Tortoise Soup (31 page)

“I know this is going to sound crazy, Henry. But give me a week before you hand my name over to the FBI or whoever the hell was here,” I pleaded, barely able to believe my own audacity.

“Where did you get those tortoises?” Lanahan growled.

“Okay. Five days tops, and I’ll tell you all I know,” I countered.

“Listen to me, Porter. Once the testing on those reptilian frisbees and their tissue samples is finished, the FBI will be on me like white on rice,” Henry protested.

“Can’t you just slide over the fact that I gave you the torts? Maybe say they were anonymously dropped off at the lab’s door?” I implored. I couldn’t believe what I was asking. Even worse, I didn’t care. “Give me four days’ head start. That’s all.”

“Are you crazy, Rachel? How do you know this doesn’t involve terrorists?” Lanahan demanded. “My guess is that the tortoises went in search of water and ended up drinking from a radioactive source. Which means who the hell knows what some bunch of loonies is up to.”

I had no idea. For all I knew, it was the work of a local militia group or even well-connected ranchers burning with a cause. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I realized that the tortoises could have stopped to drink just about anywhere. It might have been nothing more than a matter of timing that had caused their deaths to occur at the mine.

“Give me three days, Henry. I swear to you that I’m not involved. But you’re right: I do want the chance to look into it, and once the FBI gets my name, I’ll be locked out of the case for good.” I hoped that he would understand.

Henry ran his hand over his head. He pulled out a few more loose hairs and placed them on his desk like a phalanx of toy soldiers.

“Forty-eight hours, Porter,” Lanahan rumbled. He stared forlornly at the visible sign of age creeping up on him. “I’ll try to stall until then, but I can’t make any promises. After that I want every detail you’ve got.”

“I promise, Henry.” I held my hand up in an oath and crossed my heart as I edged my way toward the door.

“And by the way, Porter—try to not get yourself killed. We don’t need any extra bodies on our slabs,” Lanahan added.

“Then you like me. You really like me,” I joked.

“Nah. It’s just that we’re already overworked. Besides, there’s a need even for people like you around.” Lanahan gave a tired smile.

“What’s that mean—crazy?” I queried.

He turned his attention back to the work on his desk. “Be careful, Porter. You’ve got a lot of fire, but that doesn’t mean you won’t get burned out.”

I just hope it didn’t burn me up.

The sun was already beginning to set by the time I walked outside. I had forty-eight hours. I took it on faith that Lanahan’s clock was starting as of first thing in the morning.

The idea of heading home without Pilot held all the allure of spending an intimate evening with Frank Sinatra—the furry one. I pointed my Blazer back towards the Strip, intent on drowning my sorrows.

All I needed to do was find out what had happened to three hundred and fifty desert tortoises, discover the source of some radioactive water, reclaim my lost dog, and resolve a conflicted heart. At the moment, it was easier just to order a drink.

There is no such thing as a quiet bar in Vegas. I headed inside the MGM Grand and followed the neon rainbow past the Emerald City Casino to the Flying Monkey Bar, where I sat beneath a laser thunderstorm and listened to a witch maniacally demand, “Surrender, Dorothy!” over and over as I downed a vodka martini.

Although Vegas is a city without a past for people who want to forget theirs, tonight it wasn’t working. At least not for me. Having few other options, I waved good night to the Wicked Witch and headed back outside.

When I arrived home, I was pleasantly surprised to find that my landlord had been busy at work. Along with my front door, the living room window was now miraculously repaired. Though Lizzie’s lights burned bright, I decided to stay in my own place tonight.

I wended my way past the bits and pieces of rubble that I was beginning to view as a new form of interior design. Padding into the kitchen, I fixed myself a makeshift martini and then headed for the bedroom. I hoped to find the red light blinking on my answering machine, but all was quiet on the electronic front. Which meant that Brian had yet to find Pilot. Or that a trigger-happy guard had gotten to him first.

I didn’t want to think about that as I turned on the tap in the tub, stripped off my clothes, and stepped in. I didn’t want to think about much of anything as the water worked its way up my toes, past my thighs, encompassing my waist and engulfing my breasts like a slow and tender lover. I laid my head back against the cold white porcelain rim, feeling depressed. For the first time, I was beginning to realize that too much of what I’d been taught as a child was a lie. Things don’t get any easier as you get older. They just get tougher. The darkness at the end of the tunnel gets darker, and it gets harder and harder to find your way home.

The night air chilled my skin as I stepped out of the tub. I dried off thinking of Annie McCarthy. Annie had had the courage to follow her heart and her man to Nevada. Could I be equally brave and admit that right now I needed to speak with Santou?

I gathered my nerve and went into the bedroom, where I picked up the phone and dialed his number before I could change my mind. Each ring of the phone danced through my veins. My heart hammered as the receiver on the other end was lifted, and I waited to hear Santou’s warm drawl.

“Hello?”

The voice was feminine, as cool and light as a mint julep on a hot southern day. My own voice caught in my throat, the heat vanishing from my veins as an Arctic chill quickly set in.

“Who is this, please?” she asked.

Oddly enough, I had the same question. Only I didn’t bother to ask. I slowly set the receiver down. And then I remembered: Annie had followed her fiancé to the Nevada desert, and look where it had gotten her. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake.

I didn’t bother to check and see if I had dialed the wrong number. I crawled into bed and sipped the remains of my martini, hoping to keep my nightly demons at bay. A trail of coarse hairs clung to the sheets and worked their way up to my pillow. I didn’t brush them off but took what comfort I could at the sight of them. Right now, they were all I had left of Pilot.

I’d been able to turn out the lights when Pilot had been around. That wasn’t about to happen tonight. Even so, I fell into a restless sleep where no amount of light could keep the night’s darkness from creeping in, until I was confronted by demons from the outside world as well as within. Strangely, they were beginning to look the same.

I woke up feeling
as if I’d never slept, my mind groggy and my body begging to stay in bed. I decided to make my first call of the day with the sheets pulled up to my chin.

“Golden Shaft Mine.” Dee’s voice clipped the words like a machine gun rattling off rounds of ammo.

“It’s Rachel,” I replied. “I have to speak with Brian. I don’t know if you heard, but my dog dug his way onto the mine’s grounds.” My stomach tightened into a knot.

“There’s no way Anderson’s going to speak with you,” Dee tersely replied. “He’s tied up in top-level meetings all day. But I can tell you this much—as far as I know, your dog hasn’t been found.”

It was what I had expected to hear. Still, the news stung like an ember being burned into my heart. I tried to take my mind off Pilot by focusing on business.

“Is the meeting with Garrett?” I felt sure that Alpha Development was somehow involved. “I saw him at the mine when I stopped by yesterday.”

“No. He’s not here,” Dee answered abruptly.

Something was wrong. It wasn’t like Dee to be so remote.

“Listen, Dee. I know that Golden Shaft’s patent went through. But when I came by yesterday, it looked as if the mine was shutting down. Yet security around the grounds was tighter than ever.” I paused and waited, but there was no response.

“Then when I bumped into Garrett, I began to wonder if Golden Shaft might have worked out some sort of deal. You know, maybe sell Alpha some land and pocket the profits. Am I on the right track? Is the mine closing?” I pressed.

Dee finally answered, “You’re partially correct. Alpha did receive some land.”

“Really? Do you know how much?” I asked, trying to sound casual. It seemed that Noah had been right after all.

“Fifteen thousand acres.” Dee’s voice was low, but the information tore through me with the impact of a major quake.

That would give Alpha enough land to create a multi-billion-dollar development empire. I sat up in bed and threw off the sheets.

“That’s a lot of land. Golden Shaft must have done well on the deal.” I prayed that Dee wouldn’t let me down now.

“The transaction went through for the price of one dollar,” came her whispered response.

“What!” I exclaimed. I could scarcely believe what I’d heard. For the first time, I began to distrust Dee’s information. “But how is that possible?”

“Believe me, it is. I have to go now.” The tension in Dee’s voice snapped at me through the wire.

“Wait a minute—I got back a preliminary autopsy report on what those tortoises died from. Does radiation poisoning make any sense to you at all?”

I could hear Roy Jenkins yelling at his dogs next door as I waited for Dee’s reply. A heavy deadness was the only response except for the faintest of clicks.

“Dee, are you still there?” I asked, wondering if we’d been cut off.

“Listen, Porter. There’s something I have to tell you. But not over the phone. It’s too dangerous,” Dee whispered softly. So softly that I had to strain in order to hear. “Come by my house this evening and I’ll talk to you then.”

Dee hung up before I could question her further.

Anticipation of what she might know had me jumping out of bed and into the shower. The stream of cold water washed all my remaining drowsiness away, and I remembered that the clock was now ticking. The pressure was on to make good the time between now and my meeting with Dee. I decided to pay another visit to Bill Holmes at the conservation center, and this time confront him about the neon-green spray paint in his garage.

I was already in the Blazer and heading out when my stomach began to rumble, and I remembered that I hadn’t eaten since losing Pilot. Yesterday morning seemed like ages ago. Apparently my stomach felt the same. Still, the thought of sitting down to solid food made me feel queasy. I stopped at the nearest 7-Eleven, where I opted for a Hickok special—a jumbo Coke and a buttered roll to go. That would carry me at least until noon.

The expanse of the desert seemed larger and more desolate than ever as I rode alone, its silence settling down on me as heavy as a buzzard picking at my bones. I pulled onto the unmarked dirt road heading to the conservation center and willed my mind to go blank. If nothing else, maybe I’d be able to meditate my way to some answers. A swift movement off to the left caught my eye. An antelope squirrel was running for its life with a coyote not far behind. I found myself rooting for the squirrel’s escape with more intensity than usual. These days, I was feeling pretty low on the food chain myself.

A cyclone fence sprang up, cutting the result of the chase from my sight. But I had little time to ponder the outcome, as the locked gate of the Center came into view. I didn’t bother wasting my time beeping my horn, I just pulled out my Leatherman, flicked the lock on the gate, and drove on through.

I walked into the entrance hall, this time feeling as if the stuffed wildlife was watching my every move. I heard a rustle and glanced over at the exhibit. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find each critter awake and fully intent on laying waste to the building and everyone in it.

Hurrying past, I made my way to Holmes’s office, but he was nowhere in sight. I checked the lab room with its empty tortoise cages. While the neon-green imprint was still boldly etched on the door, that room was deserted as well. I searched for the assistant whose fanny Holmes had caressed, and bumped into the portly biologist I’d encountered on my last visit. Formerly dressed in baggy jeans with ragged cuffs, he was now decked out in a white lab coat complete with pocket protector, and a pair of neatly pressed khaki slacks.

“May I help you?” he asked, seemingly unaware of our prior meeting.

“Remember me?” I reminded him. “I was here not long ago looking for Bill Holmes. Well, I’m here again. Same mission.”

My biologist straightened the pens in his pocket protector before clearing his throat. “I’m afraid William Holmes is on an extended leave of absence. I’m taking his place for now,” he informed me in a lofty tone of self-importance.

“When did this happen?” I silently kicked myself in the butt. I should have known to expect some sort of move on Holmes’s part after our last meeting.

“Fairly recently,” my biologist said, standing perfectly straight. His hands were nestled inside the lab coat pocket, so that only his thumbs were in view.

I glanced at the name tag on his lapel. “Just how extended is this leave of his, Charles?”

“It’s indefinite.” Charles gave a smug, satisfied smile as if pleased that he knew something I didn’t.

“Then I take it there haven’t been any more thefts since the last batch of tortoises were reported missing?” I figured I might as well pump him for whatever information I could.

Charles gave me a funny look. “What theft are you talking about?”

“You know—the three hundred and fifty juvenile tortoises that were stolen,” I prompted him.

“I was told that was due to predation,” he slowly replied.

“Who told you that?” I asked, beginning to wonder which one of us had lost our mind.

“William Holmes did,” Charles answered uneasily.

“That’s interesting. Did you ever happen to catch the critter that was snacking on all those torts?” For all I knew, Charles was also in on the scam.

“Well, no,” Charles stammered, before making a quick recovery. “For goodness’ sakes, it’s not as if the perpetrator signs in and out, even though I know you’d like a full confession.”