Border Prey

by Jessica Speart

  “Rach! It’s me!” slurred a voice.

  That helped a lot. With the country music blaring in the background, I could be talking to Shania Twain, for all I knew.

  “It’s Lizzie!” the voice sobbed this time. “Don’t you remember me anymore?”

  Oh, oh. The new Mrs. Krabbs was sounding pretty plotzed.

  “I’m at the Round-up. Can you come by? I really want to talk to you!” she shouted above the twang of a “my-wife-has-gone-and-left-me” guitar.

  “You can talk to me anytime, darling,” a male voice responded, sounding as if he were right next to her. That was followed by a deep grunt. I figured Lizzie had probably slugged the guy.

  “Stay where you are! I’ll be right over,” I instructed, with visions of Thelma and Louise dancing in my head. The Round-up was a country-western bar known to get mighty rowdy—yet I was almost glad for the diversion.

  I made my way to the run-down strip it was located on, and entered a joint where the Marlboro Man would have felt fully at home. Smoke curled like phantom lassoes roping the crowd closely together in a drunken reverie, where cowboy wannabes eyed eligible women as if they were picking out prize-winning heifers. I dosey-doed through the front door and headed directly toward the bar.

  The good news was that Lizzie was easy to spot: she was the only cowgirl dressed head to toe in gold lame spandex with fringe. All except for her boots, which were missing. A couple of hotshot kids were drinking beer out of them. The bad news was that Lizzie was totally soused.

  “Rach! You came!” she half-cried, and half-laughed. “Do you know you’re the very best friend I’ve got in this whole, wide world?”

  Lizzie tried to haphazardly sling an arm around my shoulder but missed. I propped her back into place against the bar, then picked up her glass and took a whiff. The drink contained enough booze to knock me over with just a sniff.

  “What have you been drinking? One-hundred-ninety-proof grain alcohol?” I asked.

  Lizzie thought about it for a moment, and her brown eyes grew wide. “Jeez. How do you like that? I can’t seem to remember. It could have been a tequila sunset. Or maybe it was a tequila sunrise.” She laughed in surprise. “Oh, what the hell! Just as long as it does the job.” Lizzie removed her gold cowboy hat, lifted it high in the air, and threw it at the bartender to get his attention. “Hey! Hot stuff! How about a coupla frozen Cuervo margaritas for me and my girlfriend over here?”

  “Make that two ginger ales instead,” I directed, before the bartender’s palm hit the blender. I took the hat from his hand, and placed it back on Lizzie’s head.

  Then I tapped one of the kids drinking out of Lizzie’s very expensive boots on the shoulder. “Finished with those yet?” I politely inquired.

  “Why? You want to buy us another round?” challenged a kid with a chin full of peach fuzz.

  “No. I want the boots back,” I informed him. My mind was beginning to spin its own country western ballad: “Mothers, Don’t Let Your Sons Grow Up To Be Morons.”

  “And why would we do that?” piped up his equally underaged companion.

  “Because otherwise I intend to check your ID. And if I find that they’re fake, not only will I slap you both with a fine, but give you a choice between community service or jail time.”

  I slammed my badge down on the bar hard enough to rattle all the glasses and bottles in the vicinity, then retrieved it quickly. With any luck, the two lunkheads would be too drunk to realize I was a wildlife agent.

  The budding cretins instantly busied themselves wiping, drying, and finally buffing Lizzie’s footwear.

  “Thanks. By the way, do something about your breath. You boys could slay a dragon,” I informed them, and took possession of the boots.

  The bartender must also have caught a glimpse of my badge as I’d rolled out the gold. Two ginger ales promptly appeared on the counter.

  “No charge,” he muttered and walked away.

  I steered Lizzie, her boots, and the two drinks past the heel-stomping dancers and grabbed one of the few spare tables. Lizzie sat with her shoulders slumped, looking like a tarnished statuette as she picked up the gingerale and took a sip. Then she burst into a torrent of tears. The fringe on her hermetically sealed outfit bobbed up and down in rhythm with the music. Even in her present state, Lizzie had what it took to pass as a Bond girl.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked. “Did you and F.U. have some sort of fight?”

  Lizzie responded by crying even harder. I swiped the napkins from under some empty glasses at the next table and handed them to her. They were a little damp, but then so was she.

  “Here. Blow your nose,” I instructed.

  Lizzie did as she was told.

  “I feel horrible about the way I acted last night,” she moaned.

  “What are you talking about? You were fine,” I assured her. All I could figure was that Pierpont must be miffed she’d told me about his project.

  “You don’t understand.” Lizzie woozily shook her head. “I’ve been pretending to be happy, when the truth is that I’m totally miserable!” she confessed.

  I wasn’t all that surprised, considering the cast of characters she was dealing with.

  “Even worse, I feel paralyzed. I know I need to make some kind of change, but I’m not sure what to do, Rach.”

  “You could always move in with me for a while. It’s not a mansion on Crazy Cat Mountain, but Tia Marta and I will be there,” I offered.

  Lizzie had taken me under her wing and into her home after I’d received a little “housewarming” mailbomb from some Nevada homeboys, so the least I could do was the same for her.

  “Are you saying I should leave F.U.?” Lizzie asked, tears welling up in her eyes once again.

  “Well, it is one option,” I suggested.

  Lizzie despondently played with the diamond ring on her finger as she thought it over. “If I leave F.U., what have I got to look forward to? Another office job that I’ll hate, as I watch my life and my dreams pass me by?”

  As far as I could tell, that’s exactly what she was doing now.

  “What you love is dancing, Lizzie. Maybe it’s time you get back to doing it,” I advised. “You don’t have to be in Vegas or treading the boards on Broadway. If you can spend millions on cloning Ten-Karat, why not start your own dance company right here in El Paso?”

  “There’s something else I haven’t told you. I think F.U. is fooling around,” Lizzie quietly said.

  She was probably right. After all, the old coot had come on to me, not to mention whatever he had going with Velma.

  “Do you still love him?” I asked gently.

  “I’m not really sure anymore,” Lizzie confided with a sob. “Half the time, I’m wondering where he is. The rest of the time, I just want him out of the house. What I can tell you is that living with Crazy Krabbs doesn’t make my life any easier.”

  Since Lizzie was asking for advice, I decided to give it to her. “You know what I really think you should do? Kick some butt, lay down the law, and get back to being who you were when F.U. first met you.”

  Lizzie blew her nose with newfound determination. “You’re absolutely right, Rach. It’s time I took charge of what’s going on around me,” she said decisively.

  Hey, if I got canned from Fish and Wildlife, I could always go into counseling cowgirls who get the blues.

  Suddenly I spotted close to four-hundred pounds in bib overalls on the other side of the room. It had to be Fat Boy. Even more intriguing was that he wasn’t alone. By his side was none other than F.U.’s ranch hand, Dan Kitrell. This definitely called for some serious snooping around.

  I turned back to Lizzie, whose head was now smack down on the table, and spent the next few minutes getting her outside into my Ford.

  “Where to, Lizzie?” I inquired. “You know that you’re more than welcome to stay with me.”

  Lizzie curled up and laid her head against the window. “That’s sweet of you, Rach. But
I really need to get home,” she replied.

  I drove her back up Crazy Cat Mountain, parked, and helped her inside the house. Then I got back in the Ford and followed the trail of stars home, my thoughts occupied with Timmy Tom, Fat Boy, and their odd assortment of business associates—and which of them might want me dead.

  Nine

  I woke to the sound of tapping on my window pane and glanced at the clock. Six A.M. I closed my eyes and Harrison Ford flashed a hot little smile, persuading me to pay no attention. But the rapping grew progressively louder. I rolled over to find out what all the ruckus was about, and discovered Sonny Harris at my open window.

  “For chrissakes! Don’t tell me you’re into playing Peeping Tom these days,” I chided, pulling the sheet tighter around me.

  “If I were, I wouldn’t be waking you up now, would I?” Sonny replied. “I’ll let myself in the front door, so you don’t think I’m peeking at whatever it is you’ve got that’s so different from every other woman. In the meantime, stop dreaming about whoever’s got you all riled up and stick some clothes on.”

  I shot him a glance, wondering how he knew about Harrison. By the time I’d thrown on jeans and a tee shirt, Sonny was already heating his own pot of coffee. Literally. Harris refused to drink anyone’s brew but his own.

  “That’s ’cause no one but a true cowboy knows how to make the real stuff,” he’d once told me.

  His beat-up aluminum kettle sat spitting and snorting on my stove like a bucking bronco, with good reason. By his own account, Harris hadn’t washed it in over ten years, claiming it was part of the “seasoning” process.

  “Make yourself at home,” I remarked, as he pulled out two mugs from my cupboard.

  “I always do,” Sonny responded in true buckaroo fashion, and handed me a cup. I took a sip. The brew was thick enough to float a horseshoe.

  “This is the kind of stuff that’ll put hair on your chest,” Sonny boasted.

  “That ought to be a real treat for some lucky guy one of these days,” I retorted.

  I knew something special had to be going on since Sonny was up so early. The second tip-off was the extra strong coffee. The third was the enormous black plastic bag which sat on the floor at his feet.

  “Did you bring your own breakfast with you, as well? Or is there something else in that bag I should know about?” I inquired.

  “It’s an item I found out near your murder scene. I thought you might find it interesting,” he informed me.

  I untied the knot and took a peek. Inside lay a dead vulture. Maybe Sonny had just a little too much free time on his hands.

  “Well? Aren’t you going to take a better look than that? Or can’t you be bothered checking something unless it jumps up and bites you on the nose?” Sonny reprimanded.

  When he put it that way, there didn’t seem to be much choice. I donned a pair of latex gloves and tried to weight-lift the creature out of the sack.

  “Do you think you can help me with this thing?” I asked with a grunt.

  Sonny broke into a guffaw. “Sure. I was just waiting until you asked.”

  Out came a turkey vulture, one of America’s largest birds of prey. Its unfeathered red head glared at me, pugnacious as a punch-drunk boxer. We spread open the vulture’s seventy-two-inch wing span, then went to work giving it a preliminary exam.

  No bullet wounds or other marks were to be found on the carcass. That ruled out foul play in my mind.

  “So, what do you see?” Sonny prodded, impatiently waiting to hear what I came up with.

  “Looks to me like you’ve got a dead bird here,” I said with a shrug. As far as I could tell, the only difference between the vulture and Timmy Tom was that the bird didn’t have a cell phone in its craw. “Perhaps it died of old age. Or maybe it got tired of living on the border and just gave up.”

  “You know, Porter, that’s why I’m the master tracker and you’re still the rookie when it comes to this stuff. Tracking is an art form—think of it the same as you would a fine painting. You can never catch everything there is to be seen the first time around. Why, I’ll bet you haven’t even been back to visit the crime scene, have you?”

  I gave myself a mental kick in the ass. Apparently he’d unearthed information that I should have been out there digging up.

  “Critters are always dying of natural causes out in the desert. What makes you think this bird is any different?” I quizzed.

  “The spot where you found Tyler’s body was marked off by the sheriff. This vulture was conked out a little too damn close for comfort.”

  “That’s it?”

  Sonny looked me square in the eye and gave a quick, firm nod. “Yup. That’s it. Call it a gut feeling, but there’s something about this vulture that just isn’t right.”

  I sighed, wondering how I could send a dead turkey vulture to the Fish and Wildlife National Forensic Lab to be autopsied with that flimsy explanation.

  “I’ll ship the bird off to our lab in Oregon, but it might take a while,” I warned.

  Sonny pulled on the brim of his hat, as though he’d already taken the problem into consideration. “I can speed up the process, if you like,” he offered. “There’s an old friend of mine who hasn’t got much to do these days and could use some cheering up.”

  “So, you’re going to give him a dead bird to play with?” Maybe what Sonny needed was a new set of friends.

  “Yep,” Sonny nodded. “Charlie used to work as a pathologist. But these days, he’s just an old geezer like me, who could use a shot of excitement in his life.”

  I figured it would save me the trouble of sending off a bird that might only have died of heat stroke. Besides, it would be a gesture of goodwill on my part. Perhaps now was the time to ask Sonny for that new refrigerator I’d been longing for.

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “You’re learning the ropes, Porter. But I’m still not buying you any new fridge,” Sonny growled, as if knowing what I was up to all along. “What I will do is give you a piece of advice: listen to the wind speak, and maybe you’ll hear some of the desert’s secrets.” Sonny picked up the vulture and stuffed it back inside the bag, tying the plastic closed with a double knot. “And if that bull dookey doesn’t work, then just keep your nose to the ground, and don’t squat with your spurs on.”

  I smiled to myself, having had an intriguing thought. Maybe if Miss Mae didn’t work out, Mother Krabbs might prove more to Sonny’s liking.

  I decided that since I was already up, this might be a good time to make an early morning run and check out F.U.’s former New Mexico ranch. As I jumped in my pick-up, what little sunlight there was retreated, over-taken by an army of foreboding clouds. I headed off toward Mount Riley, a place not all that far from the Anapra Road. Thunder broke out in a symphony of biblical bellows, followed by a searing gust of hot wind which sliced through the air and spit out a torrent of rain. The drops danced a flamenco on the roof of my Ford.

  My windshield wipers kept a steady beat as the rain poured down in sheets, evaporating in fingers of steam as they hit the ground. By the time I arrived at the Flying A Ranch, the pungent smell of wet earth hung heavy in the air.

  The gate to the Flying A Ranch stood invitingly open, but a handwritten sign nailed to it cautioned otherwise: Trespassers Will Be Shot. Survivors Will Be Shot Again. Live Through That, and We’ll Try Hanging You. An environmental group with a quirky sense of humor—how refreshing. I ignored the message and drove over a metal cattle guard, then proceeded through the open gate.

  Thump, thump! went my tires as they rolled over the steel grating. Crunch, crunch! they sang as they hit the gravel road. The gravel slowly gave way to a rutted dirt path, causing my Ford to shake, rattle, and roll. I bounced along for another five miles before I reached a second gate, which was securely closed. If a padlock were the only obstacle, I’d have pulled out a pair of metal snips and cut through. But it held an alarm pad similar to those I’d seen installed at the Happy Hunting Ranch. I
n order to gain access, one had to know the code. I had little choice but to turn my pick-up around and head back the way I’d come.

  Soon after, I heard a noise rapidly approaching from behind—the roar of a V-8 engine bearing down on my Ford. I assumed it would pass me, but as I glanced in the rear view mirror, a large black Suburban van locked on to my bumper. The next thing I knew, I was being pushed off the road!

  I floored my F-150 for all it was worth, and as the rpms revved into gear, the Ford kicked up a shower of gravel and leapt away from the offending bumper. I leaned forward and gripped the steering wheel tight, watching the speedometer needle rise like a thermometer.

  Fear noxiously mixed with anger in my stomach, as I remembered the warnings I’d received in the past few days. We clocked seventy, then eighty, then ninety, until my tires were spitting out stones and dust in a furious comet’s tail. Still, I couldn’t shake my pursuer, whose nose remained three inches from my bumper all the while.

  Bang! The van rear-ended my Ford, causing my wheels to whine into a skid, and my pick-up threatened to turn over. I cursed, counter-steering to the left and then the right to guide the Ford back onto the road. All the while I pushed my foot down even harder, as ninety-two, ninety-four, ninety-five miles an hour flew by. The episode in the elevator now seemed like child’s play, and this time my life did flash before my eyes. The Suburban easily kept pace, like a cheetah who knows it can catch up with its prey any time it wants. What kind of wacko environmentalist was this, anyway?

  Thud! My body jerked forward as the van rear-ended me yet again. I swore that somehow I’d get revenge, and gave the pedal one last thrust to the floor. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, one hundred. I was suddenly scared that I was truly going to die.