“A lot of people in Nevada care about tortoises. Mostly for the wrong reasons.” I pulled the list out of his hand and headed for the door.
“By the way, Porter. How did you know it was the super juvees that were missing?” he asked, his voice high and tight in his throat.
“Would you keep regular tortoises in a lab, each in individual pens?” I retorted.
Holmes stared at me without saying a word. I didn’t bother to tell him it was the age and weight carefully listed on each cage that had given it away.
The best thing about driving through the desert is that you have plenty of time to think. There’s nothing much else to do. I began totting up a list of suspects in my mind. So far, nearly everyone in southern Nevada was on it.
With the federal government owning ninety percent of the land in Clark County, there’s little private land left to buy. Instead, miners and ranchers lease public land for pennies, but with restrictions attached in a big flashy bow of government red tape. When I’d arrived, I was informed that miners despise the tortoise because their presence inhibits mining. I learned that ranchers hate the critter since they’re the cause of cattle grazing being curtailed. And developers routinely yell at me that they have no land to build on.
But my list of suspects didn’t stop there. Wealthy collectors with exotic tastes hanker after the threatened creature as a “must have” pet. And in Vietnamese and Cambodian communities, they’re lusted after at sumptuous banquets in the form of highly prized tortoise soup.
All of this left me with an endless number of places to begin my search. Frustration makes me hungry. I reached inside my bag of chips, found it was empty, and decided it was time for lunch. There was one place where I could eat and possibly pick up some information as well.
The Mosey On Inn was a pit stop on the road to nowhere. A giant statue of Paul Bunyan took up most of the parking lot, and I had yet to figure out its meaning—there was nothing in sight to chop down. I parked next to Paul’s boot and walked inside, where I spied Ruby at her usual spot behind the counter.
“Hi there, sugar. Mosey on in here.”
Ruby and her husband had moved to Nevada three years ago. Her husband had declared it his retirement paradise; Ruby saw it as her hell. Having lived most of her life in Nebraska, she’d been dragged out here against her will, kicking and screaming all the way. Ruby’s worst nightmare came true when after only two months in Nevada, her husband blissfully dropped dead of a heart attack while experiencing a lap dance in Vegas. Ruby had found herself stuck in a trailer that had been bought with their life savings and working a dead-end job.
“What’ll it be today, sweetie?” she asked, pleased at having a customer.
“A slice of lemon meringue pie and a jolt of black coffee would be perfect,” I replied.
Ruby waddled back and forth filling my order, her ample rear end threatening to burst her uniform at the seams. The buttons on the front of her dress were equally strained, thanks to a bountiful bosom, which was further accentuated by a large, purple plastic orchid pinned to her chest. Ruby helped nature along by smearing a generous dose of rouge on the tops of her cheeks and then applying the same ruby-red paste to her lips. To top it off, tiny rolls of tight blond curls covered her head, resembling a serving platter full of miniature pork sausage. The effect was that of a kewpie doll on acid. Ruby had been out in the desert too long.
“So what brings you out here today, sugar? It can’t be just our homemade pie.” Ruby smiled at me.
She was right. My fork bounced off a slice that must have been coagulating for days.
“Some young tortoises are missing from the conservation center,” I replied, slowly chewing on a mouthful of rubbery lemon curd. “I was wondering if you might have heard any news.”
The Mosey On Inn is a hangout where information on illegal deals is regularly exchanged. It’s out of the way, the food is bad, and word has it that Ruby gets a small cut on any business that goes down. My counterdefense was to ply her with makeup, perfume, and hair spray whenever she supplied me with any dirt. I pulled out a small bottle of White Diamonds cologne and slid it her way. Ruby eagerly snapped it up and squirted on her daily fix, permeating my coffee with its sweet, cloying scent.
“How about them wackos?”
The rasping voice came hurtling at me from the back of the room. Turning around, I saw a figure disengage itself from a dark corner and make its way to the front. The man was dressed in full camouflage, but it was his face that caught my attention. He looked as though he’d been caught in a napalm attack and just barely survived.
“The whole bunch of ’em are crazy as loons. Call themselves guerrillas. I call them flaming assholes,” he croaked.
One eye was a mere slit. The other stared out from a puffy mound of scar tissue, where it burned with the intensity of a live ember. He held a cup of coffee in his hand, complete with a straw. Taking a sip, his mouth opened and closed like a fish stranded on land.
It took me a moment before I managed to gather my wits and reply. “Why do you call them wackos?”
The man fixed his good eye on me. “They’re supposed to be a bunch of screwball scientists. Probably experimented with one too many chemicals, if ya know what I mean.”
He took another sip from his straw. A dribble escaped and worked its way down to lodge in the crook that had once been his chin.
“They’re always bitching about miners and ranchers destroying the land. I hear they even laid down in front of some bulldozers at one mine. I say the damn ’dozers should have run them over.” The man paused for added effect. “I hear they call that Center you’re talking about a concentration camp. Hell, I hear they even lick toads.” He gave me the eye.
I must have looked surprised.
“You know, getting high and having orgies and stuff,” he said, continuing to stare at me.
“Do these scientists live around here?” I asked. It seemed far-fetched, but it was all I had to grab onto.
“Sure. Not far from me.” He nodded in an indeterminate direction. “Just the other side of McCullough Pass.”
I’d never been through the pass. There was no reason to go. Nobody would have thought of living there.
“I’m Rachel Porter,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”
His good eye blinked. “That’s because I damn well didn’t give it.”
He quickly looked around in all directions, hunching his shoulders up to what had at one time been his ears, before moving in closer. I saw that his fingernails were as hard and horned as tortoiseshell, and what few teeth he had were dark, like small lumps of coal.
“They call me Cammo Dude. You ain’t one of those government stooges, are you?” he asked suspiciously.
I could tell I was about to step on a land mine. “I work for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”
“So you’re one of those no-good, jackbooted thugs who wants to take away our land and uses any eight-eyed, range-munching, rock-climbing, pseudo-endangered critter to do it?”
The Dude was close to foaming at what was left of his mouth.
I pointed down at my sneakers. “No jackboots here. I also don’t know of any critter like the one you’ve described, but I’d sure like to see it. And finally, did you say that you live in the pass? I didn’t think there were any private landholdings there.”
The Dude backed off immediately. “What are you planning to do? Come in with some group of Rambos and kick me outta my home?”
Bingo. Cammo was living illegally on public land. I decided to throw him some rope.
“No. I don’t believe in that. I think as long as you’re not harming the land, it’s nobody’s business where you live. This is wide open space that belongs to the public,” I told him.
Cammo hesitated, studying me intently with his one eye. Then he nodded in agreement. “You’re damn right it does.”
I gave the lasso a tug. “But not everyone feels the same way. So I’ll make you a deal. You tell me wh
atever you hear about those tortoises, and we’ll keep where you live a secret.”
I was hoping to add Cammo to a small list of locals I could turn to for information. Hermits living in the desert have a knack for knowing about poaching and everything else that goes on.
Cammo thought for a moment. “You got a deal if you get rid of those damn helicopters you government stooges have got flying around here all night. A man can’t get his sleep.”
“I’ll look into it.” I figured the ’copters had to be part of a training mission at nearby Nellis Air Force Base that would probably end in a matter of days.
Having struck a deal, the Dude headed back to his corner table and I got up to leave. But before I was out the door, Ruby pulled me aside. The smell of her cologne almost knocked me over.
“Listen, sugar. You want to find out what’s going on in these parts? You head over to see old Annie McCarthy,” she said, shoving a paper bag into my hand.
I already knew what the package contained. Ruby had studied my eating habits over the past three months. Horrified, she’d become determined to save me.
“The woman’s been here forever and is into every darn thing you can think of,” Ruby continued. “Word has it she’s dealing in reptiles, too. If something’s going on, you can bet your buns Annie’s gotten wind of it.”
I trusted Ruby on this. She was my Information Central. If the tortoises weren’t part of a deal that Annie McCarthy was involved in, there was always the chance that she might decide to squeal on any upstart competition.
“If she’s not at the ranch, she’s probably out checking her claims,” Ruby added.
I had a hard time imagining an old woman out prospecting. “She’s a miner?” I asked, glancing inside the bag.
A ham and cheese sandwich was accompanied by a shiny red apple. I looked up at Ruby and smiled.
She pulled a lace hankie from her breast pocket and gave it a squirt of cologne. “Annie’s a crazy old coot who stakes a claim on every piece of land she can. She must have at least eighty of them in the area. She’s probably got a damn fortune in gold sitting out there while she waits to strike it rich. Annie’s counting on some mining company to come in and cut her a deal one day,” Ruby revealed. “In the meantime, she’s dealing in reptiles and every other damn thing to get by.”
I got directions to the ranch, along with a couple of Cokes to go, and headed out in search of what I hoped would become my own goldmine of information.
The quickest way to Annie McCarthy’s was across a shaven mountaintop. Turning off the highway, I threw the Blazer into four-wheel drive, the gearshift shrieking in protest as I held my breath. It had given way on me twice before, and I prayed it didn’t happen now. Mountain lions roam the area, and I imagined they might find my diet of candy and chips made for a tasty treat. The Blazer rumbled into gear as I headed up the mountain. Tall steel power line towers guided my way, silent sentinels standing guard over the desert. The wind had picked up, producing a low, mournful moan that trailed close at my heels, prodding me on as it nipped at the back of my Blazer, and the power lines began to hum in the wind. The sound surged its way through me, starting at the soles of my feet and coursing up into my torso, my heart, my head, and my hands until I vibrated in unison with the desert floor.
Thorny bushes of cat’s claw dotted the landscape, intermingling with patches of buckhorn choya. I’d made the mistake of brushing up against a choya plant once, only to learn how lethal their needles can be. As I drove still higher, the choya was replaced by a thick carpet of teddy bear cholla. Soft and fuzzy on the surface, its spines have been known to pierce an unlucky foot straight through to the bone.
I reached the summit and looked down over the sheer drop that lay to my left as I rounded a curve. The El Dorado Canyon was spread out before me, surrounded by wedding-cake layers of mountains. The road spiraled down till it touched level ground, where it ran straight as an arrow, crossing the desert floor. A speck emerged in the distance, and soon Annie’s ranch loomed ahead.
Old and run-down, the ranch consisted of an ancient stable with a galvanized tin roof, a fenced-in corral, and tall wooden posts erected as gallows from which slaughtered cows were hung. The main house stood off to the side, ghoulishly decorated with an array of animal skulls leering down from above the windows and door. A powder-blue Studebaker was parked next to a structure that I suspected was an outdoor shower, judging by the water tank perched on its roof. If Annie was home, she could hear me coming from a mile away.
I parked my Blazer next to Annie’s car and took a look inside it. In perfect condition, the Studebaker put my clunker of a Blazer to shame. A light cream-colored blanket had been carefully laid across the front seat. Long, black dog hairs clung to its nap on the passenger side. I noticed that the clock still kept perfect time and the gas tank was half full.
I walked over to the house and tapped on the front door, though I took it for granted that no one was home. Already ajar, the door slid open at my touch. I called out Annie’s name, but received no answer. Hesitating for just a moment, I walked in.
My footsteps echoed as I entered the hallway and peered into the first room on my left. The kitchen was immaculate, without a pot or pan in sight. I brazenly began to explore, opening the cupboards, where dishes were neatly stacked and glasses lined up as straight as toy solders. The pantry revealed an abundance of canned goods along with large bags of dog food. It was as if Annie was seriously planning for a disaster, either natural or man-made. I swatted away a group of flies that were congregated on top of an open can of dog biscuits and then closed the lid. Walking over to the table, I saw it was set for one, with each utensil in its proper place. A paper napkin was neatly folded alongside a chipped dinner plate gaily decorated with faded blue cornflowers daintily dancing along its edge. A water glass, cleaner than any to be found in my own kitchen cabinet, sat nearby. Balanced on its rim was another fly, patiently waiting for food.
I walked back into the hall, where my next stop was Annie’s bedroom. An old walnut dresser stood inside, virginally draped in a swathe of hand-crocheted ivory lace. Carefully arranged on top were tiny photographs lovingly displayed in antique brass frames. Each photo portrayed a beautiful young woman whom I assumed to be Annie. The photos appeared to be from the 1940s, though none contained the desert as a backdrop. In some Annie beamed at the camera, holding a small dog in her arms. Other photos, yellowed with age, showed her gazing up at a handsome young man adoringly. Still others portrayed her alone, an air of melancholy lingering about her.
As I held a photo of Annie, a whiff of a scent intruded—tinged with the distinct, sharp odor of ammonia. But something else was mixed in as well: the nauseatingly sweet stench of decay. I took a deep breath, and the stench reached down inside me, its fingers twisting teasingly at my stomach while numbing my brain. Tiny pinpricks of perspiration broke out on my face and over my body. I licked my lips, rough as an emery board against my tongue, to taste a salty residue of sweat.
For the first time, I became aware of how deathly still the house was. The only sounds were that of my own blood pounding through my body and the persistent buzz of flies, their maddening hum hanging like an off-key chorus filling the air.
My feet moved woodenly out of the bedroom as I continued my search. I passed a room Annie must have used as a study. A rocking chair sat in reproachful silence; on its needlepoint seat lay a copy of Pride and Prejudice, a bookmark napping between the last pages that had been read. A wooden case against the wall held a treasure trove of books. On any other occasion I would have perused Annie’s choice of reading material, curious as to how she filled her time, living all alone in the desert. But the air had grown more and more putrid, urging me on.
By the time I reached the end of the hall, the smell was so intense that I began to gag. But what I saw appalled me even more: an army of black flies buzzed angrily outside the last door, covering every inch of its frame. I glanced down and stepped back with a gasp as I saw w
here the insects were coming from. Hundreds of winged black bodies swarmed in the gap where the door met the floor, crawling over one another in a mad fight for space. Steeling myself, I pulled my shirttail out of my pants, held the fabric up over my nose and mouth, and gingerly pushed the door open with the tips of my fingers. Immediately, wave after wave of droning insects descended upon me like an angry tsunami crashing out of control. I shrieked and blindly swatted the air in a vain attempt to drive them away, covering my head and turning my back as the irate mob flew over and around me, filling the hallway beyond as they headed for the front door.
Only after the roar had died down to a low hum and I could once again breathe did I dare turn and face the awaiting tableau. The overwhelming heat in the room, mixed with the origin of the stench, nearly flattened me as I stared in horror. The remains of a badly decomposed dog lay rotting on the wooden floor of the bathroom. Covered with flies, what little was left of the body was filled with a frenzy of other bugs gorging themselves on the feast. But it took a moment for my brain to register what lay beyond that.
A grinning skeleton sat in an empty bathtub. Its mass of silvery hair, still attached to the skull, flowed down to cover bony shoulders like a finely spun veil. It looked like a white sheet had been thrown over Annie’s remains, in either a grisly attempt at modesty or a perverse joke. But then the sheet began to move. I rubbed my eyes and took a deep breath, my heart pounding like a fist against my chest.
Sure that my imagination was playing a trick, I slowly inched forward, suddenly stopping dead in my tracks as the sheet of white began to break apart. It was then that I realized the crudely made shroud was nothing but maggots. Hundreds and hundreds of tiny twitching and twisting white worms. They wriggled between Annie’s bare bones as the last witnesses to death, forming a living blanket of squirming, well-fed bodies.
My pulse galloped through my veins and my vision began to blur as my scream roared through the room. Reverberating against the walls, it shook the house, before clutching at my clothes, my hands, and my hair. Death furiously tracked its way through the ranch, permeating every nook, every cranny, the very air. I tore down the hall and out the front door, where I leaned against the gallows, throwing up my breakfast along with the sandwich and pie. I was still shaking as I staggered to the Blazer and rinsed out my mouth with a swig of warm Coke. Frantically digging through my glove compartment, I located my cell phone. Grabbing hold of it as if it would save me, I punched in the number for Metro Police. But when they answered, I discovered that Annie wasn’t the only one no longer able to speak. Disconnecting the call, I sank to the ground and cried.
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 3