Carnosaur Crimes (8 page)

She pulled a business card off a table and passed it to him. Then, she bent forward and pecked him lightly on the right cheek. “I'll be waiting. Drive safely.”

Dorbandt hurried from the studio and slammed into the summer heat again, but this time he was floating on hot air.

Chapter 11

“All who have died are equal.”

Comanche

The remote next to Ansel's bed awoke her from peaceful slumber with brutal efficiency. She jerked upright like a marionette, eyes wide, heart pounding, and brain disorientated. Jesus, what was happening? Eight rings. Why didn't her answering machine kick in? Nine rings. Ten.

Groaning, she rolled toward the night stand, flailed her right arm, and snatched the device. “Hello,” she said, projecting the angry tone she intended.

“Ansel, this is Permelia Chance. Sounds like your belly cinch is too tight. You all right?”

Damn. She'd forgotten her promise to call Permelia. Ansel rubbed a hand over her face, then pushed back strands of tangled hair. The digital clock-radio blinked an erroneous twelve o'clock. There must have been a power outage. Everyone was maxing out their air conditioning, and Montana Power and Light was hard-pressed to match supply with demand.

“Sorry, Mrs. Chance. I'm under the weather. I was going to call. What time is it?”

“Only eight o'clock. I'm impatient but at my age the glass is three-quarters empty.”

Gaining her bearings, Ansel knew she needed more sleep and she ached all over. “No problem. We should meet talk about your book cover art.”

“How about today? Starr and I are free all afternoon.”

Ansel mentally reviewed her schedule for the next few days. There was only one good time to make the drive to Permelia's ranch. “I'm booked this afternoon. Tomorrow morning?”

“Sure. Come over about ten o'clock. You know your way?”

“Yes. See you then, Mrs. Chance.”

Permelia said farewell through Starr's yapping echo. Ansel clicked off and speed-dialed the ranch. Every day at the Arrowhead began at four a.m. She listened as Pearl's affable, taped voice requested her to leave a message. Her stepmother of fifteen years was a no-nonsense, liberated woman who could draw straws of semen from high-strung Angus bulls for artificial insemination one minute, then turn around and speak in a guileless, lady-like voice that sounded as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth.

“Pearl, it's Ansel. Ask Daddy to give me the name of a good attorney who handles land trust cases. Leave a message if I'm not here. Hope everything's all right. Love you both. Bye.”

Ansel pushed back the covers, her leg muscles protesting with bolts of fiery pain and reminding her of her night in the Badlands. Agent Outerbridge had revealed nothing more about his mysterious sting operation, and she'd made a helicopter trip back to Swoln with Standback.

Agent Standback, she thought with a smile while rounding up Khaki pants, a beaded shirt, and basket-stamped belt from closet and drawers. The FBI pilot was an enigma.

Standback had stuck to his routine of polite dialogue peppered with provocative glances. It was obvious he liked her, but he'd never asked her anything personal. He'd promised to see her again, which was a given if Outerbidge was returning with a pep talk. Otherwise, she didn't even know Standback's first name. Nor had he given her any clues to his Indian heritage.

That's what stumped her. Indians usually conversed first about their family ancestry - what tribe they were from and their clan affiliations. It was important to know one's relationship to clan strangers who could be tied to you by extended lineages as intricate as the strands of a spider's web. She didn't deal with such tribal customs daily, but was surprised that Standback hadn't acknowledged they were Amerindian kinsmen in an Anglo-dominated world.

Ansel put on her make-up and grabbed a bowl of cereal and a cup of instant coffee. As she ate, she pulled the neatly manufactured foil tab from her purse and studied it. Curious. The quarter inch foil circle with the smaller green square on the shiny side taunted her as it lay in her hand. If the FBI team had searched the area, how had they missed it? Maybe being under the toe bone had obscurred it or maybe somebody had left it behind after the land was combed for forensic clues.

Pushing the tab back into a plastic photo wallet sheet and replacing the billfold in her purse, Ansel planned her day. She'd lined up a full schedule of chores, not the least was continuing to work on the Giganatosaurus drawing. First, she had some investigating to do.

Within the next twenty minutes, she'd grabbed some things and primed the trailer security system. She was shocked by the broiling heat outside. Dust billows generated by northeasterly prairie winds and the crispy, straw-matted wasteland of what had once been a verdant spring-green landscape engulfed her. Even the Ponderosa at the end of her drive were turning sienna under the broiling sun. An end to the drought didn't look anywhere in sight.

Things didn't get better as she drove toward the Big Toe Natural History Museum. Pastures withered, watering holes steamed away, and dirt-powdered stock animals cast skeletal shadows across a dying earth. Ansel had never seen a drought this bad, so fierce and unrelenting.

When she reached Barnum Brown Road, she drove slowly, keeping an eye out for cops of any variety. She wasn't sure how the FBI, county police or BLM officers had beefed up security. The front gate was chained and padlocked. A large, yellow NO TRESPASSING sign had been wired to the chain link. The parking lot was empty. No sign of Bieselmore either, who'd get the bum's rush as curator if the BLM decided to close the place.

There was a dirt service road to her right bordered on both sides by a fence line of thick chains strung between wide posts. The side road entrance was also blocked by a timber drop gate securely padlocked at one end. Ansel didn't care about the museum compound. She was interested in the riverbed.

Ansel switched gears and reversed the truck down Barnum Brown Road until the chain barrier ceased. Then she gunned the four-wheel drive vehicle around an end-post and made a diagonal grassland crossing to intersect with the service road.

She was officially trespassing on BLM land but if she was quick and unobtrusive, she could get in and out without being spotted. She wanted two things: a closer look at the ground surrounding the fossil tracks and to scrutinize the damage done to her Allosaurus sculpture.

The gravel drive stopped on the west side of the compound, but Ansel continued off road onto the grass. No one could see her from the parking lot. This was what she wanted, as had the poacher. She carefully negotiated the truck between the riverbed and the dinosaur sculpture and parked. Her destination was the rocky incline where the fossil tracks had nearly been pilfered.

Most of the grasshoppers were gone. Some starved and listless insects remained amidst the occasional dead husks of their brethren. Birds, small mammals, and reptiles must have finished off the majority, Ansel guessed. Nourishment was at a premium right now.

The Red Water River was as sluggish as the crawling pests. Low-level waters barely rippled as they moved southwest past the rocky riverbed to feed a fan of streams and creek evaporating as fast as they were filled. The thought that death was everywhere saddened her.

The FBI had done an efficient job of scouring the crime scene area. Except for the trampled and tire-furrowed dirt, the grassland looked deceptively void of all signs of criminal mayhem. Nothing remained of the exploded saw debris or combusted human remains.

Ansel walked onto the sandstone ledge with eyes scanning the Cretaceous bedrock. The footprints were from an undetermined carnosaur species, but it made them no less valuable in terms of rarity and geohistorical value.

She stood looking down at the charred firmament surrounding the single despoiled dinosaur track and frowned. A deep, slicing gouge ran along one side of it. The diamond blade hadn't cracked the matrix supporting the footprint, but the foot-long cut would have to be filled and patched in order to prevent irreversible destruction from edgewater erosion and weathering. Already sand, grit and pebbles were lodging into the crevice.

A quick scan of the rest of the ledge revealed a hodge podge of scraps, dings, and pits caused by exploding saw debris. A particularly odd-looking groove caught her attention, and she bent to examine it. The narrow, two-inch long groove had left a white scar along the brown sandstone as tiny silicon crystals had been sheared off at high speed. More shrapnel, she decided.

Moments later she was in front of the Allosaurus' pimpled stomach skin and staring up at its jaws. Burnt and peeling rubber latex streamers hung down from the snout and looked like strips of decaying flesh. Major repairs there, Ansel thought. And the mouth cavity and teeth were completely blackened by soot damage.

Ansel winced, not envying the firemen who pulled the corpse from those resinous, three-inch long, serrated teeth. How long and hard would any of the law enforcement agencies search to identify a faceless Indian thief who bungled a robbery attempt and got himself killed in the process? Certainly their prime motivation would be to try and outsmart one another for jurisdictional vanities and glory rather than to gain closure for the man's family and friends.

As she shifted position to view the dinosaur in profile, Ansel saw a flash of brilliance out of the corner of her eye. Glancing up again, she saw nothing. Then, there – sunlight glinting off silver near the beast's lower chest. She located the source of the sunlit sparkle as eleven feet above her and within a badly charred section of rubber skin just beneath the clawed forearms. There was no way she could reach it.

The crunch of footsteps on parched grass behind her was unmistakable. Her urge to bolt didn't lessen when she saw BLM agent Broderick coming toward her. He carried his clip board, too.

“Miss Phoenix.” His mouth presented a wide smirk. “Why am I not surprised to see you?”

His vehicle was no where in sight. Ansel figured out that he must have parked in front of the museum and walked down to ambush her. She smiled gaily even as her shaking hands hung limply at her sides. “Good morning, Agent Broderick.”

“You're trespassing. Do you have a problem understanding this is a crime scene?”

“No. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. I thought only the museum was off limits. I'll be glad to leave.” She took a quick step around him.

Broderick moved sideways to block her. “Not so fast. What are you doing out here?”

“I was looking at the sculpture. Assessing the damage. I'll be repairing it when the museum reopens. I need to order materials before then.”

“If it opens you mean.”

Ansel's eyes narrowed. “I guess I'm just an optimist at heart.”

Broderick raised his clipboard and took the pen from beneath its clasp. “What a coincidence. Me, too. I'm hoping you've learned your lesson. That's why I'm not taking you into custody, just issuing you a citation.”

“You're giving me a ticket?”

“Uh, huh.” He scribbled across the pad.

“For what?”

“For crossing through the brush with an off-highway vehicle to get past a clearly marked and closed Land Management access road. You'll have to go the same way out of here. Off highway vehicles such as yours can only be operated in BLM areas designated for OHV use. Unauthorized OHV use leads to serious environmental degradation, Miss Phoenix.”

“All right. I could see you giving me a warning, but a ticket seems excessive.”

“You are contributing to the destruction of a prehistoric site. As a paleoartist, you should know that by enforcing the proper recreational laws, permits, and citations, the BLM is safeguarding public lands for future generations.” He grinned and passed the completed form to her. “Please sign at the bottom.”

Ansel carefully took the board with pen in her right hand. The fine was for one-hundred dollars. Silently fuming but anxious to depart, she had no choice. Her signature was an illegible scrawl.

Broderick took the board and tore off the top copy. “The payment instructions are on the reverse. Mail it on time. The BLM appreciates your cooperation.”

“Of course,” Ansel replied, taking the citation. “Are we through, Agent Broderick? It's stifling out here.”

“Almost. I see that you've been making close friends with the FBI.”

Ansel tensed further. His relaxed, sarcastic demeanor had changed for the worse. His gaze was razor-sharp and his fist holding the clipboard at his side was turning white with squeezing pressure. He was angry.

“What do you mean?”

“Midnight jaunts in helicopters. That's what I'm talking about. Where did you go with Outerbridge's lackey?”

“How do you know about that?

“Answer me. Where did you go?”

“Ask Outerbridge.”

This time Ansel took several quick steps before the agent reacted to stop her. She got past him, but he was fast, too. Broderick back pedaled and thrust his face up to hers again, effectively sending her backwards in mid-stride. He was smart, Ansel assessed – wasn't going to touch her and leave marks or risk an assault charge.

“I will ask Outerbridge, Miss Phoenix, but you can be certain that I'm going to know every move you make with the FBI. Count on it. This is BLM territory. Nobody's shoveling the ground out from under us. Not the sheriff's department, the FBI, or you.”

“Either arrest me for trespassing or get out of my way.”

“And if I don't?”

“If you don't, when I get out of jail I'm going to every newspaper, TV station, and radio show I can and talk about how you bully Native American women BLM-style. That should do wonders to screw up any relations the BLM has going with tribal authorities from Big Toe to Butte.”

Broderick's face went ashen, then he simply moved away from her, eyes glaring. Ansel rushed past him. Only near her truck did she dare to look over her shoulder. The mercurial agent stood in the broiling sun like a statue watching her. She jumped into the cab. Seconds later, she drove past Broderick, never glancing into the rearview mirror. The drive down the access road and through the grassland brush to Barnum Brown Road was done in another minute. She noticed the BLM truck parked by the museum gate as she sped away.