Carnosaur Crimes

by Christine Gentry

  “Shouldn’t the FBI make a public plea requesting the return of the fossils because they’re a health hazard?”

  “Why? These people are criminal scum. Anybody dealing with stolen radioactive merchandise deserves to microwave from the waist up as far as I’m concerned.”

  Ansel squinted at him. “Even criminal scum have children. What if they’re storing the fossils somewhere near their kids or somebody else’s?”

  Parker placed his hand on her arm and she didn’t pull away. “You can’t save somebody who doesn’t want to be saved, Ansel. Crime is a volunteer profession. When people cross the legal line, they know it. Don’t waste your sympathy on them. They’d kill you and your children just as soon as look at you.”

  She didn’t agree, but at least he’d been honest about the rings. It was too late to argue. She folded herself against him. He smelled like the hotel shampoo. “Turn out the light. We’ve got to get some sleep.”

  Parker tilted his head and kissed her, tongue probing in such a way that sent shivers down her spine, while his arm reached out and fumbled with the lamp switch. In seconds a cocoon of darkness enveloped them, and Parker slid down with her into the sheets. He wrapped his protective arms around her.

  “I’m going to miss you while I’m away, Ansel. ”

  She ran her fingers through his hair. “Don’t worry. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

  Parker laughed. “That’s a given.” In a few minutes, he was sound asleep.

  Ansel hated clock watching, but that’s what she did for the second night in a row. She could see the digital clock provided by the hotel on the night stand quite clearly if she lifted her head a bit and got her line of sight just over Parker’s rising and falling chest. When the clock said one-fifteen, she began her slow disengagement from Parker’s out flung arm over her waist with a snail-like vigilance. No way was she getting caught in the room by Agent Outerbridge in the morning.

  Ansel slowly slid away from Parker, and his hand fell with a low thud to the mattress. She froze, watching to see if he jolted awake. He didn’t, and she continued to move sideways away from him and toward the far side of the bed. Then came the lower body swing to get her legs off the edge. A quick feet-on-the floor push up and she was standing. Parker still hadn’t budged. In seconds she had grabbed her boots, cowboy hat, and saddle purse from near the bed and hurried into the bathroom. Closing the door left her in total darkness.

  When she flicked the overhead light switch, every cell in her eyeball screamed bloody murder to her optic nerves. The tiny bathroom looked positively ugly, sterile, and washed out by yellow light. Peeling off Parker’s tee, she groped for her clothes folded on the toilet tank.

  Five minutes of fumbling and stumbling with her clothes, especially buttoning the split-front skirt, was finally rewarded with victory. She used her brush to tame her wild, frizzy hair, applied some powder, blush, and lipstick. Next she put on her jewelry and twisted her hair up into a top knot before donning her hat. At last she was presentable for entrance into Dixie’s domain.

  Ansel turned off the light and opened the heavy door as quietly as possible. Parker was snoring. A good sign. The front door opened with a low, nasty mechanical squeak. Damn. She halted in mid-movement, hand gripping the knob and praying for mercy. A wait of another minute gave her courage to try again. This time she swung the door open very quickly, went through the opening, and closed it behind her with a loud click of the electronic lock.

  The hall was well lighted and completely empty. A flowery red and gold carpet stretched past an infinity of identical yellow doors. No roving FBI agents in sight. A fresh bed and some real shut-eye awaited her in room one-sixteen across the hall. Hopefully Dixie would be zonked out and never know she’d come in. Ansel turned on her heels and dug into her purse for the room card. Bliss was only a card swipe away.

  As she scooted past Outerbridge’s room, the elevator ahead of her chimed its arrival. Two cowboys, laughing loudly, clomped into the hall. Ansel looked up at them as they spoke to each other in the small confines of the hall foyer.

  “Shit, this is the wrong floor,” said the smaller, blond-haired man wearing a white Specialist hat.

  “Man, we’ve got to get back before daybreak,” whined the second man. “I don’t have time for this crap.”

  She couldn’t take her gaze off the taller guy wearing faded jeans and powder blue, long-sleeved ranch shirt. The pale white face framed by bright red hair, thin moustache, and beard was impossible to miss as it turned to stare directly at her.

  Ansel froze in place, feet bolted to the floor halfway to the safety of her room and eyes riveted to the malevolent green-eyed gaze of Rusty Flynn.

  Chapter 24

  “The dead add their strength and counsel to the living.”

  Hopi

  Reid stood in Chloe’s studio carefully studying the color, computer-generated image of the Indian poacher. It was eerie having a mortal face to go with his implanted memory of the inhuman, emulated corpse he’d seen at the morgue.

  The bust of a dark-skinned, young man with a thatch of short black hair parted along the right side, broad forehead, narrow jaw, and square chin filled out the face, but it was the personal features that held Reid captive. The Indian’s dark oval eyes closely set beneath thick black eyebrows and above a broad nose and thin lips gazed back at him challengingly. So now you see me. Give me back my name.

  “Explain how you did this, Chloe. It’s amazing.”

  It was almost one-thirty in the morning. Chloe sat next to him on another stool positioned in front of a long table where the paperwork he’d take back to Mission City was neatly stacked. The skull was re-sealed in the packing box as well. She’d waited for his late arrival. He couldn’t believe how pretty Chloe looked during the middle of the night in jeans and peasant shirt that clung low over bare shoulders. Her smile was radiant.

  “Basically, a Cyberware color laser scanner captured the 3D images of the cleaned skull as it sat on a platform linked to a computer. While the platform rotated, a digital wireframe matrix was generated which simulated the dimensional contours of the skull. It’s really simple computer tomography scanning, and it permits me to make more accurate measurements of potential tissue depths. I can virtually reconstruct a face from separately scanned skull pieces if I have to.”

  “Like a CT scan the hospitals use.”

  “Exactly. The only facial features I can’t get from scanning skull contours are the nose, eyes, mouth, skin texture and color, so I add them with another program. That software is based on known tissue depth measurements collected on standardized charts associated with past cadaver facial studies compiled by age, sex, build or ethnic group.”

  She shook her head. “Still, because I’m unable to digitize some of the personal features directly from the skull bones, it makes the most fundamental features a person possesses nothing but subjective guesswork on my behalf. That’s where my artistic training kicks in the most.”

  “You’ve done a damn good job.”

  Chloe stared at the photo. “The digital, 3D reconstruction technique has its faults, but it’s repeatable and fast, unlike my traditional clay reconstructions. Hopefully, if I’m off on the character details, the drawing will still stimulate a recognition response in somebody who knows this man.” She peered at Reid. “You’re bushed. I have a spare bedroom. You could stay here tonight.”

  Reid saw that her expression, though warm and inviting, held no promise that sleeping over entailed anything more than just a good night’s rest. And that was all right. He wasn’t plunging into anything. He’d just reconnected with Chloe under the most bizarre of circumstances and was drawn to her by old memories. Chloe had changed and so had he. He had to get to know the woman again and redefine their relationship past, present or future.

  He placed the photo on the other papers, then picked them up along with the box. “I appreciate the offer, but I checked into a hotel before coming here. I owe you a meal, rem
ember? If it can’t be dinner, how about breakfast?”

  “I’m teaching a class at the university tomorrow but breakfast is doable. When are you going back to Mission City?”

  “Not until noon.”

  “All right. Let’s do it.”

  Reid smiled. “I’ll pick you up. What time?”

  “How about seven-thirty?”

  “Perfect. I guess I’d better go.”

  “Sure.”

  Reid went to the door and Chloe followed. Once there, he gazed back at her. “Get some sleep yourself. We have a lot of talking to do.”

  Chloe smiled back.“I know.”

  He stepped through the doorway, which was the last thing he really wanted to do. There time together had been all too brief. “Goodnight, Chloe.”

  “See you in a few hours, Reid.”

  This time he didn’t get a kiss on the cheek before Chloe shut the studio door. He wasn’t sure how to interpret that. Was Chloe secretly mad because he didn’t stay? Was she playing coy? Was he reading something into nothing?

  Irritated, he swiped a hand through his hair. He’d never been good at the dating games women played with a prospective suitor. His timing was always off. When women wanted action, he hesitated. When they wanted personal space, he blundered in and dominated. Subtle clues flummoxed him every time. He was guy used to spotting the straight-forward lies, deceptions, and inconsistencies of his fellow man, not to perceive the tangled ambiguities and abstruseness of his fellow woman.

  That’s why he always screwed up with Ansel, he reflected as he slid into the sedan and dropped the papers and box on the passenger seat. She was a bright, rough-edged lady with so many raw emotions, hang-ups, and stubborn willpower that she usually turned him off completely.

  Yet there was something about Ansel that abraded away his irritation like the scrape of fine sandpaper against skin. You never bled, but the itch to take notice as she worked her way into your system was always there. A grim smile erupted. Indian hoodoo. And where the hell was she?

  He pulled the cell out of his coat pocket and punched her home phone number as he backed down the driveway. The phone rang, then her answering machine droned in his ear. Disgusted, he turned off the device. He wasn’t leaving another message, and it was too late to call the Arrowhead and chase her down through Chase and Pearl.

  He had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ansel must have bailed on her deal to keep in touch with him about Outerbridge. Maybe she was angry over the wiper incident. Why did she do this to him? He should be enjoying his time with Chloe not stewing over Ms. Anselette Phoenix. Stay focused.

  Reid glanced at the poacher’s picture setting on the seat. Why did you go after fossil tracks at the museum alone, without your gang buddies? You were well prepared. No amateur chisels, picks or pry bars for you. Just a top of the line concrete saw and expensive night vision goggles. Clean, quiet, and efficient. You weren’t a user either. No drugs or alcohol in your system.

  Most important, you didn’t pick the remotest place to strike or slink around in the dark avoiding the police. You were braver than that. You went right past the BLM field station with your old truck that could never outrun anyone. You were daring them to catch you, weren’t you? Like the old days when Indians counted coups against their enemies by passing up the opportunity to kill and simply tapped their foe’s body with a coup stick instead. This act demeaned your opponent and gave you power over them.

  Enemy. The word bounced inside Reid’s head like a ping-pong ball. Having an enemy was a personal thing, and he knew he’d just figured out the real motivation behind the Indian’s plans. It wasn’t about poaching fossils for financial profit. It was all about getting even, stealing something that meant a lot to somebody else.

  Reid was almost at the Rimrock Motel, but he stared hard at the digital man. Speak to me. Who was your enemy? The BLM in general or somebody at the station? And he had another thought. Chester Dover. The fossils were found on his land. His land? Maybe not.

  He knew nothing about the history of Dover’s cattle ranch. He’d check out all angles from property history to possible relationships between Dover, field station employees, or any other BLM agency. Plus local tribes. Maybe the calm waters of the Red Water River ran deeper than anybody imagined. If the Indian wasn’t connected to the fossil poaching ring, it was one less puzzle piece for him to fit into a larger picture.

  He pulled into the motel parking lot so deep in thought that he inadvertently drove around the back side of the building. Stupid, he realized an instant later. He should have parked out front near his room. That was when he noticed the green Jeep parked beside the dumpster near the employee entrance to the kitchen.

  “Son of a bitch.”

  He slammed on the brakes, tires squealing as the unmarked car bucked to a halt and completely blocked the Jeep’s reverse exit from against a wall parking slot. Reid turned off the engine, pocketed the key, and considered his options. He was out of his legal jurisdiction and it was the middle of the morning. Better to check this out quietly before rousting local cops for backup.

  He wasn’t wearing his holster and he grabbed it from under the front seat. It took a minute to adjust it over his right shoulder. Then he pulled his jacket from the back seat and slipped into it. A moment later, he was in the parking lot looking at the Jeep while one eye watched the building in case somebody came out and noticed him.

  The entire rear of the vehicle was encrusted with black mud. The Montana license plate was practically unreadable but not from Lacrosse. It was local. Switching plates was common with stolen vehicles, but the mud intrigued him. It was the same type that Cyrus Flynn had all over his El Camino.

  He quickly inspected the Jeep back to front. There was nothing that indicated the vehicle had belonged to Cullen Flynn. Any decals, bumper stickers or personal items belonging to a police chief were gone or he had the wrong Jeep.

  The front seat was a mess of garbage including empty beer cans, overflowing ashtrays, and fast food trash. The back seat had old newspapers and two beat-up fabric suitcases on it. Reid squinted at the headlines through the rear passenger window. A Sky Sentinel newspaper from Mission City was visible beneath a Billings Gazette, and he felt an adrenalin rush.

  He left his sedan where it was and headed for the rear lobby entrance. Time to talk to the night clerk and find out what room the Jeep’s driver was occupying.

  Chapter 25

  “What is past and cannot be prevented should not be grieved for.”

  Pawnee

  Rusty Flynn took a slow, staggering step toward Ansel. “What are you looking at?”

  She blinked, comprehending that after dreading this moment for so long it would come down to a freak crossing of two lives in the most unlikely of places and under the most preposterous circumstances. There was a dark, cold humor in all this, as cold and dark as the murky depths of the ice pond into which he’d thrown her as a helpless child. Well, she wasn’t helpless any more.

  Flynn was only a few feet away, staring at her with a smug sneer of curiosity and amusement. “Maybe you want some satisfaction,” he suggested, his gaze raking over her outfit from top to bottom. “That why you’re hanging out in the hall? You a hooker?”

  A spark of anger flared inside Ansel, fanned by the outrageous ramblings of a nasty little boy wearing a man’s skin. A bully, even now, but less powerful and intimidating. Her dangling hands knotted into fists as a seething hot anger raced through her veins

  He was either drunk or stoned and his adult face, which might be handsome under better conditions, was drawn and pale, sickly. He was pathetic, really. Nothing but a swaggering brawler with a monkey on his back. Ansel took a step toward him, staring him down with two and a half decades of hate. She waited with anticipation, second by excruciating second, for him to acknowledge who she was and what he’d done to her.

  She didn’t expect an apology. Oh, no, never. All she wanted was his full, undivided attention so she could prove to
him that she’d survived his almost fatal cruelty and not had her spirit crushed by his ignorant bigotry. She had been wounded, yes, but battles weren’t fought without scars. Judging from his appearance, the ultimate war victory was definitely hers.

  “Cyrus, leave her alone. We’ve got to check out.” The blond man behind Cyrus jabbed several times at the elevator button in frustration, trying to get the door to reopen.

  Something in her face must have scared Rusty. He halted in mid-step, emerald eyes squinting with the effort of focusing more clearly on her. He finally pointed a slender, shaking finger at her. “Shit, I don’t know who you are, bitch, but you stay away from me. I don’t like your looks.” Rusty turned and stumbled away.

  Ansel stared at his retreating back in total shock. He didn’t even recognize her. How was that possible? She relived the day he almost killed her with every other thought, tear, and breath.

  What sort of soulless monster was he? Any other thoughts she had were truncated when the elevator chime pinged, and the stainless steel doors opened.

  Reid stepped into the hall. First he looked at the blond man, then his gaze speared through Cyrus Flynn. Next his stare flickered over Ansel, and his blue eyes widened into quarters. Ansel held his gaze for a second, and it smarted down to her soul as he relayed his disturbing inner message to her: disbelief, distrust, suspicion.

  Flynn simply bolted toward Ansel, grabbing her by the arm so fast with his right hand that she didn’t even see it coming. Sheer revulsion made her yank away from him, but he propelled his body behind her, threw his left arm around the front of her throat, and locked her into a vise-like choke-hold with his forearm.

  Reid’s eyes turned steely black. “Let her go Flynn.”

  The blond man acted, too. He backpedaled from Reid, reached down to his right ankle, tore at his jean cuff, and pulled at a small gun hidden beneath its folds. Reid went for his own gun and managed to grab the weapon out of the holster. He aimed it at the blond man’s chest just as a small caliber pistol was leveled back at his own head.