Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries)

by Jessica Speart

  That was enough to make me decide that poking around had to be worthwhile. “Why? What do you think he’d do if I actually showed up to investigate his claims?”

  Sam gave it some thought. “Well, what with your being a woman and all, I’m pretty sure Harley wouldn’t blow you away. I guess you’d be all right as long as you didn’t resist if he tried to arrest you.”

  When I first arrived in Vegas, Sam had handed me a wallet-sized card. On it was the phone number for the U.S. Attorney in case any overly zealous cowpoke decided to place me under citizen’s arrest. It was my introduction to the West and what I was in for.

  Sam carefully wrapped up a canvas on which he’d begun a sketch of yet another cow head. “I hope you’re not planning on doing something crazy and getting into trouble.” He gave me a look as if he knew what I might be up to. “But if anything happens, give a holler. Though I’m not sure what the hell I’d be able to do.”

  That was a consoling thought, but I somehow doubted Harley would allow me one last call before I was shot. I was so caught up in visions of being tarred and feathered and run out of Clark County that it took a moment for me to become aware of a thumping sound. This was followed by the scraping of claws against wood along with what I imagined to be the gnashing of teeth. I looked around.

  “Have you buried anything in here that I should know about before you take off?” I asked as Sam packed up his palette and paints.

  He gave me a sour look and cocked his head. “It’s a good thing you stopped by. Seems something was dropped off for you this morning. I found it tied to the front door.”

  I followed the din as far as the bathroom. I couldn’t think of anyone I’d met so far that would feel compelled to give me anything other than possibly a hard whack on the head. The racket behind the door grew louder as I put my hand on the knob, and I envisioned everything from a coyote to a large rat on hormones.

  Sam grunted behind me. “Well, are you going to let the damn thing out or do I have to stay here and do it for you?”

  I was tempted to shove Sam inside. Instead, I threw open the door, nearly knocking over my gift in the process. I came face to face with a dog, which resembled a Siberian husky but was much larger, that had effectively torn the bathroom apart. A bright-red bow was tied round its massive neck.

  Sam sighed as he surveyed the mess. “I must be getting old. In my day, we just gave a woman a bottle of cologne. You got an admirer out there that you haven’t told me about?”

  I shook my head, equally puzzled. “Not that I know of.”

  I had never tied myself down with a pet, wanting to be free to come and go at will, no strings attached. Now one had literally been dumped on my doorstep. Commitment: just the word made me nervous. I looked at the animal with a wary eye.

  “What makes you think this dog was meant for me?” I asked, hoping there might have been some mistake.

  Sam lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve been here twenty years, and in all that time nobody’s so much as offered me a free cup of coffee. You really think somebody’s going to give me a dog?”

  He scratched the side of his nose as he contemplated the critter in front of us. “You see that big red ribbon there? That’s an announcement to expect a call for a dinner date. There ain’t no women I know of lately who’ve been making eyes at me. And if they had, the missus would have hunted them down by now and run their fannies out of town. Nope—this critter is yours.”

  All three of us stared at one another.

  “He already peed on the leg of my desk. Almost got me as well. And by the way, he left a present near your chair that you might want to clean up after you finish straightening out the bathroom,” Sam added.

  The dog sat down, contemplating me with the strangest eyes I had ever seen. Translucent gold, they seemed to look through me as if he could read my thoughts, making me feel that between us, he was the more intelligent of the two. Not to be outdone, I leveled him with what I considered to be an equally intense stare. But the mutt won the game unfairly, letting loose a loud bark that caused me to jump. Unnerved, I took a step back.

  “Where did he come from?’’ I demanded.

  “Damned if I know. But I think that note attached to his bow might give you a clue,” said Sam, ever the detective.

  I cautiously approached the beast, which had yet to take his eyes off me. I was aware that for an agent it didn’t look good to appear frightened, even if the dog before me could have passed for Cujo. I slowly knelt down and carefully reached for the envelope stapled to his bow, nearly falling over as the dog licked my face with one swipe.

  Sam muffled a laugh behind me. “Careful, Rachel. That mutt’s a real terror.”

  The dog proceeded to sniff me up and down as I tore the envelope open and read its contents.

  Since it seems likely that you’ll continue to travel these roads alone, I’ve taken the liberty of providing you with a companion. He’s trustworthy and loyal and will look out for you at all times. Besides, this gives me a good reason to call. Don’t let the eyes spook you. That’s the wolf in him. I know that you’ll give him a good home and a proper name.

  The note was signed “Brian Anderson.”

  “Hmph,” Sam commented, peering over my shoulder. “So the mine is already trying to bribe you, huh?”

  “It would seem that way,” I considered what to do with the pooch, which was now sniffing my fingers. “When I got there, the foreman offered me a fax machine if I would just go away.”

  Sam gave me a sour look. “I would have taken the fax machine. God knows we could use it.”

  I was beginning to think Sam was right as the dog started to chew on the lace of my shoe.

  “It seems Monty Harris tipped the mine off that I would be showing up. By the time I got there, you couldn’t have found a feather,” I informed Sam.

  “Sounds like your first trip out was an educational one,” Sam chuckled. “What you’ve got to realize is that these days NDOW operates pretty much on the donations that the mines give them.” Sam scratched his head as the dog scratched behind an ear. “Of course, the string attached is, ‘Keep the feds off our ass,’ meaning you and me.”

  Having sniffed to his heart’s content, the dog now lay with his chin on my work boots. “What happens to people who buck the mining industry?” I asked, wondering if anyone had ever dared take them on.

  Sam chewed on that for a moment before answering. “You have to have a lead shield and stainless steel skin. Either that or you’re history.” His fingers idly combed a few stray mustache hairs back into place. “I guess it’s something for you to think about while I’m gone.”

  Picking up his unfinished canvas, Sam headed out to his Bronco. The office door slammed shut, and I suddenly felt terribly alone. My former boss had been endowed with a healthy case of KMA syndrome—or, as Hickok liked to phrase it, “Kiss my ass.” Sam played it the opposite way, keeping his head low and steering for safe harbor. I knew what Charlie would have done where the mines were concerned. But this was Nevada, with an underlying violence ready to erupt—and I knew I was a moving target.

  I looked over to where my newly acquired gift lay panting on the floor and went in search of a bowl for water. A thorough examination of the office turned up only Sam’s mug and my own. I grabbed Sam’s cup and filled it with water. Then, sitting on the floor, I placed it in front of the critter, who lapped up the liquid in record time.

  I thought about traveling alone as a woman. Then I pictured Annie McCarthy with her dog. While I felt sure that her companion had also been loyal and true, in the end it hadn’t much mattered.

  I absentmindedly began to scratch behind the dog’s ears as I thought about Brian Anderson. I found it hard to imagine someone that good-looking living alone, never mind being lonely. I could have put it down to my overwhelming distrust of the opposite sex; but something just didn’t add up.

  “Get a grip, Porter!”

  I gave myself a hard mental slap. Here was a hot-looking gu
y hitting on me, and all I could do was wonder what his problem must be. No lack of self-confidence there. My thoughts drifted to Santou and the question of loyalty. Then I remembered that until last night I hadn’t heard from the man in weeks. Obviously he wasn’t sitting at home, spending his nights pining away for me. Maybe it was time I got out as well. Was it my fault if the first man to be interested in me just happened to look like Adonis?

  I was startled when a large paw landed heavily on my shoulder. Looking into the dog’s eyes, it was hard not to feel spooked. I knew that wolf dogs had a reputation for being ferocious. But then, that wasn’t a bad quality to have in a woman’s best friend. Besides, he’d be company. And given my lousy sense of direction, maybe he’d even be smart enough to point me the right way.

  I christened my new companion Pilot.

  I soon discovered that Pilot and I had something in common: we both like Bonnie Raitt. I blasted the radio, singing at the top of my lungs, and Pilot joined in, wailing the chorus. I felt good enough this morning to take a chance on stopping by the Gold Bonanza Cafe.

  “What the hell is that massive mutt doing in here?” Lureen immediately complained.

  This morning she was dressed to kill in lime-green spandex pedal pushers, the calves of her legs resembling desiccated twigs. A bright-red midriff top showcased a bare stomach with as many wrinkles as a retread tire. But my eyes were drawn to the glare coming off her gold sandals, which were decorated with an array of dime-store gems.

  “Meet my new partner, Lureen.”

  Lureen scrutinized Pilot through her rhinestone glasses. “Well, if you think he’s going to help get you a table, the aliens must have gone and sucked out your brain, girl.”

  Looking at Lureen, I seriously wondered if she’d ever had a close encounter of the third kind. I was about to head over for takeout when I froze in my tracks. Pilot had begun to lick the back of Lureen’s withered hand, his body leaning firmly against her. I waited for the storm to erupt, only to be surprised yet again. Lureen looked straight ahead, never blinking an eye, as her fingers slowly crept up along Pilot’s mane and began to stroke his fur. After a moment she cleared her throat.

  “If you sit over there at the counter, I might have some scraps for your dog,” she said gruffly.

  I looked at the woman, too stunned to speak.

  “Oh, all right,” she grudgingly sighed. “I suppose we can dig something up for you, too.”

  Turning on her heels, Lureen headed into the kitchen.

  I gazed at Pilot in amazement. He’d made more inroads in five minutes than I’d been able to make in three months.

  I moved toward the bar with Pilot closely in tow, only to be pushed aside by a tour group of senior citizens sporting air-tight perms and polyester knits. Elbowing me with their canes, they took over the bar stools, ordering rounds of popcorn and beer to tide them over before reboarding the bus for Vegas. I grabbed the last seat as Lureen presented Pilot with an overflowing bowl of scraps that looked better than what I usually ate.

  She placed a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of me as well, though her eyes remained focused on Pilot. “Come back tomorrow and I’ll give him some good, meaty bones,” she commanded.

  I was dwelling on the joys of having a pet when I heard a voice behind me.

  “Looks like you finally caught yourself a man, Porter.”

  I swiveled around to find Clayton Hayes poking his gums with a toothpick.

  “Why, by golly, I was wrong. That’s a dog you got there. But then, I guess that’s better than nothing, ain’t that right, Porter?” Clayton bantered.

  I looked Hayes up and down. “In your case, Clayton, I’d stick with a dog any day.” I glanced behind him, surprised to see Clayton alone. “Where’s Sundance?” I asked, referring to his sidekick, Rolly Luntz.

  “Why, he’s out gathering tortoises for our barbecue. Still coming, ain’t ya?” Clayton sucked on his toothpick, sliding it in and out between his lips.

  I silently placed a bet on whether or not he’d swallow it and choke. I doubted if any of the crowd at the bar would be able to move fast enough to apply the Heimlich maneuver—which would leave Clayton at my mercy. Maybe we’d negotiate about the fate of tortoises then.

  “Or maybe you’re too scared to come.” Clayton grinned. “Maybe you heard who one of our speakers is gonna be.”

  “Who’s that?” I inquired, digging into my food.

  “None other than Shoot-’em-up Harley Rehrer,” Clayton crowed.

  Harley had recently gained added status by refusing to pay the government for grazing his cattle on public land. He now owed a whopping one hundred thousand dollars in fines and violations. While federal agents were itching to slap him behind bars, Justice officials were holding them back. Harley had recently issued a warning that any federal agents coming onto his property would be shot. Still smarting over the bad publicity from the shoot-outs at Waco and Ruby Ridge, the Justice Department wasn’t sure they wanted to take on Harley as well. In the local cowboys’ eyes, that made Harley Rehrer as powerful as God.

  I finished my breakfast and turned back to Hayes. “Speaking of Harley, I plan on visiting him this morning.”

  Clayton stared at me as if he were looking at a ghost. “You’re joking, right, Porter?”

  I almost felt touched by Clayton’s concern. “I don’t see why there should be any problem. I’m just going out to pay a civil call. What’s he going to do? Shoot me?” I began to laugh.

  Tipping his hat, Clayton gave a slight bow in my direction. “Nice to have known you, Porter. Dead woman walking here,” he loudly announced as he turned and walked away.

  If Clayton meant to throw me off balance, it worked. But I wasn’t about to let him know it.

  The trip to Harley’s ranch seemed endless, even with Bonnie crooning the blues. A town consisting of a gas station and a diner flashed by all too quickly. Even cows on the side of the road barely moved, hypnotized by the oppressive heat that pulsated up from the ground into their hooves. A Mojave green rattler sunned itself in the middle of the road, daring me to pass by. Four feet long and as thick as a man’s arm, the reptile barely bothered to lift its head off the asphalt. Mesmerized by the warmth that penetrated its belly, it half-heartedly shook its rattles as if I presented no more threat than a bug.

  Cows were soon replaced by abandoned cars that littered the desert floor like discarded tin cans. Lying flat on their backs, their rusted axles reared up in surrender, their tires long gone. Others had become targets for gun-happy cowpokes, with bullet holes pockmarking their vanquished shells. It was clear that cowboys were little more than rednecks in chaps. Just recently one hotshot had used his double-barreled shotgun to fill a thirty-foot Joshua full of lead. In a twist of desert justice, the giant cactus had fallen on top of him, creating the first cowboy voodoo doll in the West.

  The road rose sharply and then dipped out of sight, much like a roller coaster that had reached its summit. I took the plunge and found myself at the foot of the Virgin Mountains, where tumbleweed and cactus draped the desert floor. Rocky plateaus rose off in the distance.

  Following the directions I’d managed to scrounge, I veered onto a dirt road, turning left at a creek, right at a bush, and left again at a twig. I’d been told that I would know Harley’s dwelling when I saw it. My guess was that it would be the only house around. I peered out of the dust that covered my windshield like a ghost bumming a free ride and caught sight of a decrepit drive. My eyes followed its zigs and zags to a run-down ranch house perched on top of a small hill. Word had it that Harley had a 7mm Magnum set up inside, mounted on a tripod facing the road. I figured I was already dead-center in its sight.

  A wooden placard was mounted on a post at the entry to the drive. The sign held ten stick figures, each with a blood-red bull’s-eye smack dab in the middle of its chest. A warning read, “Federal Agents: Enter At Your Own Peril.” Not exactly your down-home western hello.

  It seemed that the des
ert, along with its critters, was a brutal and unforgiving place. Everything out here threatened to either prick you, sting you, bite you—or maybe shoot you.

  I had barely started up Harley’s drive when he appeared on horseback to greet me. A plain-faced man, Harley had skin as coarse as a lizard’s. He was dressed in a denim shirt and worn jeans, along with a red bandanna that peeked out from beneath a straw cowboy hat. When he drew closer, I saw the gun belt strapped round his waist, a .45 snugly bedded down in its holster.

  I got out of the Blazer, leaving Pilot inside.

  “Howdy there, miss.” Harley brushed the tips of his fingers along the rim of his hat.

  No “ma’am.” I liked that. Who said he was such a bad guy?

  “You lost? Or are you out here to try and do a story on me?” Harley cheerfully inquired.

  Eyes as blue as a slow-burning flame took in every inch of me until I could have sworn he was flirting. I almost hated to burst his bubble.

  “Good day, Mr. Rehrer. I’m Rachel Porter. I’m a special agent with …”

  Harley’s friendly demeanor instantly vanished, his voice turning as prickly as cactus. “Save it. I know who you are.”

  I noticed that his right hand wasn’t far from his holster, his fingers jerking as if he had a bad itch.

  “I got your message about tortoises being dumped on your ranch and I was wondering if I could talk to you about it,” I began.

  “You want to talk?” he spat out, nailing me with his eyes. “Let’s talk about my rights and how you’ve been trampling all over them. Let’s talk about your wacko rules all because of some slow-moving critter with a hard top.” Harley tore a dog-eared copy of the Constitution out of his shirt pocket and began waving it in my face. “Thanks to you, the American cowboy is a dying breed. We’re the ones who are becoming extinct. Not some damn tortoise.”

  His eyes glared as if I were the Devil incarnate. It probably wasn’t the right time to point out that Marlboro men always hung tough until the government threatened to yank their federal subsidies, then the howl could be heard from Nevada straight to the White House.