Border Prey

by Jessica Speart

  “Ten-Karat is a Pomeranian,” I corrected her.

  “Whatever! All I know is that the damn thing barks, has fur, and is costing me a fortune.”

  I was surprised she didn’t try to throw in that Ten-Karat had also fought at the Alamo.

  “Here’s my final offer: if it’s info you want on dirty dealings with critters, then my grandson is the one you need to talk to.”

  She’d lost me.

  Mother Krabbs shook her head impatiently. “I swear, I’m surrounded by a bunch of nitwits.”

  I was beginning to think F.U., Sr. had died just to escape her.

  “You remember, he’s the animal rights nut with too much free time on his hands. He’s always hearing about some kind of shenanigans. I’ll make sure that he gives you an earful. In exchange, you help me out,” she bargained.

  The woman had a pair of cojones larger than a stud bull’s during mating season.

  “Maybe I’m missing something, but what do I need you for? I can deal with your grandson directly.”

  “Not if I instruct him not to speak to you,” she responded. “Trust me. F.U., Jr. isn’t stupid enough to piss off his grandmother, especially since I’m the one holding the purse strings to his inheritance.”

  “And what is this information your grandson has?” I asked curiously.

  “Ah! Now that’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, isn’t it? Or the three-million-dollar question, to be more precise.” Mother Krabbs slid the sundae between us.

  “There’s still one problem: I have no idea as to the location of Pierpont’s lab.”

  “Scissorhands is holed up on F.U.’s cattle ranch, the Flying A, just over the border in New Mexico.”

  Talk about your strange occurrences. The Flying A happened to be the very same ranch that former Fish and Wildlife agent Johnny Lambert was working on. Ma Krabbs had just snagged me hook, line, and sinker.

  “If Dr. Pierpont isn’t working on a cloning project, then what do you think he’s really doing?” I asked.

  Mother Krabbs rolled a spoonful of ice-cream deep into a pool of rich chocolate. “I think he’s jerking all of us around while he’s busy draining me of my fortune.” She held the fudge-drenched ice cream toward me, as tempting as if it were the forbidden apple. “So, do we have a deal?”

  The bowl of Rocky Road whispered to me not to say no. I took hold of the spoon and brought it to my mouth.

  I dropped Mother Krabbs at the mansion, got directions to her grandson’s abode, and plunged back down into the heart of El Paso. I drove until I reached the Border Highway, North America’s version of the Berlin Wall. F.U., Jr. resided directly across the border from Mexico in a run-down, abandoned warehouse. I walked to the front door and pressed the buzzer.

  An angry voice bellowed, as if I’d been ringing the bell for hours. “Yeah. I hear you. What is it?”

  “My name is Rachel Porter, and I’m a Fish and Wildlife agent,” I responded. There was nothing but silence. Either F.U., Jr. wasn’t overly anxious to meet me, or had passed out in sheer exhilaration at the thought.

  I waited another moment, then decided to find out just how much power Mother Krabbs actually had. “Your grandmother sent me.”

  She was apparently able to kick ass all the way across town, for F.U., Jr. miraculously regained the use of his tongue.

  “Haul it up to the second floor,” he snarled.

  He’d clearly inherited his grandmother’s charm. A buzz pierced the air and I pulled the door open, then walked into a darkened hall.

  Grunge clung to the filthy walls, matched by a layer of grime which coated the floor. I entered the decrepit freight elevator. The gate creaked closed, and the machine gave a metallic death rattle before slowly beginning to ascend. I held my breath, fearing that any movement on my part would result in certain calamity. I exhaled as two black canvas sneakers finally appeared slightly above me, then a pair of black cotton pants, a black tee-shirt, and lastly, F.U., Jr.’s perfectly shaven head.

  He looked like the poster boy for a body piercing store. An array of hoops hung from his ears, eyebrows, and nose. But his body decoration didn’t stop there. A trail of ball bearings lay buried beneath the flesh of both forearms, running from elbow to wrist, like the entombed spine of a prehistoric beast.

  “F.U., Jr.?” I ventured.

  “F.U., Jr. is dead. My name is Rage.” He threw back his head and roared.

  Was the whole family certifiable, or had I just entered the twilight zone known as the Generation Gap?

  “You said my grandmother sent you?” F.U., Jr. turned and led the way into his loft.

  “Yes. She thought it would be a good idea for us to meet.” I was beginning to think Mother Krabbs was more off her rocker than I had imagined.

  I walked across rotting floor boards which softly sagged with each step I took, as though my feet were treading upon a sea of sinking graves. For lighting, F.U., Jr. had decided to go the simple route. Bare bulbs hovered overhead, precariously suspended by a ganglia of electrical wires. Alongside them, an abundance of paper streamers swayed in the stale breeze of an ancient fan, filling the air with ghostly whispers. As I drew closer I saw they were long strips of fly paper, festooned with hundreds of trapped insects. Mainly flies, the bugs ranged from alive and kicking to dead and decaying. Maybe it was time for someone to suggest that Metal Boy call in an exterminator.

  “You seem to have a problem with fly infestation in this place,” I noted dryly. “If I were you, I’d complain to the landlord.”

  F.U., Jr. shook a head as shiny as a cueball. “What you’re looking at is my art. I get my flies through a mail order service and then release them inside the loft. Its purpose is to show man’s struggle with the shit that goes on in our lives every day,” he condescended to explain.

  Okey dokey. From my point of view, it simply looked like the kid was hell bent on giving a bunch of flies a hard time. Either that, or the insects had chosen to commit mass suicide rather than live here.

  Leaning against the walls was an assortment of ten-foot-high canvases, each bearing a variation on a single theme: fully erect penises. One exploded in a display of colorful fireworks, while another took on the shape of an automatic rifle ejecting what I imagined were bullets. No wonder Mother Krabbs wanted to keep track of her money. F.U., Jr. was going to be needing it for some heavy duty therapy.

  “Is this your work, also?” I asked.

  “No. My girlfriend Cassandra paints those. But I’m the model,” he said proudly.

  Like I couldn’t have guessed. A third painting depicted a penis as the Eiffel Tower, with one extra addition: a column of silver ball bearings ran up the entire length of its shaft. F.U., Jr. had apparently found his soul mate.

  So much for psycho small talk; it was time to get to the real reason why I was here. Rage sat down at a rickety metal table filled with herbal supplements, and I joined him.

  “Your father claims you’re the one responsible for that bogus call to my office about monkeys being shot at his place,” I informed him.

  “You mean that stop-‘n’-pop drive-through slaughterhouse he calls a hunting ranch? Let me guess: I’ll bet he offered you a fun-filled free weekend package of food, booze, and blood-letting massacre. Did you take him up on it?” Rage taunted.

  Nobody could ever accuse the kid of masking his true feelings. I decided he deserved the same treatment from me.

  “I’m not a big supporter of hunting ranches, but I also don’t appreciate having my time wasted on a wild goose chase. So, take this as a warning: don’t do it to me again.”

  “I guess that means you’re not interesting in learning the real truth, then,” F.U., Jr. challenged.

  I pushed aside a few bottles of his herbal path to happiness and planted my elbows on the table. “What say we cut the crap and get down to business? Any action I take depends on whether you’ve got concrete information that I can investigate. Or are you only interested in jerking me around and spouting phil
osophical drivel? We can sit here all day discussing the ethics of hunting ranches, while you continue to play hide and seek with a bunch of toy monkeys, or you can tell me whatever you know, and actually do something useful. Saving wildlife is the only thing I’m interested in. If you want to help, that’s great. Otherwise, stay out of my way.”

  F.U., Jr’s his face took on a dark reddish glow. But instead of detonating, the kid took a deep breath and nodded. “Yeah. I’ve got some information for you. One of my father’s ranch hands has been inquiring about monkeys.”

  Monkeys! If the kid was fooling around, I fully intended to throttle him. On the other hand, his father had been listed in Timmy Tom’s cell phone directory. And there was no question that if Krabbs were in the market for monkeys, Tyler was the man he’d have gone to.

  “Maybe the guy’s looking for some pets,” I casually suggested. “What kind of monkeys is this ranch hand trying to get hold of?”

  F.U., Jr. didn’t answer. I waited a full minute, but nothing. The only response came from the elevator, which groaned its way back down to the main floor. The sound echoed off in the distance. Okay, game time was over. I got up and began to walk away.

  “Chimpanzees,” he said.

  “What’s that?” I asked, wanting to make sure of what I’d heard.

  “My father’s ranch hand. That’s what he’s after—chimpanzees.”

  My blood began to stir. Suddenly, I didn’t even care if the kid was lying. This was the first bit of intrigue I’d hit upon since being kicked out of Miami, and I fully intended to savor every blessed moment of it. I sat back down.

  “How do you know this employee has been asking around about chimps?” I began.

  “Because Cassandra told me,” Rage replied.

  Now, there was a reliable source.

  “She overheard it,” he added.

  “Are you saying your girlfriend just happened to be hanging out at the Happy Hunting Ranch, where she overheard one of the workers talking about this in passing?” I asked skeptically.

  “Of course not,” Rage responded. “She was at her father’s house when the guy paid a visit.”

  “And just who might Cassandra’s father be?” I asked, my doubts beginning to solidify.

  “He’s a guy by the name of Admiral Maynard. Ever hear of him?”

  The name had popped up a few times over the past two days. Not only had Maynard appeared on Tyler’s phone directory, but he also supplied F.U.’s ranch with its critters. Interesting, that F.U. and Maynard’s offspring were romantically linked.

  “Yeah, I have. Why is he called ‘Admiral,’ anyway?” I inquired. “Did he serve in the Navy?”

  F.U., Jr. grunted. “Nah. It’s a nickname that’s stuck with him. You’ll know why when you get a load of his cap.”

  I needed Rage to fill in more of the gaps. “How does Cassandra know this guy works for your father?”

  “Because that’s what he told Maynard. Also, Cassandra’s seen him at the ranch before,” Rage replied.

  “I don’t understand why your father would be interested in obtaining chimps,” I prodded. “They’re not your typical trophy animal.” Shooting a chimp for sport would be the equivalent of killing man’s nearest relative. But then, maybe that was its allure.

  It was Rage’s turn to shrug. “Who knows? My father has his own agenda. After all, look at the gold digger he married.”

  “Hey, watch it. That’s my friend you’re talking about,” I warned.

  F.U., Jr. looked momentarily startled. “You know Lizzie?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Sorry,” Rage muttered. “In any case, that’s why I placed that anonymous call to your office. I figured having you stop by the ranch might shake the old man up enough to make him ditch whatever it is he’s involved in. Besides, I needed to get your attention, and it worked, didn’t it?” he grinned.

  The only thing worse than a wise-ass kid is a wise-ass kid who’s actually smart.

  “I’ve got something else you’ll be interested in.” Rage stretched his arms, letting the bait dangle. “Cassandra also heard her father calling around, trying to get hold of a black rhino. Is that enough of a trophy animal for you?”

  “It’ll do,” I diffidently answered, resolved to remain cool.

  My stomach was turning topsy turvy cartwheels in excitement. If Rage’s information was correct, I hadn’t just hit a vein of illicit activity, but a major artery.

  I had one last question. “Did Cassandra happen to catch the name of the ranch hand asking about chimps?”

  Rage smugly nodded his head. “The guy’s name is Dan Kitrell.”

  Bingo! Grizzly Adams, the last entry on Timmy Tom’s cell phone ‘who’s who’ of skullduggery.

  “Thanks, Rage.” I began to head out, and pushed the button for the elevator. “Hey, have you met Dr. Martin Pierpont?”

  Rage nodded, grabbing at a fly in the air.

  “What’s your impression of him?” I queried.

  “Just that he makes Dr. Strangelove look like your normal, average guy,” F.U., Jr. responded.

  “Your grandmother mentioned Pierpont’s lab is at your father’s cattle ranch in New Mexico.” I figured this was a good time to double check the information.

  F.U., Jr. shot me a look which telegraphed that something wasn’t quite kosher. “Grandma must have lost a few more of her marbles. My old man gave the Flying A to an environmental group over a year ago, as a land trust.”

  I got into the elevator, which began to sink beneath my feet of its own accord. Weird. “But your father spoke as if he still owned the ranch.”

  “He thinks of it as his, because he didn’t get any money for it. My father claims he gave away the fifteen thousand acres to prove that he’s really a conservationist. But that’s nothing but a pile of crap.”

  If he’d actually given the land to be preserved, he deserved credit for it. “Lots of environmental groups take on ranches to save them from development. Personally, I think it’s a good thing.”

  I pushed the elevator button, and the gate closed with a rasp.

  “True,” Rage grudgingly agreed. “Except my old man didn’t give away the ranch out of the goodness of his heart; he wanted the tax break.”

  The lift suddenly dipped, then moaned as if in complaint of my weight. God, these old things were spooky. Maybe this was a good time to ask if there were stairs?

  “So what’s the name of this environmental group?”

  “It’s called The Southwest Heritage Trust,” F.U., Jr. responded.

  The elevator began to descend, suddenly lurched, and then let loose a loud shriek. The next thing I knew, I was falling through space.

  I’ve always read your life flashes before your eyes when faced with death. That wasn’t the case for me. All I could think of were the people I cared about and would never again see. I was more frightened than I’d ever before been, knowing I had absolutely no control over the situation—and could very well become Timmy Tom’s neighbor in an adjoining drawer at the morgue.

  The elevator slammed into the ground, causing the gate to fly open, as my knees buckled like a marionette’s cut loose from its strings. A vacuum of silence embraced me, to be slowly replaced by a distant ringing in my ears. The chimes grew louder until my head was buzzing from the vibration. I felt something sticky against my cheek, and realized my face was plastered against the floor. I took a deep breath and every inch of my body ached.

  “Holy shit! Are you okay?”

  I nodded my head as Rage’s face floated into view above me, like a pierced angel without any wings.

  “Good thing there was only one level for the elevator to drop. Otherwise, I’d probably be scraping you off the floor,” he added with a relieved grin.

  How consoling. I glanced at him, wondering what made him think I didn’t require the assistance of a spatula. Rage joined me on the floor as I checked to make sure nothing was broken, and then slowly sat up.

  “This el
evator really sucks. I’ve been afraid something like this would happen. That’s why I always make Cassandra take the stairs.”

  “Good advice,” I replied dryly, wishing he’d given me the same warning.

  F.U., Jr. took hold of my elbow and helped me onto my feet. So much for my clean outfit. My shirt and pants had a new design—patchwork dust and dirt.

  “You look pretty good for playing bungee jump without a cord,” Rage remarked, helping to brush me off. “A little shook up but otherwise not a scratch on you.”

  Great. That meant the damage must be all internal. There went my excuse for plastic surgery.

  “You sure you’re okay? Maybe you should get some rest,” Rage offered.

  “I’m fine,” I groaned and headed out the door toward my Ford. Everything hurt, making me feel as if I were ninety years old. I should have known the building was a deathtrap the moment I entered.

  Opening the vehicle door, I pulled myself in with thoughts of lawsuits and landlords dancing in my head. That is, until I caught sight of the mess which awaited me. The glove compartment had been torn apart and the door pockets emptied, with papers and chocolate bars strewn all about. The only thing missing was a cow’s head with a phone.

  My assortment of aches and pains turned to fear as my teeth began to chatter. The point couldn’t have been made any clearer. The plunge in the elevator had been no accident—I was lucky to be alive.

  Eight

  The clouds lay draped across the top of the Franklin Mountains, as thickly luxurious as a sleeping Persian cat. But I was barely aware of the surroundings as I drove. Two warnings so close together meant I had to be on the track of Tyler’s killer. Now I just had to figure out what that track was. As for Rage, it was possible that he was just an overaged adolescent, bound and determined to screw with his father. It was clear neither he nor Lizzie liked one another, so maybe this was payback time for having been replaced in F.U.’s affections by a young and beautiful stepmother.

  The other odd thing was this business with the Flying A ranch. It was possible Johnny Lambert had been kept on as manager by Southwest Heritage Trust. If so, they obviously hadn’t bothered to check out his background. Even more peculiar was that Pierpont was allowed to maintain his lab there. Maybe a deal of some sort had been struck between F.U. and the Trust. Otherwise, a few of the Krabbs family members didn’t appear to have their facts straight. My thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone.