And in that instant, the whole world turned upside down for Frankie. Shifted into a weird slow motion as Luke Sevier came stalking out of the barn, shirtless, carrying a pitchfork, wisps of straw clinging to the sweat sheen glistening on his chest. Lanky, roughneck handsome, with coarse, sandy hair hanging in his eyes. Exactly as she remembered him.
"Where did this buff come from, Luke?” Russo asked.
"We bought him down south a month back, Mr. Russo, from a breeding farm near Montrose. Hey, Frankie, how you doin'?” He asked it casually. Like it had been four days instead of four years.
"I'm doing a lot better than your buff,” she snapped, trying to keep her rising temper under control. “Did you have the animal blood-tested?"
"His shot records came with his pedigree,” Luke said. “Clean bill of health."
"Not brucellosis or bovine TB then,” Frankie said firmly, turning back to Russo. “I'll know more after the autopsy."
"Whoa, who said anything about an autopsy?” Russo demanded. “He looks healthy as a horse. Hey! Hey, you dumb bastard!” he yelled at the buff as it passed. No reaction. “He's just a little spaced out, is all. Let's give him a couple days, see what happens."
"He doesn't have that long, Mr. Russo. He's not drinking and he's already hyperthermic. A few more hours in this sun, he'll collapse and go into convulsions. He should be put out of his misery now."
"Hell, I'll do it for you, doc,” Mitch said, grinning, racking the action on his AK-47. “Where do you want him dropped?"
"Nobody shoots nothin’ till I say so,” Russo snapped. “I called you out here to make a diagnosis, lady, not to slaughter my animals. Can you tell me what's wrong with him or not?"
"Not yet, but—"
"Then we'll wait and see what happens with him! This buff cost me—"
"Quiet!” Frankie snapped, her eyes narrowing as the buffalo bull approached again in his endless circle.
"Who do you think you're talkin’ to, lady?” Russo demanded.
But Frankie was already scrambling up and over the corral rails, dropping inside the enclosure only a few feet ahead of the plodding bull.
"Frankie! What the hell are you doing?” Luke yelled.
She was asking herself the same question as she walked backward, facing the bull, keeping just a step ahead of him. In the movies, buffalo appear slow and clumsy, but they can wheel and gore an attacker in a split second, butt them down or crush them underfoot. And bulls are notoriously unpredictable.
Ignoring the hubbub outside the corral, Frankie stayed focused on the great beast marching toward her. The bull snorted, a whuff! Tossing his head, reacting instinctively to her scent. But he made no move to hook her. When she finally stepped aside, he shuffled by her as if she weren't there.
And she wasn't. Not to him. Bison are often nearsighted, but this bull was completely blind. And as he brushed past her, only inches away, she realized why. There was a tiny puncture wound in the corner of his left eye, crusted with blood and pus. A half dozen more nodes circled the eye socket. They could have been insect bites, but she didn't think so.
Pulling a scalpel pen out of her shirt pocket, Frankie removed the cap, exposing a narrow blade. Walking alongside the buff, matching him stride for stride, she deftly lanced two of the bumps near his glazed eye, extracting twin lead pellets the size of sesame seeds, her mouth narrowing grimly as she examined them. If the great bull felt the razor sharp blade slicing his face, he gave no sign.
Stepping away, she let the buff march past, then climbed back over the fence.
"What the hell was that about?” Russo demanded.
Opening her palm, she showed him the two bloody bits of gray metal. “They're pellets, Mr. Russo,” she said coldly. “Somebody blasted that poor sonofabitch in the face with a load of birdshot. The BBs are so small they shouldn't have done any serious damage, but he had bad luck. One of the pellets zipped through the corner of his eye socket into his brain. I don't know whether the shot injured his optic nerve or the subsequent inflammation damaged it, but he's totally blind now and almost certainly brain damaged from cranial edema. He'll have to be destroyed."
"You're telling me these little bits of lead are killing my bull?” Russo said doubtfully, eyeing the tiny pellets. “Doesn't seem possible. Besides, nobody hunts with shotguns in Buffalo Country. What do you make of it, Luke?
"Frankie's right,” Sevier offered. “Those definitely look like lead pellets. Might be fragments from a ricochet, though. Your nephew gets awful trigger-happy out in the woods, Vic, especially at night. Shoots at anything that moves."
"Security's what I get paid for,” Mitch snapped. “You stick to your job, Sevier, I'll do mine. What about the buffalo, Uncle Vic? Should I whack it out or what?"
"No, leave it be. I'll take care of it."
"But he's suffering,” Frankie protested.
"He won't be for long,” Russo said. “Come on into my office, doc, I'll cut you a check."
Reluctantly, Frankie trailed Russo up the porch steps into the massive log manor house, blinking in the dim light as the heavy oaken door closed behind her with a pneumatic shush.
The main room of the Buffalo Country clubhouse was as spacious as a basketball court. Overhead, wagon-wheel chandeliers dangled from Titanic-sized anchor chains. One wall was paneled with sixty-inch TV screens, baseball, football, horse racing, and soccer competing simultaneously in silence as trophy animal heads stared sightlessly down from their mounts. Moose, elk, black and grizzly bears, but mostly bison bulls, magnificent even in death. A trophy hunter's dream. A conservationist's nightmare.
The air was hazy with cigar smoke and the buzz of conversation from a poker game at an octagonal table in a corner of the room, a half dozen men playing, clad in combinations of hunting garb and underwear. A few of them glanced up, checking Frankie out, then returned to their game.
No surprise there. At five two, a hundred and twenty pounds, with her Irish red hair cropped short as a boy's, Frankie McCrae was no glamour queen, and in khaki work clothes smudged with corral dirt and buffalo blood, she didn't look her best. But her day promptly improved.
Russo's office was a surprisingly comfortable room with knotty pine walls and an antique rolltop desk. A long rack of expensive hunting weapons lined both walls, everything from Davy Crockett flintlocks to BFG fifty-caliber express rifles that could punch through two bull elephants, end to end. In close quarters, Russo's jet black hair was obviously tinted and his cologne was a tad too strong. He was no piker, though. He quickly drew up a check.
"Is Frankie short for Francis or what?"
"It's not short for anything, my dad wanted a boy."
"From the way you went into that pen, he didn't miss by much. That took balls.” He passed the check over.
"This is double my usual fee,” Frankie said, scanning the amount.
"I figure a new vet in a small town can use the boost. Besides, you just saved me a bundle."
"I don't follow you."
"I paid over two grand for that bull, doc. Would've lost every dime if we'd destroyed him to do an autopsy. By risking your young neck to diagnose him on the hoof, you not only saved my investment, but one of those card players out there will fork over ten grand to take him as a hunting trophy."
"A trophy?” Frankie didn't bother concealing her disbelief. “For shooting a blind animal in a pen?"
"What's the diff? He's dead either way. Do you disapprove of hunting, doc? Or is it just killing you don't like?"
"I'm not a vegetarian, Mr. Russo, I know Big Macs don't grow on bushes. But your clients aren't hunters. They pay for the ego boost of killing a game farm buffalo, the bigger the better, so they can strut around thumping their chests like King Kong."
"Some guys definitely get off on killing,” Russo conceded. “Gives ‘em a rush like snortin’ cocaine or gettin’ laid, and I sell it the same way. If you were that buff, would you rather go out with a clean shot in the head? Or die in the woods, torn to pieces by
a wolf pack? Mother Nature's a cold bitch, lady."
"Sometimes. It's still not nice to fool Mother Nature."
"How do you mean?"
"It was a TV ad when I was a kid, Mr. Russo. I don't recall what they were selling, but the punch line was, It's not nice to fool Mother Nature."
"Why not? What's she gonna do about it?"
"Nothing. She won't have to. If we kill off the game, cut the forests, and overheat the planet, we'll go the same route as the dinosaurs. A million years from now, intelligent cockroaches will hang our skulls on the wall and wonder how we could have been so dense."
"So it's not nice to fool Mother Nature,” Russo nodded, chuckling. “I get it, doc. But you've gotta admit, foolin’ Mother Nature may not be nice, but it sure does pay pretty well. Thanks for stopping by."
"You're welcome,” Frankie sighed, pocketing the check. “Don't wait too long to drop that bull, Mr. Russo. Not because he's in pain, I'm sure you don't care. But he won't last long in this sun. And make sure the mighty hunter uses a big bore rifle this time. Blinding an animal with a birdshot is not only incredibly cruel, it's incredibly stupid."
She stalked out without waiting for his reply. And ran headlong into Luke Sevier, coming up the steps. He backed away, raising both hands in surrender.
"Don't rip into me, Frankie, I just work here. Can we talk?"
"We have nothing to talk about,” she snapped, heading for her Jeep.
"I think we have. Meet me at Tubby's, around six o'clock,” he called after her. “I'll buy the first round."
She almost told him to stick Tubby's, but he looked so damned earnest. And as handsome as ever. Slim and lithe as a riding crop.
"If I'm late, don't wait,” she snapped, climbing into her Jeep. “I won't be coming.” Which was a lie. She knew damned well she would.
* * * *
Tubby's dining room was large and brightly lit, the glow of its elk horn chandeliers reflecting off the hardwood floors. Three pool tables beneath Tiffany lamps lined one side of the room, dark oak dining tables surrounded by heavy captain's chairs filled the rest.
It was crowded for a Tuesday in May. No summer people yet, just the usual mix of local singles who came to shoot pool and shoot the breeze, plus a few families who came for the cuisine, which is exceptional if you like venison.
Still angry from the afternoon, Frankie didn't bother to dress up. Clean jeans, a work shirt, and a Tigers baseball cap would do. North country chic.
Luke was waiting at a table for two against the wall. Frankie slid in across from him. Neither of them spoke for a minute, looking each other over.
Luke hadn't shaved for a few days, but Frankie liked the effect. The years had treated him lightly. He looked a bit leaner, but otherwise, he was much as she remembered, lanky, boyishly handsome, with tousled sandy hair, blue eyes.
"I was afraid you wouldn't come,” he said. “You're probably mad at me, right?"
"Mad doesn't quite cover it,” she said, keeping her voice level with difficulty. “Whatever else we were to each other, I thought we were friends. I can't believe you've been back for a while without even calling me."
"I got into some trouble in the Army,” he said absently, looking away.
"What kind of trouble? Did you punch somebody out? Knock somebody up? What?"
"Is that pen in your pocket the same one you used on the bull? Can I see it?"
"Afraid I might use it on you?” she asked, sliding it across the table.
"Way cool,” he smiled, uncapping it to reveal the scalpel blade. “By the way, climbing into the corral to operate on that buff was the craziest thing I've ever seen you do."
"It was either him or you, Sevier. Be careful with that blade, it's razor sharp."
"Is it?” Testing the edge with a fingertip, he whistled. Then plunged the scalpel into his thigh.
"What the hell!” she shrieked, lunging out of her seat. But there was no blood, and Luke's face kept the same quirky smile.
"Gotcha,” he grinned, jerking the scalpel out of his leg. It squeaked as the blade came clear of the plastic beneath his jeans.
"You bastard,” she said, laughing, shaken and moved, all at the same time. “What happened?"
"IED. Improvised explosive device. Blew our Hummer off the road outside Najaf. Took my left leg with it."
"My God. When?"
He hesitated. “Halfway through my second tour. Two years ago, give or take."
"And you couldn't pick up a phone? Let me know?"
"I didn't want you to see me like that, all smashed up,” he said. “I needed to find out if I could manage on my own first. When I finally got out of the hospital, so much time had gone by ... Hell, I figured you'd probably be married with a couple kids by now, Frankie."
"Well I'm not. Sweet Jesus, Luke...” Her voice trailed off, leaving them marooned in a strained silence.
"Hey, kids,” Sheriff Stan Wolinski said, pausing beside their booth. A welcome interruption. “I noticed the Buffalo Country SUV parked out front, Luke, hoped I might find you here. Can we talk a minute?"
"Sure, Stan, pull up a chair."
Wolinski hesitated, glancing at Frankie.
"I've got no secrets from Frankie or anybody else, Sheriff. Take a seat or take a hike, all the same to me."
"Why not?” Wolinski sighed, settling his bulk into a chair. “Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone.” Fortyish, the sheriff had an iron-gray brush cut and an attitude to match. He was carrying a few extra pounds, but his gray uniform concealed them well, solid as a sack of cement. “Saw your Jeep out at Buffalo Country today, Frankie. What were you doing out there?"
"Checking out an injured bull, why?"
"Our good sheriff is real curious about everything that happens out there,” Luke said. “He's even got men posted on state land, watching us through field glasses."
"Those aren't my men, Luke. A lot of agencies are interested in your boss. FBI, DEA, BATF, could be any of them. Do you know who Russo is? Or what he is?"
"I know he gave me a job when nobody else would,” Luke said simply. “Not even garbage companies will hire one-legged vets."
"Damn it, Russo's a mobster, Luke! Number two in the Costa crime family in Detroit. Drugs, prostitution—"
"I've heard the rumors, Stan. If he's guilty of all that, why don't you arrest him?"
"We will, maybe sooner than you think. The Feds are crawling all over his Detroit rackets. Why do you think he moved up here?"
"To manage the Buffalo Country game farm, which is a perfectly legitimate business."
"A business surrounded by a ten-foot fence, patrolled by armed guards."
"Watchmen,” Luke corrected, “and amateurs at that. Russo's got his nephew and a few Detroit rent-a-cops patrolling the grounds. He owns a lot of valuable stock, and this county's overrun with poachers, Stan. Like the LaRoche clan over there. Do they still grow reefer on state land? Maybe you should try bugging them."
Stan swiveled in his seat. The LaRoche clan were holding court at their usual table near the side door. A half dozen cedar savages, bearded, hard-eyed backwoodsmen dressed mix'n'match in camouflage pants, nascar T-shirts and ball caps. Sitting with their backs to the wall and a full view of the room. Bowie knives on their belts or in boot sheaths.
Frankie knew most of them. Arnie and Mal, the two oldest, ran the crew, along with Virgil, Mal's halfwit son. They'd bring in hunting hounds to be sewn up after a tangle with bears or boar coons. Always paid in cash, though none of them seemed to have jobs.
"Everybody knows about the LaRoches,” the sheriff said grimly, turning back to them. “Vic Russo's in a different league, and you know it."
"Actually, I don't know it,” Luke said, mildly. “I just tend stock and guide hunters for the man."
"You volunteered to serve your country once, Luke. We need your help again."
"No way, Stan. Government work didn't turn out very well for me."
"I heard about your leg. I'm sorry."
"Losing a leg wasn't the worst of it,” Luke said. “I killed people over there, Stan. Did you know that?"
"No, I—"
"I was a perimeter guard. Anyone coming out of the desert got a warning shot at five hundred yards. If they didn't turn back, the next one was in the head. In fifteen months I dropped eleven men, one woman. Didn't know she was a woman. The way Bedouins dress it's hard to tell. She was sure enough packing a bomb, though. None of the others were, but she was. The army gave me a medal for killing her. For saving American lives, the citation said."
"I know it must be rough over there,” Wolinski nodded sympathetically. “But, if she was armed—"
"I got no problem over killing the woman, Stan. She was trying to kill us. But those other poor bastards were just lost, looking for water. Nobody cared about them, not their government, certainly not mine. But I remember them. Every one. Can't sleep sometimes, remembering them. So don't give me a song and dance about serving my government, Stan. I did my hitch. I'm done."
"And it doesn't bother you that the man you work for is a criminal?"
"Sheriff, when kids in this town want to buy weed or speed or a hot gun, they don't come out to Buffalo Country. They just hit on one of the LaRoche brothers or their shirttail relatives."
"We've definitely got some local bad-asses,” the sheriff conceded. “Which is why we don't need to import any more from Detroit."
"If Vic Russo breaks the law, lock him up, Stan. But don't ask me to be your snitch, and don't come sneaking around the game farm either. Mr. Russo's city boys don't know from Shinola about the woods. They get jumpy, especially at night, blasting away at shadows and such. I've seen ‘em pump twenty rounds into a tree stump that didn't look right."
"Is that what happened to that buff?” Frankie asked. “One of Russo's nephews shotgunned him in the dark?"
"They don't carry shotguns. They're into heavier artillery, AK-47's with banana clips. So be damned careful, Stan. You could get your ass shot off by accident."
"That almost sounds like a threat, Luke."
"No threat. Just telling you how things are out there."
"Then I'll return the favor. The FBI's building a case against your boss. He's going to fall, Luke. I'd hate to see you go down with him."
AHMM, March 2008 Page 10
