Carnosaur Crimes (26 page)

“Yes, sir,” Heller answered. “We're on it.” They left the house, battering ram in tow.

Odie shook his head. “Poor Sheriff Flynn. How long you think he's been here?”

“I saw the wound. When we found the shotgun shell wad, it was already too late.”

“If Cyrus was messing with these bones all the time, he could be a walking dead man. He was sick when we were here, but I figured it might be drugs or a virus bug. You think he knows about the radiation?”

Reid sighed. “We'll find out. Let's finish the walk-through. We still have the basement.”

Reid and Odie went down into the dimly lighted lower level and simply perused the area. The whole basement smelled like roasted nuts, and they knew they were onto something. Since the house was now a crime scene, they were careful about disturbing things. However, they easily spotted the open boxes containing the ingredients and glassware supplies used to manufacture methamphetamine. Plus a box of syringes. All of this accounted for the basement's smell.

Reid walked over to the water heater where a small Pyrodex bowl sat on top. Circular white crystals stuck to the insides. “Looks like two or three grams once it's scraped out.”

Odie grinned from giant ear to giant ear. “Enough for twelve doses. He's cooked himself another long stint in the slammer with this alone.”

A moment later, Samson came down the rickety basement steps, a cell phone in hand. “Lieutenant, Sheriff Combs wants to talk to you.”

Reid grabbed the device. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“Reid, I just heard. Hell of thing about Cullen. That son-of-bitch nephew will get a sodium theopental cocktail if I have anything to do with it. Did you find the gun?”

“No, sir. Haven't found any guns or ammo. We just got a small quantity of Sidewalk Meth and the supplies for making it. Another couple of nails in the coffin.”

“Keep up the good work, Lieutenant. I have some other news. Just got a call from the FBI in Glasgow. Seems Agent Outerbridge's helicopter is overdue.”

A chill coursed along Reid's spine. He looked at his wristwatch. It was almost five o'clock. All this time, he'd assumed that Ansel was at the hospital tending to her father. He hadn't wanted her to go with Parker, but he knew her reasoning was based on getting to McCone the fastest way possible. Still he could have made other arrangements for a sheriff's chopper to take her to McCone County if he'd had to, and if she'd given him an hour to set it up. He would have found a way to legitimize the action to Combs and Mckenzie.

Reid kept his voice calm and nonpersonal. “What do they think happened?”

“Seems the Feds got a call from the U.S. Air Force Rescue Coordination Center on the east coast. They're the U.S. authority that receives notification when a satellite control center gets a serial number for an aircraft distress beacon transmitted to them from a satellite flyby. The satellite center got a fleeting signal from a beacon, but it died before they could get a location. A second confirmation flyby later didn't pick up any signal.

“Since the Air Force contacts a local rescue unit to go out and search, they try to avoid false alarms, most of them from beacon malfunctions. It's normal for them to call people who may know pertinent flight info first. The federales can't reach the task force by aircraft radio or cell so they want to speak with you about Outerbridge's departure. Call them. Ask for Agent Ralph Edison. Here's his number.”

Reid scrambled for his notebook and pen as Combs read off the digits. “I'll call them.”

“Find out more details, and let me know what they say when I arrive,” Sheriff Combs announced with enthusiasm. “Looks like the feebees got hung up somewhere, and that's perfect timing for us.” He disconnected a second later.

Odie noticed Reid's shocked expression. “What was that all about?”

Reid took a deep breath and swallowed before answering. Odie, if anybody in the department, knew how seriously he looked after Ansel since saving her life the year before. He handed the phone back to Deputy Heller, who discretly left the basement.

“The FBI copter flying Ansel to the McCone County hospital may have gone down.”

“Man, that's bad news. Where is it?”

“They don't know. I've got to talk to the FBI.” Reid pulled out his phone. “I'm also leaving after this call. When Combs arrives, cover for me.”

Odie scowled like an ogre. “Christ, how am I supposed to do that?”

Reid attempted a wane smile. “Tell him I'm chasing a lead on Cyrus.”

“What lead?”

Reid took Odie's manila envelope. “This dinosaur claw. I've got to check something first, but I think I know where it came from.”

Chapter 33

“Misfortunes do not flourish on one path, they grow everywhere.”

Pawnee

Ansel watched helplessly as Parker took his gun from the holster and set it on the ground in front of Dixie. His stare was one of chilly appraisal. None of this made any sense to her. She'd never related to Dixie, but had never suspected the woman was dangerous.

Cyrus had been listening too, and he called out, “Hey, let me over. Don't leave me here, lady. I was sent to help you.”

“Now what, Dixie?” Parker demanded. “You join your buddies who tried to shoot you down in a chopper? They're either very stupid or very pissed at you.”

Dixie lost her smile and leveled the Magnum at his head. “I've got Outerbridge's briefcase. They won't do anything to me.” She stepped forward and grabbed up Parker's gun. “Honey, you'd better get Parker to shut up.”

Ansel swallowed. The only weapon she had in her possession were the scissors in the medical kit inside her purse, but they had been badly dulled by her bark-stripping activities. Dixie had control over everything now: guns, cell phones, maps, GPS unit, emergency beacon, clothes, and Outerbridge's locked briefcase. God knew what was in there.

Ansel held up her hand in a calming motion. “Just go on your way, Dixie, and leave us. Without food or water, we won't last more than another day and a half out here. Your problem will be solved. It would look better if we died in the Badlands anyway. You'd be clear of a murder charge and could tell the FBI any story you wanted.”

Parker grinned. “So what's your real story? If you're not with the poachers, you must be with the mafia.”

“Lady,” screamed Cyrus. “Get me out of here. I'm not feeling good. I'm sick.”

“Stupid doper,” Dixie complained under her breath. “You can rot there for all I care,” she screamed back. Then she focused on Parker again. “Neither. I'm leaving, and if you try to follow me, I'll kill you. It's that simple.

“You won't get away, Lady,” Cyrus yelled, his voice sounding near panic. “I'll find you.” There was the sound of a shotgun being cocked, then a gun blast explosion as Cyrus angrily fired at the boulder. He seemed to go crazy and fired two more shots at the unmovable stone barrier.

Ansel covered her ears as the ammunition slammed into the other side of the rock. Parker suddenly rushed Dixie, who had momentarily squeezed her eyes shut and dropped the gun's barrel toward the ground. She recovered in an instant and the Magnum spit fire.

Another blast filled the tiny three-foot wide ravine before a bullet thumped into Parker's left thigh. He grunted and went down like a pollaxed bull, rolled on the ground, and clutched his leg. Blood darkened his jeans as a frightful scarlet plume.

“I warned you,” Dixie sputtered.

Ansel didn't even think, simply rushed to Parker while Dixie stood surveying her handiwork. The wound was bad. Parker sat up, trying to staunch the blood flow with his hands. He didn't seem to be in too much pain, but his eyes were wide black spheres. She took off her windbreaker and twisted it tightly into a nylon tourniquet before tying it above Parker's wound.

“It's going to be all right,” she said, not believing it. “This will help stop the bleeding.”

Parker looked into her eyes and smiled. “Don't worry. It doesn't hurt that much.”

He's going into shock, Ansel thought. Her icy gaze fell upon Dixie, who was gathering all the bags together. “At least leave us some clothes. The temperatures drop at night. I've got to keep him warm.”

“I'll be all right,” Parker insisted, even as blood continued to stain his pants leg and he began to shake a bit. Pain was slowly creeping into his consciousness.

Dixie gathered one duffel and the briefcase in one hand, the gun still poised in the other. She kicked the other tote toward Ansel. “You follow me and you're dead.” Seconds later she backed down the ravine and disappeared around a brush-strewn bend.

Ansel could care less as she dug through the duffel and found another of Parker's long-sleeved shirts. She helped him put it on. “I'm got to dress the wound. Lean against the wall and rest.”

Parker did as she instructed and said nothing as she pulled the medical kit from her purse and opened it. With great difficulty, she used the dull scissors to cut away a large hole in his jeans. Even that little bit of activity caused blood to gurgle from his thigh despite the tourniquet. She used one of Dixie's tees to clean away most of the blood around the wound, then took a couple antiseptic wipes to clean it as carefully as possible. More blood surged out and Parker winced.

“Sorry I got us into this mess, Ansel,” He whispered with great effort. “Bandage me up and get out of here. Just keep away from Dixie.”

Ansel smeared the whole tube of double antibiotic ointment over the leaking wound. “I'm not leaving you.” Three large, non adhesive, sterile dressing pads went on next.

“Get help. We need water or we're history.” Parker gritted his teeth against some unseen agony.

She unwound a spool of elastic bandage. “Don't argue with me. I've got to get this around your leg and keep some pressure on it. Ready?”

“Hard-headed Indian,” he cursed but lifted the leg by pushing down on his boot heel just enough for her to start wrapping the bandage tightly under and over his thigh. Despite his grunts, Ansel didn't stop. Blood colored the bandages crimson, soaking through to the elastic wrap. Ansel loosened the tourniquet but left it on.

“Swallow these,”she instructed, pulling two Tylenol tablets out of a foil pack.

Parker took them and gagged as they went down. He gazed at her sheepishly, eyes droopy. “No spit.”

“How do you feel?”

“Like I'm in the Badlands with a cap in my leg. Get out of here Ansel, please.”

Ansel said nothing, but packed up what was left of the sparse medical supplies. She looked through the duffel bag again. A pair of Dixie's jeans caught her eye and one of Parker's belts. “I'm going to change into these instead of this damn skirt. No gawking.”

“Killjoy.”

She took off her knee-length boots, unbuttoned her skirt front, and pulled the dust-stained black fabric off. She neatly folded it and placed it back inside the bag. The hot air swirling around her underwear and sweat-drenched legs felt wonderful. Parker watched for only a moment, then closed his eyes. He was losing consciousness, and she worried that the bullet had clipped an artery.

Dixie's jeans were two long and two wide, but she adjusted the cuffs and scrunched up the belt line with his belt, which was too long and flopped in front of her like a calf's tongue. The boots went back on. This getup was much better for the climbing and bushwhacking.

“Sounds quiet on the other side,” Ansel said. Her head bobbed toward the boulder.

“So what. You're headed the other way.” Parker's eyes were still closed.

“Wrong. I'm going back to the box canyon.”

His eyes sprung open. “Are you nuts?”

“What I need is the other way.” Ansel left the medical kit on the ground next to Parker, but situated her purse strap diagonally across her chest. She took one of the yellow ponchos from the duffel before positioning the ladder more firmly on the boulder. She hoped fervently that Rusty had left the ravine as she got on it.

Parker started to get up when he saw her, then groaned and sat back down, clutching his leg in agony. “God dammit,” he fumed. “Get off that ladder, Ansel.”

She couldn't look at him so she went quickly up the rungs. At the top, she peered over the boulder very carefully, mindful of Rusty's shotgun. “He's gone. I'll be back in an hour.” She got on the boulder, gauze strip to the top rung in hand, and pulled up the ladder.

Parker watched, eyes hard brown stones of anger. “What the hell are you after?”

“Medicine for your leg.” Ansel let the ladder down on the other side and descended before he could say anything.

“Ansel, be careful,” Parker yelled a moment later.

The boulder had been badly pockmarked by lead shot, some of which littered the ground. The tree limbs they hadn't used for the ladder were thrown all over, and the indigenous vegetation torn into pieces. Rusty's rage had been directed at everything in his path. She found Parker's walking stick and picked it up. It was a weapon of sorts.

Ansel stepped over the wreckage, grabbed the forgotten walking stick, and moved along the ravine, her senses attuned for any unusual sound or movement that meant Rusty was near. She made good time and the previously cleared path gave her a long line of sight. Nobody could ambush her.

Suddenly a stabbing pain shot through her abdomen, and she almost buckled on the trail. Heat cramps. The excessive heat without water was messing with her body salts. She should be resting in the shade not walking an eighth of a mile. Gasping deeply, she waited a minute until the knot in her lower body eased before continuing again. Sweat coursed down her chest and back from the passing pain and yet more valuable body salts and liquids seeped out of her body. The light-headedness she now felt was not a good sign.

Ansel poured all of her concentration into seeing the open prairie and the closer she got to the exit point, the more she was sure that Rusty had returned to the black copter. By the time she finally neared the exit between the bluffs, her thirst was all encompassing. She willed herself to keep her eyes only on the swatch of brown prairie now visible between the craggy ravine walls and her feet shambling forward without passing out.

“Please help me find water,” she said aloud before she realized it. As she reached the slotted entranceway, she noticed a shotgun lying on the ground amidst a pile of brush and halted immediately. Rusty's gun.

Ansel approached it on her toes, Indian style, and carefully picked it up. A quick check of the weapon's chamber proved that it was fully loaded with two cartridges. She tossed her walking stick aside. Where was Rusty and why had he left the shotgun?

Her answer came when she moved through the brushy, dead fall of the entranceway. To her left, where the canyon wall made its turn along to bluff's inner rim, she saw Rusty's body. He was face down in the prairie grass, long, scraggly red hair splayed across the ground. He was either unconscious or dead. There was no sign of the black copter.

Ansel cocked the trigger and walked toward him. Her mind was set that if he was alive and tried to hurt her, she'd shoot him on the spot. However, six feet away, she could see his chest expanding and collapsing. Her eyes immediately riveted to the round camo-cloth canteen lying beside him. Water. Her finger in the trigger guard was sweaty with apprehension and adrenalin. Damn, she didn't need this. She had to get back to Parker, but she wanted that canteen more than anything else at the moment.

“It's Ansel Phoenix. Turn over, Rusty.” The barrel of the gun was aimed at his head. There was no response. “Don't play possum with me, you bastard. Look at me.”

Still nothing. Ansel kicked him hard in the ribs with her right boot and his body shifted. He didn't make a sound. He had to be out cold to ignore that blow to his side. Her finger eased on the trigger but never left it as she mover closer, edged her boot under his ribs, and used all her leg strength to lift and kick him over onto his back.

Cyrus' face was deathly pale and blotchy. Garish brown freckles stood out against his bleached out skin tones. His powder blue ranch shirt, the same one he'd worn in Billings, had ridden up his chest, and she saw the nickel-sized, hemorrhagic spots beneath the skin of his stomach. She remembered the smell of vomit on his breath when he grabbed her at the hotel, and he'd told Dixie that he was sick. Maybe he'd been delirious and dropped his gun and canteen, she reasoned.

A moment later, Ansel's blood turned to ice as it dawned on her that Rusty had the classic symptoms of radiation sickness.

The intellectual revelation both stunned and horrified her. Even more chilling was the fact that she didn't know how she felt about Rusty's condition on a personal level. What was she feeling right now, knowing that the man who had roamed through her psyche for years was dying an unimaginably horrible death? Did she feel vindicated or cheated? Was she happy or unhappy? Glad or ashamed? Those questions were too complicated for her now.

Ansel snatched up the canteen and paced backwards where she could set down the shotgun and open the container in relative safety. It was half full and an almost primal frenzy possessed her as she unscrewed the cap. She didn't spill a drop as she tilted the canteen against her cracked lips and took three healthy swallows.

The cool, sweet, purity of the liquid shocked her senses but left her wanting more, even as she gulped a few mouthfuls. It was exquisite on her tongue, and she tore the canteen from her lips in order to prevent guzzling it all down in one fell swoop. If she did, she'd really get sick, and Parker needed the water more than her. Ansel capped the spout and placed the canister over her shoulder as she had the purse. Then she picked up the shotgun and left Rusty. He could wait.

She walked directly to the dead fall where the eight-inch wide puffballs grew. The fungi circle was still intact. Some were solid white, others brown with tiny holes beginning to open on the topsides. There were four of these.

She used one finger to gently poke through the first puffball, and a smoky wiff of thousands of spores flew upwards. Perfect. After opening her saddle purse flap, she yanked the collapsible puffball from it's stem, folded it up as best she could, and carefully pushed it into her bag. The three other puffballs followed. As she worked, she noticed that the air around her had become cooler and the sun wasn't as bright. A brisk wind jetted against her back, causing her long hair to flap angrily in her face.

Ansel turned to stare into the prairie. Above the north rim of the canyon, a strange creamy-white haze filled half the sky. Not clouds or the predicted edge of a squall line supposed to hit that afternoon. This was something more solid, like a wall of churning smoke stretching from west to east across the horizon with just the top part evident above the canyon walls. The slowly setting sun wasn't even visible through the haze. The creamy mass shifted within itself, eddied, and turned smutty brown. The cloud traveled quickly and spanned thousands of feet high.