Wounded Earth (14 page)

Norma's voice was completely normal, as if the Feds called every day. Larabeth wondered whether the woman was capable of speaking in an unpleasant tone, even if the devil himself called. “Put him through,” she said, relieved that she could quit agonizing over whether calling the FBI was the right thing to do.

A brisk and self-consciously official voice wafted from her speaker phone. “This is Agent Randall Yancey, with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I've been assigned to follow up on the victims of the recent animal slashings.”

Larabeth couldn't help herself. “Detective, I believe the victims are dead. Perhaps I could put you in contact with the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals.”

“Not the animal victims. The people targeted by the slasher. I'm acting as a liaison between the Bureau and the human victims in Louisiana, Arkansas, Missouri, Nebraska, Texas, and Mississippi. I have a transcript of your interview at the scene. Is there anything you would like to add to your statement that could help us track down the perpetrator?”

Larabeth grimaced. This guy was so green he smelled like grass. She'd be willing to bet that he was one month out of school. Nevertheless, he had a supervisor who surely had a few more gray hairs and she'd promised herself that she would share her Babykiller tapes with the authorities. Well, the authorities had come to her.

“I did think of a few more things that—” Larabeth suddenly thought of Babykiller and how he always knew where she was. She thought of wiretaps and surveillance personnel. She heard him say,
You're not fully aware of all my capabilities
, and
Put your affairs in order
, and, worst of all,
I'm going to take you with me.
There was no way she was going to let him know she was talking to the FBI.

“Actually, no. I guess I did give the agent in Lincoln my complete statement.” She paused. “I presume you're going to talk to Guillaume Langlois?”

“Yes, ma'am, he's on my list.”

“Good,” she said. “I wish you the best of luck.”

Larabeth hung up the phone as young Agent Yancey sputtered, “Wait! I have more questions.” She buzzed Norma to hold her calls, then she drew a notepad and two manila envelope from her desk. She wrote,

Agent Yancey,

When you hear these tapes you will understand why I am afraid to talk to you. Perhaps you will find something useful on them. I haven't. If I receive any more calls or if I have any bright ideas, I will let you know through Guillaume.

Larabeth McLeod

She drew copies of her taped conversations with Babykiller from her purse and slipped them along with the note into one of the manila envelopes. Then she began another letter.

Guillaume,

I can't discuss this on the phone and I'm even afraid to talk about it in person, but I need your help. When Detective Yancey of the FBI calls you, make an appointment to meet him at your house so you can show him where the eagle carcasses were left. Give him this package, but don't say anything about it. I know this is a weird request and I'm sorry to make it, but you are one of the few utterly trustworthy people I am privileged to know.

Larabeth

She tucked this note and the envelope containing the tapes into the second manila envelope. She was looking forward to seeing Guillaume again. He made her feel safe.

* * *

Larabeth clutched the tapes in their plain envelope tightly as she hugged Guillaume Langlois hello. Babykiller had driven her to these cops-and-robber tactics. If she had to play silly games, it was comforting to play them with her dearest friend. Guillaume was going to enjoy sparring with the Feds.

She had suggested they meet at a diner near BioHeal's offices and Guillaume was, as always, amenable to the idea of a cheap and tasty lunch. “This is New Orleans. There's no need to pay for a pretentious meal,” he said as he settled down to eat, gesturing broadly at the city on the other side of the diner's plate glass window. “Everybody knows how to cook. And it's a port city, so ships bring us fresh food from all over the globe. You have to work hard to get bad food here.” He rubbed his belly. “Look at me. I'm walking, talking proof.”

“You're not fat, Guillaume. You're just well-fed,” Larabeth said, eyeballing the blackboard specials.

“My point, exactly. The entire local culture is based on the notion of being well-fed and happy.”

Larabeth wasn't just being polite. She really did think that well-fed was a better adjective for Guillaume's shape than fat or stocky. His barrel chest and sturdy, tree-trunk legs provided the strength and support a voice like his required.

And Larabeth did love Guillaume's voice. It was round, low, powerful, an instrument fit for a prophet or a demon. He didn't speak with a definable accent, but his speech retained a faint flavor, just a scent, of his ancestral French. His voice was a rare blessing and he used it freely.

Even now, he had beckoned the waitress to him and she stood in thrall as, with that voice, he exchanged mundane pleasantries and ordered a plate of etouf. Larabeth had watched him incite a crowd to acts of civil disobedience that would surely get them arrested. He was lavishing as much effort and attention on this one waitress as he had on crowds of hundreds or thousands.

The effect was the same. Larabeth could tell. The woman's face was alight. Guillaume made her feel as if she were the only person in the room.

Larabeth ordered her po-boy. The waitress gave her a perfunctory nod, then rushed to the kitchen to make sure Mr. Langlois's etouf had plenty of crawfish in it and to secure the fresh bottle of Tabasco sauce that he had requested.

Guillaume turned his attention to Larabeth and she felt the sun come out. Fortunately, she was well aware of his charm and, while she enjoyed it, she rarely allowed herself to be swayed by it. As long as she knew Guillaume for what he was and what he was not, there was no harm in enjoying his company.

“And so,
cherie
, we find ourselves with a common enemy,” he said, beaming at the waitress as she delivered their order. “Who would have considered it possible?”

“You don't have to behave like we're exact opposites,” she sputtered through a crispy mouthful of French bread. “I care about the environment, too, you know. And sometimes I feel like I'm doing some real good, cleaning up contamination and keeping my clients honest. Or as honest as possible, anyway. Maybe I think my approach is more constructive than yours.”

“I eschew ‘constructive.’ It is neither hot nor cold; I spew it from my mouth.”

“Really, Guillaume.” Larabeth speared a choice crawfish tail off his plate and popped it in her mouth. “I doubt if your followers understand half of what you say. Wouldn't it help if you dumbed your vocabulary down and bypassed the biblical allusions?”

“Have you no imagination?” he roared. His waitress friend looked up, concerned, from the table she was clearing.

He lowered his voice a bit and continued. “They love the oratory. You don't have to understand the word ’matricide’ to feel anger when you hear that Mother Earth is being raped and murdered. They understand my message, however I say it, and they are moved to action. And the few, the ones who hear me and understand everything, they are the heart, the soul, the brains, of our movement. They are the people who make things happen. They, Larabeth,” he looked into her eyes and she felt an unreasoning desire to leave BioHeal and save the world, “they are like you and me.”

Reminding herself that it was never wise to let Guillaume control a conversation, she broke in. “Since you admit that we do have something in common, then the fact that we have a common enemy is not so surprising as you seem to think.”

Guillaume's fork paused halfway to his mouth. He set it down and busied himself with the Tabasco sauce. After a moment, he said, “Touch. My associates don't understand why I associate with you. Perhaps I shouldn't tell you this, but they call you the ‘Corporate Whore.’”

“How charming.”

“Perhaps one out of a hundred understands me when I say that a thoughtful and articulate adversary is more educational than an army who thinks as you do. The other ninety-nine give me a blank look and ask whether it's time to go chain ourselves to another nuclear facility.”

Larabeth poked at her food for so long that Guillaume, uncharacteristically tentative, asked, “Have I said the wrong thing?”

“No,” she said, pausing again. “I was just thinking. Somebody else just referred to me as a worthy adversary. I've been getting crank calls from some weirdo. I think he broke into my house, or hired someone to do it, and I think he had something to do with those strange animal killings. Maybe he chose fifty targets that he considered worthy adversaries. He calls himself Babykiller. You haven't heard from him, have you?”

“Babykiller. What an attractive choice of names. No, I haven't heard from him. About your theory—I don't think your friend chose fifty worthy adversaries to dump animal carcasses on. I know several of the victims and, except for you, they are uniformly idiots.”

They split the check and Guillaume left the waitress a tip even healthier than Larabeth's typically generous percentage. The daily after-lunch thundershower was gathering as they left the diner, but it held off long enough for them to say their good-byes.

She hugged him one last time and slipped the envelope in his hand. His eyes met hers for a moment and she gave a quick, don't-say-anything shake of her head.

He took the package without question, as she had known he would, and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. “As you wish," he said. "Sometimes I worry about you, living all alone.”

”I can take care of myself,” she said. ”I've been doing it for a long time.”

He nodded. “Yes, but if someone else took the task, he might do a more gentle job of it.” He bowed slightly and walked away.

Larabeth walked in the other direction. She dug around in her purse, glad that Guillaume was still her friend, since she had so completely alienated J.D. She had just retrieved her car keys when Guillaume turned around.

“Oh, Larabeth,” he called, rushing his sturdy frame down the sidewalk after her and talking ninety-to-nothing. “I almost forgot. We're planning a demonstration on Thursday, a spectacle really, that you should know about. We've built a huge raft and equipped it with a loudspeaker. We made sails—not functional, of course, we'll have to use motor power to operate safely on the river—and have painted extremely inventive slogans all over them. There will be other attention-getting devices, of course, but it's too much to go into here.”

“And what do you plan to do with this unusual vessel?”

“We're going to create a hullabaloo to call attention to all the industries that dump their waste in the river.”

Larabeth was getting a bad feeling about the direction this conversation was taking. “And where do you plan to create this so-called ‘hullabaloo’?”

“At the Louisiana Consolidated Petroleum and Mining waste outfall. You know, those pipes that stick out of the bank and pour stuff in the river.”

“You devil. That's my client and you know they're in compliance with all their permit requirements. They treat that water before they discharge it. It's probably cleaner than the river itself.”

Guillaume cocked his head. “Oh, I know. But you must admit, it's a very photogenic spot. The TV cameras won't know whether Consolidated is polluting or not, and the resulting hullabaloo will call attention to those other companies who are polluting. We're expecting the police, the media, the environmental regulators, the public. It's going to be a big thing. You should come.”

“You know I'll be there.” Larabeth sighed. Never had she been so sorry that her job included shielding her clients from investigative reporters. Guillaume had certainly sent out scads of press releases for this event. She could easily wind up talking to
Sixty Minutes
.

“I have to be there," she said. "My client's going to need somebody to undo the bad PR you're planning to generate.”

Guillaume smirked. “Then I look forward to seeing you there.” He hurried away to avoid the coming thundershower.

Larabeth took a roundabout route back to BioHeal. She kept an eye on the sidewalk behind her, the street, the sidewalk across the street and she was fairly sure that no one was following her. It had been a relief to pass her tapes to Guillaume, then to Agent Yancey. Surely with the FBI's help she could lose the feeling that she was never far from her stalker.

She felt better when she stepped onto the elevator and stood, alone, watching the doors close. She felt even better when, still alone, she passed unharmed through the entrance to BioHeal. Norma looked up, then resumed her work as Larabeth sailed through the outer office with a perfunctory nod.

You are not helpless. You are not vulnerable
, Larabeth told herself silently, over and over, like some demented motivational speaker.
You are safe in the privacy of your personal office.
She sat with dignity at her desk, in the spot where she'd spent much of her life, and expelled her breath in a calming gust. Then she noticed two things.

The photograph of her and Cynthia, the one she had shoved to the back of her file drawer, had been replaced in its spot, right behind the telephone. And a little red light was flashing, signaling her that someone had left voice mail on her personal line. She pushed the “play” button because she felt she had no other choice.