Night Kill (9 page)

But I was kidding myself. The little objects in the jar weren’t just tokens. They had power, power to bring Rick out of the vague gray shadows, to make him real and let him bushwhack my heart once again. I put the jar back in my pocket, wondering if I should toss it into the nearest trashcan, and willed him gone.

Calvin was waiting with a big stack of food pans he wanted me to scrub while he filled out reports. Then he wanted help hauling gravel in a wheelbarrow and shoveling it onto the path at the pond.

“Time to head for the barn,” was all he had to say at day’s end.

I drove home exhausted. Calvin’s concern about every detail wore on my nerves, but it was what I would do in his place. Nitpicking suited me far better than Arnie’s blithe indifference. Calvin had made it clear I needed to prove myself and that he expected eight hours of hard work. It was looking to be a long week.

That night, bed seemed like the best place on earth. But soon I was lost on a cloudy trail, following tiger tracks in blood-streaked mud, frightened and alone. I must have cried out, because Winnie jumped on the bed and woke me. The rest of the night was lost to regrets, recriminations, and riddles.

Chapter Eight

Tuesday, Calvin remained taciturn and cool. He showed me once again how to fix vitamin-enhanced fish. After sharing herring and pleasantries with each penguin, he told me to start on the aviary diets and went off to check other bird areas and collect the food pans. I chugged an extra cup of coffee to beat back sleepiness and focused on being useful.

The Birds section came in three main parts: the Penguinarium was enclosed and climate-controlled with windows for viewing from outside the exhibit; the outdoor aviary, The World of Birds, a large area visitors could enter, was mesh all around and on top, except that two sides and part of the top were solid; the waterfowl pond was open, with a low barrier circling it to keep people out. A spectacled owl, a crippled bald eagle, and a red-tailed hawk were afterthoughts tucked in small cages between the pond and the aviary. Two red-headed parrots lived at the Children’s Zoo.

I hadn’t worked this section except for a few days when I was first hired. I thought of birds mostly as prey species for small cats or as backyard ornaments that my mother fed sunflower seeds. Getting serious about fluttery, fluffy things was going to take some work. I’d ask Calvin if he would loan me some of the books stored in a cupboard, books about penguins and waterfowl.

Left unsupervised, I referred to the diet records and carefully whacked fish into halves, quarters, and thin slivers to match a variety of appetites and beak sizes. Penguins brayed and splashed in the exhibit, sometimes coming to the baby gate to check whether I was doing it right. I took a break from fish prep to watch them over the gate.

In the water, the penguins were agile and elegant. Usually two or more synchronized their dives and turns, Olympic style. Out of the water, they waddled comically on the central “island” where the nest boxes were strategically placed. Unlike cats, they didn’t have potty corners, so walking around the island was a slippery business for humans. It smelled different from Felines, of digested fish instead of digested meat. “Pretty whiffy,” Calvin said each morning.

Two penguins were out of sight, sitting on eggs in nest boxes, but there would be no chicks. “Too crowded in here,” Calvin had said yesterday. He had removed the real eggs, which were sitting on the counter, and replaced them with plastic eggs. The birds didn’t care. When I asked why the fake eggs, he’d explained that incubating shut off egg laying. “If I don’t leave them something in the nest to set, they’ll keep laying,” Calvin said. “They ain’t chickens and it’s not good for them.”

The Penguinarium kitchen had the usual stainless steel counters plus a refrigerator and two sinks. One sink was for washing; one was for running cold water into a bucket of fish if the fish weren’t fully thawed. A wall was taken up with shelving and one full shelf was devoted to insects. Bird keeping meant bug keeping: bins of mealworms and wax worms and a wooden box with hundreds of crickets crawling around on egg cartons. The fridge held cardboard containers of nightcrawlers. The worms and insects were for the bewildering assortment of species in the World of Birds aviary. I was determined to be open-minded.

Homey touches included a yellow Penguin Crossing road sign, a big crayon drawing of penguins done by a third grader many years ago, and a plush stuffed penguin perched on a shelf. Newspaper articles about a big oil spill off South Africa were taped to the walls, with shots of penguins so black with oil that they looked charred.

After washing fish slime off my hands, I tackled the other diets: cutting fruit, setting mice out to thaw, measuring out various grain mixes. I was short of food pans, since Calvin hadn’t come back with them, and had to set out two meals on paper towels.

The only food prep left was the mix for a pair of fruit dove chicks that Calvin was hand-feeding. That didn’t require a food pan. But he might want to fix it himself. Would it be better to wait until he returned? I could be the timid trainee or I could read the instructions and get the job done. It wasn’t as if I’d never prepared a complicated diet.

I assembled the blender, measured all the ingredients, and blended them to an even, if unappealing, consistency. Calvin stored the stuff in a metal pitcher in the fridge. When I picked up the blender to pour the contents into the pitcher, the bottom part with the blades fell off onto the floor, where I stepped on them and slid, flailing my arms and waving around the rest of the blender for balance until I caught myself against the now-goo-coated sink. I emitted a few alarm barks in the form of profanity. When I leaned down to retrieve the blender bottom, the plastic jar with the turtle eggs fell out of my jacket pocket, where I’d forgotten it from the day before. I was bending over to pick that up when Dr. Dawson walked in.

He looked a little startled and stood a moment taking in the scene. “Good morning, Iris. Uh, is Calvin around? I’m looking for penguin fecals he was going to get yesterday.”

I straightened up, setting the jar and the blender bottom on the counter, and gathered my wits. “No, he’s probably over at the aviary. Let me see if they’re ready.” I made it to the fridge, slipping a little. No white Styrofoam plastic cup with a lid and a “fecal sample” note on it. “He’s probably planning to get you fresh ones this morning. He should be back any minute.” I actually had no idea what Calvin’s plans were, but it was good form to try to cover for him. I grabbed paper towels and started wiping the floor. What evil alignment of planets had sent Dr. Dawson to the Penguinarium at this particular moment?

Dr. Dawson nodded. “I can wait a bit.”

I marveled that he could look and act so professional—button-up blue shirt, gray pants, leather shoes—faced with a disheveled keeper flinging slop around. He stood and watched me, then took off his glasses and polished them on a handkerchief.

“Are all the cats okay?” I asked, unnerved. “Is Rajah eating?”

“Oh, yes. They’re all fine.” He put the glasses back on and frowned at me a little, looking lost in his own thoughts. At last he said, “I’m glad to have a moment to speak with you privately. Wallace is gun-shy right now about accidents. Possibly he overreacted. Moving you away from Felines, before we introduce the clouded leopards…Well, I might have made a different decision.”

The man was full of surprises. “Thanks. I appreciate the support, especially since this isn’t one of my finer moments.” To say the least.

“It may be a difficult transition to Birds, but I’m confident it will turn out well eventually.”

“Yeah, I’ll get the hang of it—eventually.” If I didn’t break my neck or get fired. I wiped a goo-smudge off my cheek with my left sleeve.

“Rick’s death was a loss to us all. He was a fine keeper and I liked him. He improved our reptile management quite a bit. Extremely regrettable.” He drummed his long fingers lightly on a chair back.

He seemed to have saved up that little speech until he caught me alone. It was news to me that the vet had developed so much respect for Rick, probably established during their snake breeding project, but hardly surprising. Rick was good at his job and easy to like.

I, on the other hand, was a chaos generator who was offending people every day. “Thanks for coming to the memorial service. It’s been tough.” A penguin at the baby gate brayed demands at us. “Calvin already fed you,” I told it. I threw away the soaked paper towels and made a second pass at the floor with a sponge. Leaning over seemed slightly more dignified than crawling on my hands and knees.

Dawson nodded sympathetically, apparently still oblivious to my culinary catastrophe. “If you don’t mind my saying it, this must be especially difficult, given the way he died. I understand alcohol was involved.”

“It was. He told me he wanted to quit drinking and get back together. Then he tied one on that same night.” I rinsed the sponge at the sink and went after another section of floor.

The vet nodded. “Alcohol addiction is powerful.”

And can lead to overly simple conclusions. I straightened up. If the opportunity and the nerve to question Dr. Dawson would ever come together, this had to be it. I clutched the sponge in a death grip and plunged in. “I keep trying to figure out how it happened. Do you have any idea why he came up to the zoo that last night?”

“No, I’m afraid I’m as puzzled as everyone else.” He gave a barely perceptible shrug.

“You’d think someone would know.”

“Iris, I meant it when I said you could drop by my office any time. I’d like to help in any way I can.”

I was digesting this when Calvin came in.

He took an appraising look around before he dumped a stack of food pans in the sink and turned to the vet. “I got you those fecals, just ran them up to the hospital. Thought I was saving you a trip.” He went to a corner cabinet, pulled out a string mop, and handed it to me.

“I’ll take a look at them later today.” The vet nodded at me and moved toward the door.

Calvin followed him. “You might remind Wallace about finding a place for those yearling penguins. We’re gonna have problems if we don’t thin them out pretty soon.”

“I’ve reminded him. I’ll bring it up again.”

“What’s this?” asked Calvin, picking up the jar on the counter.

I was wetting down the mop in the sink. “Stuff from Rick’s locker.”

Calvin held the jar to the light and he and the vet peered at it. “Snake eggs and a shed,” Calvin said.

“Turtle eggs,” I corrected, “at least, that’s what Denny told me. And some little tooth.”

Calvin shook it out of the jar. “Looks like a deer incisor.”

“Yes, it does,” said the vet, his jaw twitching up a little.

I shoved the mop over the floor. “Probably something he found in the woods.”

“I’ve got a deer jaw. I’ll bring it in and we can compare the teeth,” Calvin offered.

“Just the lower jaw? Wouldn’t we need the whole skull?” I asked.

Calvin gave me a patient look. “Deer don’t have any upper incisors. Just lower ones.”

Oh.

I knew that.

Calvin put the lid back on the jar and set it on the counter. Dr. Dawson took his leave and I started scrubbing food pans, with the vet’s kind words mending a little of my discomfort. I respected the man for responding promptly to animal health concerns and for his thorough research into the hundreds of species he cared for, but he’d always seemed aloof, unknowable. Now I was starting to like him.

Calvin wordlessly demonstrated how to secure the blender bottom and then inspected the diets I had prepared. “Who’s this for?” he asked, pointing to a paper towel with three tiny, naked mice babies laid out to thaw.

“The spectacled owl? The chart said three mice on Wednesday?”

“Not pink mice. If that’s all he gets, his stomach will think his throat’s been cut. He needs three adult mice. The pinkies is for the green jays.” He took a critical look at the other pans. “You got the wrong feed for the nene geese. This is the starter diet for the babies. They’re old enough for the regular diet, been on it for weeks. You want the bin on the left.” He spent a few minutes taking a close look at all the pans, then left without a word.

Selling furniture? Flipping hamburgers? I rifled through alternative careers, then swallowed my humiliation and dug around a second time through the buckets and bags Hap had sent, finally unearthing three gray adult mice, still a little icy. I set them out to thaw.

At least Dr. Dawson hadn’t found my questions offensive. Small consolation. I hadn’t learned anything either.

At lunchtime, I slunk off and found a clean jacket on the laundry shelves at the Commissary. Hap was busy unloading a produce truck. I took the long way to lunch, past Felines, intending to say hi to Raj.

Simba was posing regally, crouching with his head up and forepaws stretched out like a statue in front of a New York library. Sugar and Spice were sprawled in the weak sun, Spice on her back with her hind legs flopping, decidedly non-regal. Wallace and Dr. Dawson walked toward the Feline service entrance engaged in serious conversation, not noticing me. The tall vet shortened his stride to match the foreman’s heavy pace. Wallace’s voice rose on the phrase “…managing risk…” Spice lurched to her feet, stared at them through blank yellow eyes, then padded down the cement slope to the bottom of the moat. The men moved out of sight and I heard the door slam as they entered. They would be talking to Linda, not to me, about risk.

Seeing Dr. Dawson reminded me of the jar from Rick’s locker. Which I’d left in my dirty jacket, in the laundry pile at the Commissary. I headed back to retrieve it, wondering why I didn’t just throw it out.

Hap was moving boxes of lettuce inside from the dock, with the Grateful Dead helping. We chatted for a few minutes about his seasonal transition from BMW motorcycle to Toyota sedan, once the rains commenced in earnest. He said Benita was after him to buy her a Mini Cooper. Red, of course.

I was leaning into the dirty laundry bin with my rear sticking out when Wallace showed up, without Dr. Dawson. Hap flipped the music off as Wallace began fretting about running out of primate chow and criticizing how the produce boxes were stacked.