Nevada Barr - Anna Pigeon 05 - Endangered Species

by Endangered Species(lit)

  "Anna had to pee," Dijon announced.

  Mitch raised his eyebrows. A mile-and-a-half round trip was a long ways to find a ladies' room.

  "Shy bladder," Anna said, and: "If you'll excuse me She walked purposefully in the direction the sack-wielding Hanson had come from. Behind her she heard a brief splutter but there was no way he could follow. Ladies' rooms, even when comprised of palmetto and pine, were sacrosanct.

  What she expected to find-especially in the few minutes a respectable bathroom visit allowed-she wasn't sure. Something in the combination of gun, sack, shovel, and winks made her want to take a look at where Hanson had been, before he had a chance to retrace his steps and erase any tracks he might have left behind.

  Walking rapidly, she scanned the earth and surrounding foliage for any signs of activity. Hanson had made no effort to disguise his trail; there was no need to. In the deep and shifting leaf litter, so dry that puffs of dust settled over footprints minutes after they were made, Davy Crockett would have had trouble tracking a moose.

  Anna followed her earlier theory of taking the easy way. After five minutes of searching she was rewarded by signs of fresh digging around the base of a pine. A patch of ground a foot square and several inches deep had been disturbed, the soil overturned onto the needles. The edges of the dig were square and clean, marks smooth and six to seven inches across: the size of the spade on a folding shovel. Three feet from the first dig was a second. This one was almost hidden under the rotting remnants of a fungus-encrusted log.

  Beyond the crumbling trunk lay a broken piece of one-by-twelve.

  Partway up, on the bark of the pine, was a cut. Fresh sap oozed from a gash an inch wide and half an inch deep where a chip had been hacked out.

  "Did you fall in?" A hearty voice pushed through the tangle of woods between Anna and the men.

  She ignored it. Running, she zigzagged through live oaks and skirted undergrowth, looking for other disturbances to the ground or the surrounding plant life. Thirty yards further in, just where the way opened through a daunting wall of palmetto, she found the marks of another dig, this one long and narrow, a trench four feet long, three inches wide, and about that deep.

  "Are you okay?" came a bluff shout. Dijon had failed to curb Hanson's rescue-or survival-instincts any longer. The two men were shouting after her. Soon they would follow if they hadn't already started.

  Anna didn't want Mitch to know what she'd found until she figured out just what it was she had found. Running as swiftly and lightly as she could in the heavy boots, she made her way back past the place she'd first discovered turned earth. Rebuckling her belt as if she'd recently doffed her trousers, she emerged in the path of Dijon and Mitch only slightly out of breath.

  "We were coming in to pull you out," Mitch said jovially.

  The routinely scatological turn of his humor left Anna unamused. Coy crudities, like bad puns, created a conversational vacuum. Luckily little was required of her. A noncommittal grunt seemed to fill the bill and the three of them walked out of the woods, Hanson's chatter clearing the way of all indigenous fauna.

  Back at their vehicles, the maintenance man carefully stowed his burlap sack and rifle in a locking toolbox behind the seat of the grader. Then, elbows on the tailgate of the pumper truck, settled in to chat till the rains came. A subtle form of filibuster. Hanson had no intention of leaving the area till Anna and Dijon were safely on their way.

  There was nothing for it but to concede. Mouthing the usual platitudes-"Better get back to work. Be seeing you. Take it easy"Anna climbed behind the wheel. In the side-view mirror she noted that Hanson watched them till a turn in the road took them from view.

  "So what did you find?" Dijon asked.

  "Digging," Anna said succinctly.

  Dijon thought about it for a moment." Morels?"

  "Not mushroom country or morel season. Besides, there's no law against gathering mushrooms. He would have shown them to US.

  " I knew that. just testing you."

  "Ginseng?" Anna ventured. Ginseng root was highly prized by the Chinese and had a growing consumer base among herbalists in the United States. At preserit market value it sold for about four hundred dollars a pound. The humble root was reputed to cure most ailments and serve as a preventative for the rest. Digging ginseng in the wildlands of the South and East had been a means of income for generations of locals. The national parks were dedicated to protecting the fast-vanishing plant, but because of the wealth of plants and the easy access, park lands were favorite targets of the gatherers.

  "Does ginseng grow on Cumberland?" Anna asked.

  "Soil's wrong," Dijon replied." And pygmy oaks don't grow within two thousand miles. Only place I know of is on the coast of California. Whatever Hanson was hunting, it wasn't pigs."

  "IS EVEIiY130DY here frigging weird or is it just me?" Dijon asked.

  It's just you," Anna reassured him.

  They'd left Mitch standing guard over his grader, passed AI and Rick near The Settlement-a cluster of houses, including Marty's, that were still privately owned-and driven out to Lake Whitney to eat their sandwiches. It was a bit of a challenge to drive to Whitney.

  A road existed but it was rough at best and guaranteed to mire a heavy vehicle like the pumper axle-deep in sand at worst. Today they'd avoided the worst. Adopting Rick's beach-driving techniques, Anna had roared through the soft spots like a bat out of hell to the accompaniment of colorful rodeo-inspired epithets from DijOn Smith.

  Now they sat in the perfect white sand of a dune that was creeping inland, threatening the little freshwater lake's existence.

  "What did you get from Dot and Mona?" Anna asked.

  "Zip. Or more accurately, too much zip. Pretty nearly everybody, including us, had been around that meadow in the last three days.

  Near as the old ladies can remember, the only people who actually messed with the airplane itself were Hammond of course, Norman Hull-"

  " Makes sense, especially since he flew with the guy off and on."

  "Todd on his security rounds, and Hanson with the gas truck."

  "Everybody and nobody."

  " Back where we started?"

  "Back where we started," Anna agreed." Want to go for a walk?"

  "Do I have a choice?" Dijon pushed himself to his feet and stuffed the remainder of his lunch into his yellow pack.

  Circumnavigating the lake to the northwest, Anna led the way.

  The edges of Whitney were rich in plant life, glistening cattails and lily pads the size of dinner plates. The maritime forest pushed back from its shores to higher, drier land. There was little cover. Letting the heat dictate a languid pace, Anna walked slowly. A beautiful young alligator, not more than four feet long and still bearing the yellow hash marks of childhood on its tail, stared emotionlessly at t hem from a cool lair of mud beneath the water grasses.

  "Hey," Anna said, pointing, "company."

  "God, I hate those things."

  "You're going to hurt his feelings," Anna warned.

  "They don't have feelings," Dijon returned." That's what makes them so creepy."

  Looking at the dead reptilian eyes, Anna tended to agree but chose not to give Dijon the satisfaction." You never know."

  " Let's just hope he prefers white meat," Dijon said, and made her laugh by giving the alligator an absurdly wide berth.

  On the opposite side of the lake, Anna found what sh(, was looking for: Shawna and Guenther's camp. The two were responsi able, if not law- abiding, campers. They'd had a small fire but they'd doused the embers with water, then stirred the ashes and doused it again in the prescribed manner. No litter marred the sand and Anna found the remains of the fire only by careful searching. They'd taken the time to bury the ash and spread the charred wood so those next on the site could enjoy the illusion of pristine discovery.

  "Well, that was edifying," Dijon said sarcastically when she had finished." More than worth an alligator-infested hike in the noonday sun. What are we l
ooking for, exactly)"

  "Beats me." Anna shoved her ball cap back and scratched at the roots of her hair where sweat and sand combined to torment her scalp. As hot as it was and as destructive to the skin, she loved the feel of the sun on her face. For a moment she reveled in the sybaritic blast before replacing her hat." Guenther getting shot the same day as the crash; he and Shawna camping out here where nobody's supposed to be not more than a mile or two from where the plane went in. It seems too cozy for coincidence."

  "Coincidence is cozy where cozy ain't supposed to be."

  Anna didn't dignify that with a reply.

  "ooh, I get it, international conspiracy," Dijon said." He's Austrain, she's what... Cherenne?"

  " Navajo, I think," Anna said absently.

  "Maria drug cartels," Dijon said with certainty." Exporting ceremonial peyote. Hey, lookit here." He jumped back from, then sneaked back up upon, a mark he found in the soft soil at the lake's edge." Snake track. Jesus, I'd hate to meet up with him in a dark alley."

  They had continued around Lake Whitney to the south rather than retrace their steps. Anna caught up to him. A stick-straight trail cut from the waterline across the sand to disappear into a rugged stand of high grass. She squatted down on her heels and examined the mark. It wasn't a snake's trail or the drag of an alligator's tail.

  The line was drawn too straight to have been made by any animal other than man.

  "Hopscotch? I dare you to cross this line?" Dijon suggested when she voiced her thoughts.

  "Your guess is as good as mine."

  Once into the coarse grasses, the line disappeared. After a few minutes' search, they chalked it up to one more question in the growing catalogue of unanswered questions they'd been compiling.

  Depressed, Tabby had retired early, barely finding the strength to murmur a goodnight in Anna's direction. After the vandalism to her truck Anna had taken note of the fact that Tabby had access to the fire escape from her bedroom window by way of a narrow wooden catwalk that ran the length of the apartment. Because of the woman , s condition and her emotional frailty, it hadn't crossed Anna's mind till too late that Tabby could well have been the vandal.

  In her blind assumption of Mrs. Belfore's helplessness, she hadn't bothered to check her room to see if she was still in bed. just to be fair, Anna put a mental mark in her sleuth's debit column but didn't take it very seriously. Her belief in Tabby's inaptitude was rooted'too deep.

  She returned the tepid goodnight and was glad to see the door close behind the girl. The day's adventures had earned her a headache and two ticks, one lodged at the nape of her neck, the other under the waistband of her trousers. Even a head-to-toe inspection with a hand mirror and combing her hair with a fine-toothed comb didn't rid her of the feeling that bloodsucking insects were crawling all over her.

  Near nine o'clock, with Tabby presumably safe in bed, it was dark enough for decency. She drove the three miles down through the Chimneys and out to the beach. Floating on the tide, she began at last to feel free of wildlife.

  Away from home, the daily routines of life, and the people she'd come to know over the years she'd been at Mesa Verde, time came unhinged. A peculiar sense of having always been gone, of all other lives being just a memory of a dream, closed over her. Over others as well, near as she could tell. This disconnection allowed for behaviors that wouldn't be considered in the familiar matrix of real life.

  Without the checks and balances provided by friends, family, and the eyes of one's neighbors, risks were taken and rules forgotten.

  Anna wondered what would happen to Flicka when Dot and Mona left the island, if Guy was having-or hoping for-an affair with Lynette, what Slattery Hammond had done to deserve a restraining order, why he kept used tampons in his freezer.

  Letting the waves nudge her toward shore, she touched bottom with her hands and felt her body bob sweetly on the sea. A stray statistic about a majority of shark attacks occurring in less than three feet of water rose in her mind. She banished it.

  Eye level with the night beach, she let the disparate images of the past several days flutter through her brain in no particular order: Guenther, Shawna, the shotgun wound, Hanson, the shovel, the sack, the digs, Lake Whitney, the camp, the ruler-straight snake trail, the basement of Stafford, the fawn, the fertilizer, the weed killer. The pieces came together; a pattern once seen suddenly so obvious she cursed herself for a fool.

  She rolled over on her back. Sand being pulled from beneath her fanny and heels gave a disconcerting sense of movement. Full of stars, the surface of the sea glowed. On the horizon there was the hint of a moon yet to rise.

  If she was right-and she was certain she was-there wasn't anyone she dared tell. With the exception of Alice Utterback, no one on the island was off the hook as a suspect. Should she do "the right thing" and confide her suspicions to the local sheriff, his first call would be to Chief Ranger Hull. Anna wasn't convinced that would be such a good idea.

  Sliding from the Atlantic on elbows and knees, much as she imagined the first sea beast had made its way onto land, she enjoyed a last wave across her backside, then stood to let the kind night air dry her skin. Hair slimed down her back nearly to bra strap levelhad she not metaphorically burned that offensive garment two decades back. Water, feeling clammy now that she'd become a creature of the land, trickled from the sodden tresses. Again she thought of scissors, the freedom of shorn locks.

  The moon pushed out of the ocean and laid a silver trail to shore. As the desert does, sea and sand collected each scrap of illumination, reflecting it back from shell, water, and salt till the air and land seemed alight from within. The magic of the night began working on Anna. Returning to the couch in the Belfores' griefsoaked apartment, exposing her flesh to the artificially chilled air, struck her as repugnant. This was a night to wander alone like a wolf or an owl, seeing, not seen, becoming part of darkness and shifting light. A deeply buried maxim of training warned her to wake Dijon, AI, Rick, or Guy and bring them along on her quest. Two things argued against it. Firstly, the adventure should take less than an hour. She had no intention of endangering herself. The second and more compelling argument was that she had been so much in the society of human beings, eating, drinking, and sleeping with the sound of others' breathing in her ears, that to give up her solitude was too great a sacrifice.

  Dressed in running shoes, the baggy NoMex trousers, and a T-shirt she'd bought to commemorate the jackknife fire before it had become national news, Anna drove slowly north along the oceanfront. She kept the vehicle near the water's edge where the sand was firm. Not only would any itinerant loggerheads be safe from her wheels, but her tire tracks would be erased by the incoming tide. The moonlight was such that she drove without headlights.

  In the directionless light the landscape was painted in a thousand shades of gray, silver, and gold.

  When she'd first come to Cumberland all the beach looked the same; fourteen miles of white sand with dunes west and water east.

  The sameness had struck her as tedious. After countless forays up and down this stretch of coast, she'd come to know its ways: where the alligators liked to come down to fish the tide pools, the paths that snaked out from the woods where cabins or camps once existed, dunes that hid lush interdune meadows where horses and deer grazed, a rise of earth held in place by oat grass where the loggerheads had laid their eggs and where every day Marty Schlessinger checked her precious treasure, each hoard marked on a map and jealously guarded from harm.

  South of the nesting ground a wrinkle of sand beckoned and Anna parked the pumper behind its sheltering crest, safe from view either by land or by sea. Keeping to the valleys between the dunes, she made her way toward the woods. In her pack she carried water and a flashlight. A compass was in her pocket. The need to stay close to the truck in case there was a fire call-out, coupled with heat, ticks, and general lethargy, had kept Anna from exploring this four-mile-square chunk of official wilderness in the heart of the park. From the maps
, she knew it was free of private lands, roads, inholdings, campgrounds, trails, or any other form of "improvement" that might hamper its wilderness status. Having been religiously protected from the cleansing qualities of wildland fire, the area was dense with palmetto, oak, and pine. Robbed of sunlight by the forest canopy, it allowed little else to grow.

  According to the topographical map Wayne and Shorty had used to plot the location of the wrecked Beech, the plane had gone in a mile south and I.7 miles east of the loggerhead nesting ground. An educated guess put Hanson and his grader slightly further north, almost on a straight east-west line with the nest sites, near where Shawna estimated they were when Guenther was shot.

  As soon as she reached the cover of the woods, Anna walked north along the tree line, keeping a practiced eye on the dunes.

  When she reached the place just inland from the turtles' nests, she pulled out her compass. The forest closed overhead and she waited for her eyes to adjust. Live oak branches, grown wide in their search for light and air, created a living ceiling, but such was the spread of the branches that enough light trickled down so that, with care, Anna could make her way with only occasional assistance from her flashlight.