Carnosaur Crimes

by Christine Gentry

  Dorbandt, also wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt, raised an arm. He was nursing a beer. She took the empty seat where a frosty mug also awaited her. “Hi, Reid. Who’s the crowd?”

  “The Glory Stompers. Square dancing team from the Revelation Baptist Church. I ordered you an ale.”

  “Thanks,” Ansel said, sipping the Moose Drool brew. She settled in and surveyed the ultra-rustic decor – U.S. license plates or horse blankets nailed to the cheap brown paneling as well as peeling red vinyl floor squares, and varnished, raw pine-board tables and chairs. “Nice ambiance.”

  Dorbandt shrugged. “You don’t come for the fencing. You come for the grass. The food is great.” He passed her a laminated paper with print on both sides. “I recommend the buffalo chili with a side of corn meal dumplings.”

  “And what are you having?”

  He smiled. “A buffalo tongue sandwich, of course. That’s why I’m here.”

  Ansel set down the menu. “That’s all? How did you ever find this place?”

  “A lot of smokies eat here. So how have you been, Ansel?”

  Well aware that he’d side-stepped her innuendo of duplicity, she replied, “Never a dull moment. One more drawing and I’m done with the Argentine book. Then all I have to worry about are eight other pictures for a couple of magazine articles, preparing a lecture and slide show for a Pangaea Society Conference in October, and designing my murals for the new POP Center.”

  “That’s the science place being built at Elk Ridge, right?”

  “Right. The Preston Opel Paleohistory Center. The construction is in the final stages. It’s taken over a year, but it should be completed by Christmas if the weather holds out. Of course, we need rain badly. All the ranchers and farmers are suffering. Even the Arrowhead is barely operating. I’m really concerned about my father. I’ve never seen him look so glum and tired.”

  Dorbandt’s eyebrows knitted. “Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do?”

  “Nope. I can’t even help. It’s in Mother Nature’s hands. That brings us to you. How have you been?”

  “Great. Busy, like you.”

  “Still jogging five miles a day?”

  “Weather and job permitting,” Dorbandt said. “I’d go stir crazy otherwise. It’s how I decompress.”

  Ansel surveyed his trim, athletic form. Everything about Dorbandt was built for stamina and speed like a high-strung, riata mustang. What a waste of manpower, she mused. In the last year, she’d learned that he’d never been married and didn’t have a current girlfriend. She really liked him despite his cop attitude and couldn’t deny her sexual attraction to him on certain occasions. The problem was Dorbandt’s tunnel vision. His intellectual focus upon his job and bringing in the bad guys made him continually suspicious and aloof.

  Just like, me, Ansel considered, reflecting on her half Indian heritage in an Anglo society. No wonder we both attract and repel one another at the same time. No matter. They were friends, and he’d saved her life.

  A gray-haired waitress in a Muu Muu and waist apron approached the table and took their orders. Dorbandt got his sandwich and another beer. Ansel ordered the chili but passed on the dumplings. She also ordered a glass of water. No ice.

  As the woman shuffled away, Ansel said, “Are you sure a sandwich will be enough?”

  “Wait until you see it. So tell me about these BLM guys.”

  “It was a guy and a gal actually. The man was an Assistant Special-Agent-In-Charge named Broderick from the state office. Very testy. The woman was a ranger from the Redwater station named Eastover. Very unhappy about working with Broderick.”

  Dorbandt finished his beer before speaking, but the gears in his head were obviously spinning. “State office. That seems like overkill to me. The tracks weren’t stolen just threatened. The local Incident Commander could handle this case, even if the FBI was involved.”

  “Well, Broderick treated me like a criminal. He questioned my work on the Allosaurus model and if I’d ever seen anybody suspicious at the museum. Then he brought up the shooting last year. He was concerned about my involvement with the Pangaea Society murders. I told him to talk to you if he had any problems.”

  “Good.”

  “There’s something else, Reid. Ranger Eastover slipped up and told me that the attempted fossil theft was one of three that went down Friday night as part of a poaching ring.”

  Dorbandt’s eyes grew larger. “That’s interesting. Sheriff Combs is trying to verify if other counties were working on similar cases. Did Eastover say where the crimes occurred?”

  “No.” In a split second, she decided not to tell him about the fossil thefts in Glendive or Sidney. Those were her leads.

  “Well, in the meantime, don’t worry about Broderick. He’s shooting blanks.”

  Ansel shook her head. “You don’t understand. Broderick told me he’s bringing in a fossil expert to evaluate the dinosaur tracks. It’s possible the BLM will close the museum and dig them up. They could be sent to another institution for research and preservation. If he manages that, Big Toe will lose it’s most profitable public attraction. That would be disastrous for the town coffers and the museum.”

  “I smell a rescue campaign in the works,” Dorbandt muttered, looking exasperated.

  “You don’t live in Big Toe,” Ansel replied, coal-black eyes flashing sparks. “I knew Chester Dover, and he’d spin in his grave if he knew the BLM had used his lapsed land lease payments to finagle the ranch away from his relatives after his death. Now they’re stealing his dinosaur tracks. The Bureau is no better than the man who tried to rip off those footprints with a concrete saw. At least he wouldn’t have tortured people for months while he stole them. Don’t you dare tell me not to get involved.”

  The conversation ended abruptly as the waitress appeared bearing a large oval plate filled by a foot-long loaf of rye bread split and splayed on the platter. The middle of one slice had been scooped out and filled to bursting with smoked, ground buffalo meat mixed with fried onions and black olive slices. The other half was covered with Romaine lettuce slathered with mustard.

  Ansel’s bowl of buffalo chili with red kidney beans, diced tomatoes, and chopped onions looked puny by comparison. The speedy waitress also set down Dorbandt’s second beer and her water, asked if they needed anything else, then left.

  They occupied the tense silence pulling silverware from their rolled up paper napkins and preparing their food. Dorbandt salted his meat, reassembled the sandwich, and cut the one-pound fare into two pieces. Ansel stirred her chili and blew on it as if it was of prime importance just so she wouldn’t have to speak first. Her temper had to cool along with the meal.

  The gaiety of the Baptists worked as a defusing element while Dorbandt took a big bite of his sandwich, chewed, and swallowed. For several more seconds he fidgeted like he had a burr under his pants, exhaled, and then said, “Sorry I made that crack about a campaign. I know you’re passionate about the museum. I just worry about your safety.”

  Ansel looked up. His blue eyes gazed softly at her. He really meant it, but it didn’t stop her from using his moment of vulnerability to her advantage. “I know that, and it means a lot to me. I promise I won’t do anything stupid. Can’t you at least tell me who the poacher was?”

  “Hokay. No name yet, but he was a young Indian in his twenties. He was also pretty battered on the inside. Had a right claw-foot from a past stirrup injury and some other physical injuries that might be related to a rodeo or bronc-busting career.”

  Ansel swallowed the spicy chili burning her tongue and stared at him. One of The People had ended up in her sculpture’s mouth. Somehow, though it was irrational, she felt responsible. She also felt slightly ill despite the delicious food.

  “Do you know his tribal affiliation?”

  “No. The Feebees grabbed every clue at the crime scene. We don’t have much to work with. The coroner’s office has the body, but you saw how burnt that was. Can’t even do the usual facial
ID or fingerprint search.”

  “So everyone’s supposed to sit around and wait for Outerbridge or Broderick to toss out tidbits of information,” Ansel groused, stirring her food with wild strokes.

  “Officially, Lacrosse cops are off the investigation, but there are still things we can do.”

  “What?”

  “Dorbandt smiled apologetically. “I’m not at liberty to say but if you need to reach me, call my cell phone. I won’t be in the office tomorrow or the day after.”

  “Unofficially, you’re up to something, aren’t you?”

  “No. I’m just an errand boy.”

  They chatted on other subjects for another ten minutes until Dorbandt finished half his sandwich. Then he looked up, found the waitress, and caught her eye. She bustled over, and he asked, “Could you wrap this? I’d like it to go. And bring the bill, please.” The woman nodded and picked up his platter.

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Got an early morning tomorrow. Take your time. This is my treat.”

  Ansel sighed. Dorbandt had decided their chat was over. Plus he could avoid probing questions. Now she didn’t feel so bad about not telling him details about the other fossil thefts. He was holding back, and it was fair play that she do the same. As usual, he didn’t trust her to keep quiet about their discussion. Would they never erode this layer of mistrust between them?

  She picked at her chili while Dorbandt waited for his doggy bag. The Revelation Stompers noisily exited the restaurant en masse, leaving the room strangely silent. After getting his foil-wrapped grub, Dorbandt placed a twenty on the table and stood.

  “Stay out of trouble, Ansel. Your father will peg my hide if something happens to you.”

  Annoyed at his proprietary tone, she said with false sweetness, “Have a safe trip, Reid. I’ll expect to hear all about it when you return.”

  “Uh huh,” he mumbled in a noncommital tone. “Adios.”

  The front entrance closed behind the detective, and Ansel finished her ale but not the chili. She wondered why Dorbandt had really come to Swoln for dinner. He’d only eaten half the buffalo sandwich he’d professed such a hunger for on the phone.

  When the waitress walked over to take the bill receipt and money, Ansel smiled and asked, “Excuse me, but could you tell me how long the man eating with me was at the table before I sat down?”

  The woman’s pale face crinkled in thought as she picked up the tab and Dorbandt’s crisp Hamilton. “Sure. Came in about an hour before, Sweety. Spent a lot of time jawing with Humpy. Twern’t easy for me with the place hopping full of Holy Rollers, either. I had to fuss about the orders not coming up fast enough.”

  “Humpy?”

  “The owner.” She motioned toward the grill, cackling a laugh. “Humpy Duval. Can’t miss him. Long beard and a bump on his back.”

  Ansel looked toward the sizzling, ember-spewing pit. Humpy, sporting a waist-long black beard and standing behind roaring, log-stoked flames, chopped raw buffalo steaks into narrow strips, then dipped them into fry batter. For the first time, she noticed the large tent of shirt fabric pushing up between his shoulder blades. Humpy had an abnormally curved spine caused by Kysosis.

  “Do you know what he talked to Humpy about?”

  “Asked about some Indian who ate here last Friday night. Talked to me, too. I waited on the fella.”

  “An Indian? What did he look like? What was his name?”

  Forehead scrunching up again, the waitress stared thoughtfully at the water-stained roof squares and drawled a barrage of words. “No name. Young, quiet, and polite. Short black hair. Thin face. Cowboy duds. Ate a buffalo sandwich and left with a limp. Paid in cash. That’s all I know. Gotta git to cleaning tables. Come again.” She hustled away.

  Irritation coursed through Ansel’s veins like electric heat. So Reid knew the poacher had eaten at the restaurant the same night he’d gone to steal the fossil tracks. Somehow he’d tracked the man’s activities to Humpy’s and hadn’t shared that information. She didn’t like being skunked. Reid wanted to catch more criminals associated with the poacher while she wanted to save the museum grounds from government real estate barons like Broderick. They both had their reasons for learning the poacher’s identity.

  Ansel left the restaurant a few minutes later. She was unlocking the truck when the dim vapor light on the storefront behind her winked out, and a shadow fell across the driver’s door. Someone had moved soundlessly up beside her. Startled, she whirled to her left side, door key poised between her knuckles to be used as an eye-jabbing weapon if necessary.

  A man stood next to her, his body haloed by backlighting. He wore a black tee shirt and jeans. For a split second as her eyes took in the short-cropped black hair and thin Amerind face, Ansel thought the dead poacher had been magically resurrected. A visceral fear engulfed her. This was impossible.

  “Relax, Miss Phoenix. I’m Agent Standback. FBI,” said the apparition’s calm, tenor voice as he brought out a badge from his rear hip pocket.

  Ansel sagged against the truck. “What the hell are you doing here?” she cursed, adrenalin anger replacing her fear.

  Standback’s sienna eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Escorting you to Agent Outerbridge.”

  Chapter 7

  “Only two relationships are possible—to be a friend or to be an enemy.”

  Cree

  Never in her wildest dreams could Ansel expect to find herself where she was at the moment, strapped in a seat and staring past her feet out the tinted windshield bubble of a shiny black Eurocopter 120B as it lifted off.

  The noise was deafening. Turbines fired, the rotor drummed, and three humongous blades scythed through the hot evening air. Everything vibrated. The flight deck and the aft cabin containing three passenger seats. The tail. The nose. The resulting updraft produced by the thirty-seven-foot long helicopter sent jet fuel fumes and grit swirling like airborne banshees.

  Ansel’s hands gripped the arm rests as the skids abruptly left the ground, toes first. Then the aircraft’s nose lowered slightly and began its forward motion via a boost of added engine power. As the craft made a straight-angled climb, the concrete landing pad beneath her grew smaller with amazing speed, and her stomach flip-flopped. In less than a minute they were going seventy miles an hour.

  She wished that Reid hadn’t talked her into eating a chili dinner. What would he think about this? Ansel wondered as the small agricultural airfield used by crop-dusting planes became nothing but a postage stamp square dotted with pinpricks of light. It was too late now. All Reid cared about was her being be a “good girl” while he was away. Fat chance.

  As instructed, she’d followed Standback’s black Bronco in her truck and parked near the airstrip outside of Swoln. He’d told her nothing except that they would fly a short distance to meet Agent Outerbridge. Since then, Standback had been deliberately evasive with her questions, busying himself with pre-flight inspections, the engine warm-up, and then pre-takeoff checklists.

  “How are you doing?” he suddenly asked, seated to her left.

  Ansel forced herself to look away from the pitch black void beneath her. His head was covered by a helmet with a radio headset and a microphone boom as was hers. One of his hands operated the cyclic stick between his legs while the other manipulated a collective lever between their seats. His feet also controlled two rudder pedals. Digital screens, knobs, buttons, and engine gauges filled the cockpit. Multi-colored, control panel lights illuminated Standback’s face with an other-worldly, neon glow just as surreal as this whole adventure.

  “I’m all right as long as we don’t fly over water,” Her voice sounded muffled through her earphones.

  “We’ll be over solid terrain all the way,” he assured.

  “At least the ride is smoother.”

  “Above a hundred feet, this baby is pretty quiet compared to other copters,” Standback said with pride. “The aft New Generation Fenestron tail rotor really reduces noise print in forward
flight. As we level off above the clouds and hit one-hundred-forty miles per hour cruising speed, you’re going to get a great view of the full moon and the stars. Where we’re going, there won’t be any more lights.”

  “I know we’re headed northwest, but where exactly are we going, Agent Standback? I have a right to know. It’s not like I can change my mind, open the door, and leave.”

  A smile cracked his deadpan expression. “True. Grab that map in the waterproof pouch from your door pocket. Then hit that little switch on your microphone. It’s a reading light.”

  Ansel pulled a 12X12 inch map bag from the elastic-topped receptacle on her right. Rather than the typical air chart, the bag contained a folded USGS map. She clicked the mike switch and a flashlight-like, red glow encompassed her chest and lap.

  When she opened the geological survey map, she was surprised to see a close-up segment of a familiar Montana Badlands area about twenty-six miles north of Jordon. The yellow-green area marked with a “K” delineated the position and areas of contact in the Hell Creek rock formation, a Cretaceous age geological strata which had always been commercially searched by those in search of ore, minerals, and fossils.

  “We’re going to the Hell Creek State Park?”

  “Close to it. Ever been to the area?”

  “Not by air. I’ve driven through it and once I took a pack trip forty miles west through the Devil’s Creek Recreation area. It’s beautiful, but dodgy to navigate even in good weather. Why does Outerbridge want to meet there?”

  “I’ll let him explain,” he said, clamming up.

  Ansel’s heart raced with excitement. She studied the bumps and dips on the map for quite a while. There was no doubt that she was going to the same Hell Creek Formation where Barnum Brown had unearthed his two Cretaceous-era T-rex skeletons.

  The Hell Creek Formation was a desiccated, dun-colored range of hilly terrain peppered with gumbo buttes, and sharp, drop-away canyons eroded away by the Missouri River. It was fringed with ponderosa pines leading down to the shores of Fort Peck Lake. During her pack horse vacation, she’d seen elk, deer, eagles, foxes, and coyotes. Waterfowl even inhabited the lakeside regions.