ONCE AGAIN, Harris said to Mick, “The more you talk, the less sense you make. Have we met?”

  For emphasis, his helmeted partner revved the engine while his Jet Ski pissed an arc of water onto the opposite bank. The woman flanked them but stayed out of it. Mounted on the skis, I noticed, were coolers, supplies, and miniature cameras on the handlebars—waterproof GoPros.

  Mick had greeted the trio by introducing himself, but Harris was playing dumb. So Mick tried again, saying, “Quit screwing around. I’ve been in the biz twenty-some years, mate. You’re saying you never heard of me?”

  The passenger seats of the vehicles were heavily loaded, equipment covered by tarps, but Harris replied, “Not a clue. We’re just out for a nice ride.”

  “Get him on the phone,” Mick responded. “He told me to be here.”

  “Buddy,” Harris said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He looked at his partner; the helmeted man stiffening, alert for whatever came next.

  I slipped past Mick, saying, “I’m the problem,” and spoke to Harris: “Sorry about the other day. I didn’t know you and Owen are friends. No hard feelings?”

  Over the aggressive thrum of an engine, Mick, who was confused, asked, “You know each other?” Then said to Harris, “This guy’s cool—a newbie. Dude, if the man didn’t trust me, we wouldn’t be here. So let’s break out the tools and bag some bones.” When he added, “I’ll personally vouch for this guy,” I made a mental note to thank Tomlinson for his advice.

  Harris dropped the act. “Sure, I’ve heard of you—you’re the stoner who hustles tourists, seeds beaches with throwaway meg teeth.” He motioned toward me. “What? You think that asshole’s just another one of your Buckeye fossil hounds?”

  Mick’s smile vanished. He looked at me, and took a step to distance himself. “What about him?”

  Harris said, “As long as a tourist has money, huh? You didn’t bother to check the guy out, did you?”

  “Well . . . but I asked around. Right from the start, that’s what I suspected. Is that it—he’s a cop?” Mick moved another step away.

  I thanked my own good judgment when Harris said, “He’s a state-licensed biologist, you dipshit. The owner of Mammoth Ridge Mines hired him to write a report on their property. I don’t know why you guys are here or what you’re expecting . . . Christ. But the man you mentioned—whoever that is—he’ll think you’re a goddamn idiot.”

  Harris, who had already appraised Fallsdown, included him, finally saying, “Tough luck, chief.” Then signaled his partners to follow, and the Jet Skis screamed away.

  Mick watched, saying, “Flaming asshole!” then turned to me. “Harris—is that what you called him? I wasn’t even told the guy’s name . . . as if I give a damn now.”

  The truth added to my credibility, so I explained how Harris and I had met but played down the heroics. “Maybe it was a pellet rifle, but it sounded louder,” I said. “Guns, who knows? So I threw the damn thing as far as I could.”

  Dunk caught my attention to warn Don’t overdo it, then he said to Mick, “All that really matters is I get my tribe’s stone carvings back. This collector you’re talking about, instead of jumping through his hoops, why not introduce us? Or at least tell me his name.” To me he added, “They planned to video us taking fossils. You notice the cameras? I don’t trust them already.”

  Mick was still festering over Harris’s insults. “Ask any bone hunter in the South, they know my rep. What a prick that guy was.”

  “Duncan has a good point,” I said.

  “Preppy assholes,” Mick said. “Finn was right, the man—this big-time collector, supposedly—he hires know-it-alls, amateur punks. Did you hear how he talked to me? I’m booked every afternoon this week—fossil clients who pay top dollar. In one day, I could put my hands on bones those three clowns couldn’t find in weeks. Even then, they’d screw it up.” A detail popped into Mick’s head. “Harris—what’s his last name?”

  “Sanford,” I said. I was hoping to catch Mick off guard. I did.

  Instead of showing surprise, though, Mick had to think back. “Sanford . . . Yeah, I’ve heard of them. There were some Sanfords involved with mining way back. Harris Sanford, huh? Makes sense—a spoiled rich brat whose daddy made a bundle off raping the land. But what was he doing on Mammoth Ridge property?”

  “Harris and Albright’s stepson were college buddies,” I said. “That’s why I apologized.”

  Mick accepted that. “Screw him. Passive resistance is part of yoga discipline, but I would’ve broken the sucker’s nose if he’d said one more word.” He crouched, as
if sitting on a chair, palms out, then did a kung fu sort of thing with his hands. “It’s not like you lied to me. A biologist. You were right up front about that. And so what?” His brain switched gears. “Hey . . . Since we’re here, let’s crunch some bones anyway. That’s why you’re paying me. And don’t worry—I’m still willing to help out on that Mammoth Ridge project.”

  I said, “Thanks for being so understanding.”

  Fallsdown gave me another cautioning look and slipped between me and Mick.

  That was okay. My mind was on an envelope I had left in the rental car, doors unlocked. I had studied a map and knew the closest boat ramp was five miles downriver. If someone robbed the car, I wanted to know where to intercept them. But Harris had come by Jet Ski. Skis didn’t require a full ramp.

  When I asked Mick about it, he said, “There’re a couple of put-ins close to here that FWC cops hardly ever patrol. Why?”

  I said, “Just curious,” then told Dunk, “Stay here and spot for Mick. I forgot something.”

  Jogging, I returned to the car.

  SEVENTEEN

  Older motorcycles at idle make a respiratory rumble, a sleeping dragon rhythm, almost stalling, then snorting when the carburetor revives itself with a gulp of air.

  I knew our car was being robbed before I exited the trees.

  I carried a stainless .32 caliber Seecamp—a miniature pistol, four inches long, but loaded with Hornady hollow-points, 60 grain. I slid the weapon into my front pocket and parted the bushes. One man, his butt in the air, was leaning into the backseat, where I had placed an envelope containing photos of the mastodon tusk. Not the magnified shots of the petroglyph, just wide-angle shots that showed forty pounds of black ivory.

  The photos were bait—give the blood feud collector a reason to negotiate for the owl stones but not reason enough to murder me in my sleep.

  The robber wore jeans, boots, a tattered black shirt, and a motorcycle helmet. But I couldn’t see his arms until he stood, his back to me, an envelope in his bare right hand and an oversize glove on his left hand. I suspected who it was but knew for certain when he removed the helmet and turned to open the envelope in better light.