Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  Quirt felt the weight of that musk and tried to stop me again, saying, “Hoss . . . I’m not so sure this is a good idea.”

  Until then, I hadn’t risked more than a glance over my shoulder. I stopped and turned, more interested in the distance that separated us. Quirt was closer than I’d hoped but walking with an obvious limp. The spill from his Harley had done something to his hip or back and the pain was getting worse.

  “How many rounds do you have left?” I asked.

  He leaned against a tree, saying, “Shit, it’s hot. Out west, we got dry heat. Maybe we should go back and get some water.” Using the glove on his good hand, he dabbed at his scars.

  “If that magazine doesn’t hold more than seven,” I said, “the elephant’s going to kill us both. You’ve already fired six.”

  “No I didn’t. Fired five.”

  I said, “You’re wrong,” and left him there, walked slowly inland, while he raised his voice to say, “Besides, I got this.”

  Quirt’s hand would be touching the pistol. No need for a look to clarify, and I wouldn’t have bothered even if confused. It was because of what I saw not far away: a sizable bundle of clothing . . . no, a hunter’s tarp suspended high in the limbs of a tree.

  Or was it a . . . ?”

  I moved closer, Quirt saying, “This is more of your bullshit psychology. A Winchester holds seven in the tube and one in the chamber. To prove it, I’ll check. But stop right there. I can draw and shoot before you take two steps.”

  I said, “You do that,” and kept walking, but not far, then stood there, looking, while my brain pieced the scene together . . . an eerie scene that clung to chaos and noise despite the silence. Small trees leaned as if a tornado had swept through. A few lay crushed on the ground, creating a ragged circle. In the middle of the circle was an oak, bark shaved on one side. White scars worked their way up the trunk to what I’d thought was a tarp, but it was too high off the ground for a hunter’s blind.

  It wasn’t a tarp. It wasn’t a bundle of clothing either, but there was some clothing.

  Behind me, Quirt shucked the rifle, then spoke to himself, saying, “Oh . . . shit.” Then worked the lever several times as if hoping for a miracle.

  I put the chain saw down and started toward the oak. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

  “No! Goddamn thing’s empty, which wouldn’t of happened if you hadn’t played your bullshit games. What you did was trick me into wasting lead. But it don’t matter a bit because I still got—” He went silent, aware that I was moving quietly for a reason. Then, whispering, demanded, “Hey . . . what do you see?”

  I heard the empty Winchester clatter to the ground—Quirt had tried to lean it against a tree.

  “Don’t bother with the pistol,” I told him.

  “Is it the elephant? Tell me, damn you. Is he dead?”

  I said, “You’d better hope so,” and pointed toward the tree canopy, which brought him creeping to investigate. It allowed me freedom to concentrate on the ground and circle the oak while the biker stood staring. I found a spent brass shell casing, three inches long . . . then another casing that pulled me outside the ring where chaos had occurred. I slipped one of the casings into my pocket and kept searching.

  Quirt, oblivious, continued to stare, transfixed by what hung from the tree. Finally said, “Jesus mother Mary . . . are you shittin’ me?”

  I asked, “Do you think it’s him?” Said it to focus the biker’s attention because in bushes near the brass casings lay a rifle: a glistening walnut stock with a recoil pad protruding from the leaves.

  Quirt said, “Poor bastard’s gotta be fourteen, fifteen feet off the ground. You think an elephant could do that?”

  I wandered toward the rifle. “Unless the guy fell out of an airplane. Can you make out his face?”

  “Shit, man . . . what face?”

  That was true. Harris Sanford, the good-looking gambler and fossil guide, had been tromped beyond recognition and then impaled on a limb that had sheared upon impact. Blood dripped as if from a high balcony after rain, the man limp as a deflated balloon.

  Quirt, after changing angles, started to say, “We gotta get the hell out—” but then stopped when he turned and saw what I was holding: A rifle, barrel pointed—Remington Safari 700 etched on the stock. And a monogram: DSS.

  Dalton Sanford, middle name unknown. His nephew or grandson, Harris, had used it to terrorize Toby—but for the last time. Like Owen Hall, he had been stomped to death. The look on the crazy biker’s face when he saw the rifle—shock on overload while he tried to recover, saying, “Good . . . good, you found it. That’s what we need. Is it loaded?”

  “Unbuckle your belt,” I told him. “Don’t touch the pistol, let it fall. When it hits the ground”—I paused, aware of a distant plodding vibration, limbs cracking somewhere to our right, so raised my voice to continue—“When the pistol falls, kick it toward me.”

  Quirt clicked the pincers on his bionic hand, beginning to panic. “Hear that? The big son of a bitch is coming back.”

  “Then you’d better hurry,” I told him.

  “Hoss, it’ll take both of us to kill something that size.”

  “Not if I shoot you. He won’t care if you’re bleeding—as long as you’re still alive.”

  “As long as I’m . . . shit, man”—Quirt shoveled his hair back—“I can’t run, my back’s hurt. You can’t just go off and leave me . . . not after what happened to—” His eyes drifted to Harris Sanford, Harris’s disjointed arm swinging while the ground vibrated, the rest of him pinned flat to the tree.

  “It’s the best I can do without a boat,” I said.

  Quirt’s eyes glazed for an instant, remembering Deon’s story. He had wanted to believe I’d done it, left Deon out there to drown among sharks, and now he had proof—he was living it—and the reality sucked the air out of him.

  Dry-mouthed, he said, “I’ll split the ivory with you fifty-fifty,” but, as he spoke, I noticed his hand drift toward his belt.

  I told him, “Drop your damn pants, kick the pistol toward me, then throw me my wallet. And Leland’s.” I managed not to raise my voice.

  It froze his hand. “Okay,” he said, “but you got to promise we’ll come to an agreement.”

  “Maybe we will,” I said, which gave him something to cling to. Instead of bothering with his belt, he reached and lobbed both wallets at me, then the pistol—almost got himself shot for that, but he was too spooked to care.

  To our right, much closer, roots of a tree made a slow keening sound. The tree crashed to earth, and the musk of heavy breathing flowed toward us in a wave.

  Hurrying, I tucked the wallets and pistol away, then let Quirt watch as I shucked a live round from the Remington and caught it—a stiletto-shaped cartridge as thick as my finger. I held it to the light, then checked the empty magazine, saying, “You’ve got one chance. The woman who died in the house fire—did you knock her out first?”

  “What?”

  I said, “I don’t have to outrun the elephant. I just have to outrun you,” and turned as if to leave.

  “Wait! I’ll tell you. She . . . Hell, she was a dried-up old prune who loved to talk. I got a few rums down her, but then she did something stupid. She tried to slap me—”

  A shrill trumpeting drowned out the rest—an unexpected sound because it came from the pasture, not the woods. Immediately, the call was answered by an elephant duet to our right where the tree canopy pushed closer and showed a wedge of sky as more trees toppled.

  Florida Elephant Rescue . . . it adjoined the old Mammoth Mines property—the only explanation. Toby, the solitary captive, had company.

  It was not a gathering I wanted to stick around and witness.

  To Quirt I said, “One bullet, one chance,” and let him watch me slide a brass casing into the chamber and slam the bolt clos
ed. Then skidded the rifle toward him and turned . . . and there was Toby, watching us, his black mass separating me from the pasture.

  I spread my arms to show him two empty hands while the crazy biker, still oblivious, knelt and picked up the Remington, a Safari 700.

  I said softly, “Quirt, I don’t think you’re going to make it to the beach.”

  Looking up, he asked me, “Huh?”

  A second later, he stood and hollered, “Hey . . . hoss! Why are you running?”

  I didn’t look back—even when I heard Quirt bellow after cursing the empty rifle . . . then scream.

  EPILOGUE

  The day after Owen’s funeral, I finally got my chance to dive what Leland, on the phone, referred to as “Toby’s Pond.” Just me. The man had no knowledge of diving’s “buddy system” and even less interest.

  The invitation wasn’t negotiable. Leland, a loner all his life, tried hard to sound in control, which told me he was agitated. My guess was, he had no one to talk to—no one he trusted anyway.

  “A news helicopter spotted vultures over a woods near the interstate,” he said. “They’re sending people to check. The cable networks are all over it, of course.”

  For nearly a week, “three killer rogue elephants” had been on the loose, and the national media couldn’t get enough. Should the animals be euthanized or rehabilitated? And how could three adult pachyderms evade detection in a state that was as densely populated as Florida?

  Every time I heard that—and I’d heard it a lot—I rolled my eyes.

  Leland said, “Even if they’re wrong about the vultures, there’s something I want you to see. Bring your scuba stuff—that’s up to you—otherwise, jeans and boots. I’m the only one here.”

  “Have you gotten any sleep?” It was a polite way of asking how he was holding up.

  “No, but it doesn’t matter,” he replied. “Try to get here by noon. I won’t put the backhoe away until you see what I’m talking about.”

  He had dug Toby’s grave. Why else would the heir to the Albright fortune be alone on his ranch using a backhoe?

  I had been sitting on the deck with coffee, waiting for Tomlinson to arrive. On a nearby table was an envelope that contained the retriever’s DNA results and a newspaper.

  Not my newspaper. I avoid the damn things, even when “killer elephants” aren’t running wild. Palm trees and tropic June mornings are too fragile to compete with a litany of the world’s woes. Choose one or the other. I made my choice long ago.

  Today was different, so I’d walked to the mailbox, then the marina, and returned with the paper folded to a small headline:

  FWC STING NETS “BONE HUNTER” RING,

  UNDERCOVER AGENTS POSE AS COLLECTORS

  My name wasn’t included in the story, which was the only reason I’d bothered checking. But my cop friend from Tallahassee was mentioned several times:

  In charge of the operation was Capt. Shelly Brown, a twelve-year FWC veteran who spent months working undercover before staging a “relics sale” on public land north of the Peace River.

  Fallsdown had guessed correctly about the woman with the cute chin and marathoner’s body. Shelly, a former jogging partner, had drafted me to help after we’d struck a deal about the contents of the duffel bag.

  The sting had taken place three days ago—Saturday. I had accompanied Mick but slipped away before cops descended on dozens of bone hunters and dealers, who were convinced they were safely gathered on private property.

  Among those arrested was a tall blonde. She had arrived in a VW van adorned with peace signs and belching smoke because the radiator was overheating. After money exchanged hands, the woman was charged with selling stolen property, and with more than a hundred felony counts of “violation of historical resources.” The collection she had brought included mastodon ivory, a bezoar stone on a gold chain, and the hilt from a Conquistador’s sword.

  Ava Albright had been cuffed and taken to jail. Now she and her attorney Dalton Sanford were claiming entrapment.

  It wasn’t true.

  Tomlinson had made good on his vow to produce the person responsible for Lillian’s death and he had done it all on his own. Didn’t say one word to me. The proof was that he, too, had spent the night in jail.

  Before hanging up, Leland, the cuckolded husband, paid mild tribute to Tomlinson’s cunning.

  “I figured your friend for a harmless flake. Tell him thanks.”

  • • •

  WHILE I LUGGED DIVE GEAR from the house to my truck, the harmless flake followed the dog walking at my side. Tomlinson saying, “The woman cop might be an old jogging buddy, but that doesn’t mean she won’t arrest you. She’s doing her undercover cop routine again. I’m afraid Dunk’s going to find out the hard way.”

  I said, “Shelly? Stop worrying. Has he called since he got back to Montana?”

  “Let me finish. Remember asking where he disappeared to this weekend? Shelly drafted his tracking skills as an excuse to take him camping—you know, search for Toby and the other two elephants. Dunk took his drum, which tells me the trip turned into a sex fest, John and Yoko doing the Little Bighorn thing, while she infiltrated his redskin brain. Shelly drove him to the airport last night. And get this: She plans to fly out there next week.”

  I said, “Then you have spoken to him.”

  “Yes. Dunk’s worried she’s falling in love, but the whole time what she’s really doing is gathering evidence. You know, pay a visit, meet Rachel. While they’re not looking, she’ll get video of the Little People you stole from Dalton Sanford’s lockbox thing.”

  It was true that before police and EMTs had arrived, I had opened the box and removed two owl stones. One was the crested carving in the photo Harris Sanford had sent. All possessed a pearly white sheen around the eyes.

  By now, the owls were with Rachel Fallsdown.

  I smiled. “Your feelings are hurt because Shelly cuffed you instead of inviting you to go camping. Maybe if you owned a drum, things would’ve been different.”

  “Like that’s going to help find a dying elephant,” Tomlinson scoffed. “The moment Dunk told me, I knew.”

  “I think some of Ava’s ego rubbed off on you,” I said. “Too much time doing that yoga mind-link business. What color was her aura the day you led her into your little trap? Check the mirror, ol’ buddy. Or do you use a prism?”

  “Hers was greenish gray,” Tomlinson said after thinking back. “But you’re wrong. Vegas dancers are like honest men—they can’t be tricked. Ava hung herself. All I did was zone in on her objectives and steer her back into the web. Doc, you should know by now my instincts are about ninety percent right on.”

  “Only because you don’t remember the times you’re wrong,” I said. I swung a fresh tank into the truck, secured it, and walked toward the house while Tomlinson prattled on about fears that only illustrated his police paranoia . . . but stopped me cold when he said, “What’s Hannah going to think if Shelly nails you for theft? I’m pretty sure she knows about the saber cat skull.”

  “How?” I asked him, which sounded like an admission, so I covered my tracks. “I took pictures of the thing and moved it. Big deal.”

  “All I know is, Shelly asked Dunk what you took from the river that day. He’s the one who brought it up. Let’s hope Shelly doesn’t get him love-drunk and trick him into spilling the beans.”

  I continued walking, and told the dog, “Go swim.”

  The dog did. Tomlinson moved up beside me and watched him catapult off the walkway, where a cormorant dived for its life, then slapped the water until airborne.

  “You’ve got to admit it’s weird,” Tomlinson said. “I’ve still never heard him bark.”

  I replied, “You never will,” then changed the subject.

  • • •

  I WAS STILL ON THE PHONE with Hannah when I par
ked beside Leland’s Escalade, so ended our conversation, asking, “Can I call you later?”

  The way she fumbled around told me she had plans for the night, but the woman recovered nicely. “How about I call you in the morning? I still owe you a fishing trip.”

  Because of confidential paperwork on the sting operation, I’d had to cancel our date on Monday. My wobbly excuse hadn’t meshed with the woman’s iron morals, but on the phone she had been cheery and sweet and quick to laugh—Hannah’s normal self.

  Another reprieve . . . or maybe we actually were becoming friends again.

  On the floor of my truck, passenger side, was a five-gallon bucket covered with a towel. It had slopped water because of the bumpy road—distilled water to which I had added a careful amount of a chemical, Acryloid, after using a meter to measure the amount of soluble salts.

  I was sopping up the mess when Leland exited the office door, so I poked an arm out the window and held up a finger: Give me a minute.

  He was dressed like a gentleman farmer, wearing baggy pants and Wellingtons, his khaki shirt dark with sweat. With a shrug, he walked toward the pond and waited.

  I looked into the bucket and, once again, wrestled with my conscience. A saber-toothed tiger stared back through eons and the eye sockets of a skull. I couldn’t let Leland see the thing—an obvious flaw in my hasty plan, a plan that was unraveling fast.

  Before leaving, while in the systemized certainty of my lab, I had made two tough decisions: No, I would not tell Leland about the petroglyph. The mastodon tusk would soon be returned to him. That was enough. The man was in financial trouble and the temptation to auction a priceless artifact would only add to the trauma he had suffered—or so I rationalized.

  I had also convinced myself that, yes, I would return the saber cat skull to the pond where snakes and gators and, possibly, an old elephant on the mend would return to guard it.

  Now, however, in a place where chaos had reigned so recently, I was certain of nothing. Plus . . . by god, I wanted that skull with its lethal ivory fang. Forget the lies I had told Tomlinson, I felt something each and every time I touched the thing.