Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries)

by Jessica Speart

  “You’ve taken away our birthright with all your gobbledygook regulations and laws.” Harley warmed to his topic like a preacher stumping at a local revival meeting. “When it gets to the point where I can’t graze my cows because of a damned tortoise, that’s where I draw the line. If it’s between them or me, I say let’s get rid of the damn things—and the people stoppin’ me.”

  He grinned malevolently and looked beyond me.

  A shiver tore down my spine, and I turned around, my skin clammy though the sun was set on deep-fry. Off in the distance, two ranchers were making their way toward us on horseback. If two is company and three is a crowd, four probably meant big trouble.

  I turned back and looked at Harley, wondering what he had in mind.

  “Gotta hand it to you. You got some timing there, Porter.” Harley laughed grimly as the two men approached. “Those are my neighbors, Randall Jones and Deloyd Small. Besides being good, God-fearing men, they’re vice president and treasurer of our Foundation. We were just about to have a meeting on what to do when it comes to dealing with federal agents. Maybe you’d like to sit in.”

  Visions of lynchings danced in my head. It wasn’t long ago that a Forest Service ranger had been shot while sitting in his pickup, the bullet lodged right between his eyes. I didn’t even want to think about the pipe bomb that had been set off at the federal Bureau of Land Management office in Reno. Or of the ranger who woke up to find the camper in his driveway ablaze like a charbroiled marshmallow.

  Harley nodded to the men as they dismounted from their horses.

  “Didn’t know an outsider was joining us, Harley,” stated one of the cowboys, as hard and lean as if he’d been sculpted from stone.

  “Didn’t know myself till just a few minutes ago, Randall.”

  Randall Jones looked me up and down. The brim of his black hat was pulled low to shade his eyes. Suspenders supported a pair of well-worn jeans that clung tightly to his hips.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am, but is this a fed I’m smelling here?” Sniffing loudly, he slithered over to examine my vehicle.

  Pilot let loose a low growl as Randall passed by. Randall growled back in return. A giggle drew my attention to Deloyd Small, who was anything but tiny. I’d rarely seen a hefty cowboy, but Deloyd was a mountain of flesh. His giggle escalated into a high-pitched titter that would have better suited a twelve-year-old girl.

  Randall Jones and Deloyd Small were names that I had heard before. Like Harley, both men refused to pay the government for grazing their cattle on public land. Even more ominous, they’d taken potshots at the last Fish and Wildlife agent who’d dared to show up in these parts.

  Deloyd’s giggling scraped against my nerves like a tooth being hit with a drill. “The dog’s a civilian. Otherwise, you’ve got it right, Randall. I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service,” I informed him.

  Randall spat on the ground in response, leaving no doubt as to his opinion on my career choice.

  I sidestepped the wad. “Harley here is claiming that tortoises are being dumped on this land. Is that what you and Deloyd think as well?”

  Randall moved in close until we stood face to face, leaving me to wonder whether he was going to shoot me or ask me to dance.

  “Damn right those things have been planted,” Randall growled in an intimidating voice. “Deloyd has got ’em all over his place. Don’t you, Deloyd?”

  Deloyd glanced around as if watching the question go by, finally picking up on the prompt. “That’s right,” he agreed, his double chin shaking like Jell-O. “Damn environmentalists are so damn stupid, they put the wrong damn tortoises on my land. I’m telling you, those damn things ain’t even the right damn color.”

  Having said his piece, he turned to Randall and grinned. I half-expected him to wag his tail. Instead, Deloyd’s fingers picked at a group of angry red welts on his neck until one of the scabs came off. The thin trail of blood was a calling card for every gnat around, and a small cluster immediately converged on Deloyd, who slapped at his neck with a large, meaty paw.

  “Shit, that hurt. I need a drink,” he announced.

  For a God-fearing man, his language certainly could have been better. Waddling over to his horse, Deloyd pulled a canteen from his pack and proceeded to polish off the contents, the flesh under his neck bobbing like a turkey wattle.

  Randall pushed even closer. One more inch and I’d be able to sue him for rape.

  “Okay, Miss Hotshot Agent. Since you bothered to come all the way out here, why don’t you tell us what’s going on? How is it that we have nothing on our ranches one day and something endangered on them the next?” he demanded. “You can’t tell me that’s not a government plot.”

  I could have, but something told me it wouldn’t much matter. Like Harley, both men were carrying .45s that hung like miniature saddlebags on their hips. I knew the situation called for the utmost diplomacy.

  “You mean to tell me”—I snickered—“that you really believe the government is sneaking out here in the middle of the night?” I tried to hold back a chuckle. “And dumping hundreds of tortoises on your ranches—all in order to take back this land?” I couldn’t help it—I howled with laughter.

  All three men stared as if I’d gone mad.

  Finally Randall spoke, angrily slicing the air with his forefinger. “That’s right. And you want to know why that is?”

  I tried to compose a serious face.

  “It’s because the government is planning to open this land to the Japanese. That’s why,” Harley boomed before I could answer. “We’ve bought so many damned TVs and cars from them that now we owe the Japs a ton of money. So the government has decided to sell them our land to blank out the debt.”

  As Lureen would have put it, either these boys were smoking some pretty strong weed or aliens had been sucking out their gray matter.

  “Just think about it a minute,” I began, repressing another suicidal impulse to laugh. “Your allotments of public land run on the order of thousands of acres, right?”

  The men cautiously nodded their heads, waiting for the punch line.

  “Do you realize just how many tortoises someone would have to dump here in order to have the critters running all over the place?” I asked.

  “Not just anyone,” Randall growled. “For all we know, it’s you that’s doing the dumping. After all, you’re the damn critter agent. Let’s see you laugh about that.”

  He didn’t have to worry. The way they were all glaring at me, the urge had totally passed. Coming out here alone might have been a crazy idea.

  I took a deep breath. “Look at it this way. If you figure that each tortoise is roughly one foot long by one foot wide, I’d need ten double-rigged tractor trailers filled to the brim just to haul the critters in. And,” I added, certain this had to be the clincher, “just where would I get all those tortoises from?”

  “Shit, Porter. That’s an easy one.” Randall flashed a wicked grin, as if I’d just willingly stuck my neck in the noose. “Ed Garrett says the Fascist and Weirdo Service is paying a group of eco-nuts living out in some ark to break into that tort hotel you got, steal the suckers, and then dump the little buggers on our land.”

  I groaned. One of six commissioners in Clark County, Garrett was an eager supporter of the county supremacy movement. He had recently introduced resolutions granting the commission power to veto the Endangered Species Act as well as to control all mining and development decisions throughout the county.

  “And while we’re at it, what about all those unmarked black helicopters the government is flying out here at night? Let’s hear you explain those,” Harley jumped in. He pushed his way in front of Randall as if to reassert his position as leader.

  I was surprised to hear about ’copters again. Especially unmarked ones. As far as I knew, choppers coming from Nellis bore the name of the base.

  “Can’t answer that one, hotshot?” Randall sneered.

  He was right. I didn’t have a clue. Jone
s and Harley took a few threatening steps toward me, igniting a five-alarm fire in my brain.

  “Maybe she don’t want to,” Deloyd giggled. Having walked back to his horse, he lifted a coil of rope off his saddle.

  “I’ve heard about the ’copters and I’m not sure what’s going on. All I can do is promise to look into it,” I offered. But the trio weren’t in a listening mood.

  “If she doesn’t want to answer, it’s because she’s afraid,” Harley retorted, sticking his chest out like a bantam rooster ready for a fight. “It’s because she knows that’s how the government’s bringing the tortoises in. The suckers are being airlifted.”

  “Now, you’ve got to know that’s crazy. Do you really believe that’s something the air force would do?” I began.

  “Or maybe government Rambo squads are performing secret maneuvers in the dead of night to raid us,” Deloyd eagerly added. Caught up in the wave of excitement, he trotted over to join Harley and Jones.

  The homegrown, ready-to-detonate militia slithered tighter around me like a large boa constrictor closing in on its prey.

  “Those of us at the Foundation have decided that we’re only going to deal with Ed Garrett and the county commission from now on,” Harley informed me.

  “That’s right,” Deloyd added. “And Garrett says you’re one of the feds that’s plotting against us.” He ran his hands along the length of the rope.

  It struck me as odd that an official I’d never met would bother to spend his time spreading rumors about me. “If I was plotting against you, do you really think I’d have the nerve to come out here alone?” I asked.

  But Harley was beyond reason. “Garrett says that the tortoise is nothing but an excuse to kick us off our land.”

  Randall grinned, his eyes locking onto my own. “Since this is an official Foundation meeting concerning what to do with federal agents, I say we oughta hold this one captive.”

  “Wait a minute, guys. This is now going too far,” I protested.

  But Deloyd chimed in, thrilled at having a hand in deciding my fate. “Hey! How about we sentence her for something like treason? What do you think? That oughta make all those big government honcho types sit up and listen.”

  It certainly worked wonders on me. I slowly backed out of the circle on shaky legs toward my Blazer. I had almost reached the vehicle when the three musketeers moved in unison to stop me. Quickly jumping inside, I closed the door just as Deloyd reached for the handle. I immediately pushed the button down and locked myself in, then caught sight of Randall creeping up along the passenger side.

  Picking up on my panic, Pilot bared his teeth and let loose a warning growl before hurtling himself against the car door. His massive head lunged through the open window, where he barked and snarled at the men lurking outside. For a moment, I wasn’t sure it was actually any safer in my vehicle with my demon dog. Through all the frenzy, I spotted Randall raising a gun in Pilot’s direction. I immediately pulled the SIG-Sauer from the back of my pants and took careful aim.

  “Do it and you’re a dead man,” I warned.

  Randall took his time, probably weighing the risks. I decided to help him along by slowly pulling back on the hammer. It took Harley to break up the standoff.

  “Okay. That’s enough,” he said. “Nobody’s gonna harm you, Porter. It was just a little game. You’d better be on your way.”

  I immediately turned on the engine and backed out of Harley’s drive, never taking my eyes off the three men, who stared back at me in turn. I made my way down the dirt path, past the twig, the bush, and the creek that had led me in, constantly checking my rearview mirror for any sign that the game had continued. But not a cowboy was to be seen.

  I hit the main road and floored the accelerator, relieved at having made it back to the blacktop alive. Glancing over toward Pilot, I suddenly felt grateful that I hadn’t been alone. I grinned and finally relaxed.

  Then, as often happens, fear was replaced by ravenous hunger. I tore through the blueberry muffin I’d picked up at the Gold Bonanza and was about to chomp down the tuna on rye when Pilot whimpered, sounding like a tiny, frail puppy. His giant paw landed on my arm, nearly knocking us off the road, and he licked my hand, his nose twitching toward the food.

  “Okay, partner. Point made. It’s fifty-fifty from now on.”

  Splitting the sandwich in half, I gave Pilot his due.

  Seven

  This seemed as good a time as any to meet the man of the hour, County Commissioner Ed Garrett. On top of everything else that I knew about him, I’d recently heard he was pushing a proposal to have federal law enforcement agents give up their weapons—the reason being that armed-to-the-teeth ranchers, like those I’d just met, were afraid of agents like little ole me walking around with a gun. While I was supposed to travel the road with nothing more lethal than a Coke can, it was deemed all right for overzealous westerners to be festooned with everything from handguns to bazookas that could be used to blow me away. Because of all this, Garrett had become as popular as Elvis and was now the star attraction at local rallies.

  The Virgin Mountains disappeared behind me as I tore down the road, my sights set on Vegas. I hadn’t been sure what to expect when I first landed in town. What I found was a sea of polyester and varicose veins. Tourism drives the city, which is dominated by the Strip, a three-and-a-half-mile runway of wall-to-wall casinos inundated with visitors in bright jogging suits and bulging fanny packs, where the only high heels are those to be found on hookers. Squadrons of senior citizens traveling via Nikes ply the Strip both night and day. Plastic cups filled with quarters in hand, they roam in bands from one glitzy hotel to the next with deadened eyes, praying for luck and a fortune as instant as a Cup O’Noodles.

  Turning onto Las Vegas Boulevard, I got caught in the usual time warp as I passed the Luxor’s shimmering black pyramid and sphinx jealously standing guard. The Luxor had quickly become my home away from home whenever I needed a New York fix, with its deli offering of bagels and lox. Driving on, Egypt gave way to the Excalibur’s medieval turreted castle, which led to the Mirage Hotel, spewing fire and water from its Polynesian lagoon. I glanced up at a marquee larger than my former New York apartment, where those two immortal vampires Siegfried and Roy looked down upon me as perfectly preserved as if they’d been dipped in formaldehyde, a white tiger sitting placidly by their side. Understatement is not in this town’s vocabulary. The sky is the limit and in Vegas the sky appears to be limitless, making it the newest fast food version of the American dream.

  Bearing left onto Bonneville, I slipped the grip of the Strip and headed for the Clark County administrative building. Like everything else in Vegas, the building is big, bold, and new—three prerequisites for success in this town. I parked the Blazer, left Pilot inside, and caught the elevator up to the county commissioner’s floor. A receptionist too old to be a showgirl but too young for retirement took my name and buzzed Ed Garrett’s office. She hung up and gave me a dazzling smile, announcing that he was indeed in and would be happy to meet with me. I followed her swaying hips down the hall and thought about trying to imitate her, but quickly shelved the idea. With my luck, I’d simply look like I’d been thrown from a horse.

  Caught up in my thoughts, I nearly missed the swiveling of her feet as they pirouetted to the right and stopped in front of a large wooden door that stood open. I followed the wave of her hand, my attention drawn to the back of a massive black leather chair. Turned away from me, the chair faced a picture window that framed the sprawling Las Vegas Valley below. A ten-gallon Stetson hat was mounted on the head rising above the black leather. I stood quietly for a moment, finally clearing my throat. But the head didn’t move. I was beginning to wonder if the county commissioner had chosen to expire rather than see me when the chair circled around to reveal a man with the build of a linebacker. Ed Garrett stood up and strode over, towering above me. Dressed in an elegant black suit, his Stetson hat, bolo string tie and lizard-skin boots marked him as
a buckaroo cowboy with buckaroo bucks.

  Garrett grasped my hand and squeezed hard. “Glad you stopped by.”

  I squeezed back as hard as I could, barely making a dent in the hydraulic press that passed for his hand.

  “And why is that?” I asked.

  “I wanted to see for myself what kind of woman chooses to do what you do.” His dark, severe face encased a pair of eyes with all the warmth of two shards of black ice. Obviously he wasn’t concerned about getting my vote come the next election.

  “This kind of woman,” I replied, vowing to bone up on my staring technique at home.

  “From what I hear, you like to rile people up, Agent Porter. You place yourself dead center in the middle of a brushfire and then you fan the flames,” Garrett informed me.

  It’s always interesting to learn how other people see you. Unfortunately it’s never as flattering as I’d like it to be. I gave a firm tug until my hand popped out of his.

  “You’re pretty good at that yourself,” I replied. “I paid Harley Rehrer and his friends a visit this morning. Your name came up about the time they were measuring my neck for a rope.”

  Garrett pointed an impeccably manicured finger at me. “Those folks you’re talking about are my constituents. My job is to stand up for their rights.”

  I considered pointing back, but I knew that mangled cuticles wouldn’t help drive my point home. “Don’t be surprised if the next visit you pay your constituents takes place in jail.”

  Garrett returned to his desk and settled into the leather chair, which was molded to his contours. Opening a drawer, he pulled out a bottle of Chivas along with two small silver cups. Filling each to the brim, he slid one in my direction.

  “What you’ve got to realize, Porter, is that it’s not only ranchers who are being hurt but developers as well. And when you hurt developers, then you’re hurting Las Vegas.”