Wounded Earth (6 page)

And now they had a couple of real, live Vietnam veterans—and competent ones, too—planted in their organization by Babykiller himself. These two guys, backed by enough firepower and by personnel they had trained themselves, would be able to fulfill their mission easily. The general and most of his bunch wouldn't likely survive the showdown that would ensue when Babykiller doublecrossed them, but he didn't waste any energy grieving for them.

It wouldn't be long before it was all over. He would have his revenge, or at least the beginnings of it. And he would have something more. He would have Larabeth right where he wanted her.

* * *

It had been two days since the phone calls and the break-in and the green water. Denial was an important human defense tactic and Larabeth was using it. She was considering the possibility that the crank calls were random, that the sabotage of her kitchen sink was a sick prank, and that her home was once more a refuge. Perhaps she had overreacted.

Perhaps. But she still jumped when the phone rang. A shiver still lingered between her shoulder blades when she answered it. Phone calls were exciting these days. Babykiller could be on the other end of the line. If not Babykiller, then perhaps J.D. She'd had years to regret the things she said to J.D.

Larabeth had missed J.D. for a very long time.

Larabeth
ordinarily slept late on Saturdays, even when she planned to go in to the office. Somehow, the little indulgence of lounging an extra hour forestalled that I-hate-working-on-weekends feeling. Stretching the indulgence strategy a bit further, she wrapped herself in a huge, soft robe and shuffled into the kitchen.

It was nice to be able to sit around in her nightclothes for awhile. She was glad J.D. had only felt the need to sleep on her couch a couple of nights. He had helped her select a security system and overseen its installation, and she appreciated his efforts, but she enjoyed her privacy.

Besides, she hadn't heard from Babykiller since her break-in on Wednesday. Maybe the kook had been looking for an easy victim, someone who would cry and beg when he made his threats. If so, maybe Babykiller—whoever he was—had decided he'd be better off harassing someone more cooperative.

Larabeth poked around in the fridge. An omelet sounded good to her, but she sacrificed herself on the altar of cholesterol and used prepackaged almost-eggs. Maybe on her birthday she'd let herself add bacon and cheese, but not today.

She set her plate down and spread the newspaper across the table. The omelet was good, even if the so-called eggs had never been within five miles of a chicken.

A color photograph, situated in the dead-center front-page position, caught her eye. Withered brown corn stretched toward the horizon, with a few green patches poking audaciously above the devastation. Two sheriff's deputies stood in the foreground, flanking a stocky, balding man. The headline read: TENS OF THOUSANDS OF ACRES OF NEBRASKA FARMLAND DEVASTATED BY VIETNAM-ERA HERBICIDE.

The deputies stood impassive, but the third man's face was haggard and tear-streaked. Larabeth assumed at first that he was the property owner until she read the photograph's caption: Mr. Mac MacGowan (center), one of the cropdusting pilots involved, was held for questioning in the incident.

Larabeth grabbed her calendar and began taking notes. The article estimated the volume of Agent Blue distributed and the acreage of land affected. She made herself a note to check the distance from the affected areas to a major water body and to look up the names of key staffers in Nebraska's environmental agency.

She felt like an ambulance chaser, but herbicide cleanup was her bread-and-butter—especially Agents Orange, Blue, White, and their multicolored kin. If this incident resulted in widespread contamination, somebody would have to clean it up. Larabeth intended for that somebody to be BioHeal. She called her travel agent and booked an afternoon flight to Nebraska.

Her omelet was cold, but she ate it anyway while she reviewed her plans. It would be bedtime before her plane landed in Lincoln. Tomorrow was Sunday—not good for reaching government personnel, but she could talk to the owners of the damaged property and, if she were lucky, one of the cropdusters. Maybe Mac MacGowan himself, but she didn't expect much. Judging from the looks of him, she doubted that he'd had a clue about what he was doing.

The phone rang. She kept writing, absently lifting the receiver with her left hand.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Doc. Have you read the paper? I told you to keep your eye on the paper.”

Larabeth set the receiver on the table and stared at it. Babykiller's voice was still audible, calling her name. She snatched the receiver back to her ear.

“So you've crawled back out from under your rock. I thought I was rid of you.”

“Careful, Doc. A well-bred woman is always polite. Why, even I'm polite. I didn't call you at dawn, as soon as the newspaper hit your driveway. I let you have your beauty sleep.”

Larabeth glanced at her new caller ID box. UNAVAILABLE, it said in stark block letters. She thanked her lucky stars—and J.D.—for the voice-activated recorder plugged into the empty phone jack in her guest room. J.D. called it a “tattletale.” They might not be able to trace the call, this time, but at least they'd have the creep's voice on tape.

“Cut the crap, Babykiller.”

“You are not polite.” The connection was bad, and there was an annoying hum in the background.

“Harrassing me by phone isn't polite, either. Why did you want to call me when the newspaper hit my driveway?”

“I told you to watch the papers.”

“Yeah, well, I've gotten three or four papers since we talked. What's so special about this one?”

He didn't respond. Larabeth scanned the front page. Below the fold, there was a small spread on the latest sex scandal in Baton Rouge. Half a column was devoted to a hurricane brewing in the Caribbean. That was all. The rest of the front page was taken up by the photo and report on the crop sabotage in Nebraska.

“Did you do this?" she demanded, poking her finger through the picture of Mac Malone and the ruined cornfields. "Why would you do this?”

“A well-bred woman always makes sense. I shouldn't have to remind you of these things.”

“I don't care what you think of my breeding,” she said. “I think you are behind this herbicide mess in Nebraska. You told me to watch the papers, then dropped out of sight for days. Now I see a wasteful, pointless stunt on the front page and—what a coincidence—you're back. And, at the risk of sounding conceited, this stunt seems calculated to get my attention. A high-profile herbicide spill—Babykiller, it's got my name written all over it.”

“You're right. You do risk sounding conceited.”

Larabeth knew that victory in a battle of wits goes to the combatant who best uses silence. So she sat, silent, and refused to let him provoke her. When he had waited long enough for her response, she said, “You haven't denied responsibility and you sound mighty self-satisfied. I'm confident that you did it, but I'd like to know why.”

“I don't do anything these days, Doc, that doesn't add to my little financial empire or provide me with entertainment.”

“And why do you keep calling me?”

“Certainly not to add to my financial empire. No, you provide entertainment. Not much yet, unfortunately. I picked you because you're intelligent enough to pose a challenge. I thought it would be fascinating to cross swords with a woman like you. But then, we haven't really crossed swords yet, have we?”

There was a moment of restrained laughter, then Babykiller was gone. Larabeth peeked through the metal blinds of her kitchen window—she had never kept them closed until Babykiller came into her life—and reflexively clasped the collar of her bathrobe together at the throat. She felt so exposed.

* * *

Babykiller lobbed his phone overboard. The action was wasteful (he knew she didn't have equipment capable of tracing the call—few people did), but he was a conservative kind of guy. It felt good to watch physical evidence of his activities arc over the Intracoastal Waterway and plunge in.

Incautious men rarely approached his level of accomplishment. He took pride in the fact that he hadn't done an honest day's work since Vietnam. He had used his time there wisely, to make important contacts and establish ties with discreet suppliers.

During the intervening years, he had considered each step in building a shipping network of people who knew absolutely nothing. Warehouse workers, postal employees, truckers—they all knew what to do when an unmarked package appeared in a prearranged spot, but nobody knew what was in the packages and nobody knew who sent them.

Babykiller answered to no one, not the mob, not the Colombians, and certainly not to anyone else in his organization. The DEA could wage its War on Drugs until Jesus came back. They would never find him and neither would Larabeth. Not until it was too late.

* * *

Cynthia settled her grocery bags on the kitchen counter and checked her answering machine. It was flashing evenly, signaling that it had received only one call. She tapped the button and started putting the groceries away.

Ms. Parker,
a man's voice began,
this is Brian at the New Orleans office. I'm assuming you've seen today's paper and know about the herbicide spill in Nebraska. The corporate people have pegged you as a likely up-and-comer, so we'd like you to represent BioHeal in Lincoln next week. I apologize for leaving a recorded message about such an important subject, but your boss is out of town and this is late-breaking news and I don't have time to play phone tag. You're booked on a Delta flight early Monday morning out of Augusta. Your assignment is unclear at this point—just show up at the Nebraska Department of Environmental Control in Lincoln and ask for Larabeth McLeod. This could mean a big contract for BioHeal. Good luck.

Cynthia sat weakly on her kitchen stool. He'd called her an "up-and-comer", whatever that was. It had the ring of success. And he'd asked her to represent the company on a high-profile issue. Even more importantly, he'd used the words "big contract" and those words could make a success of any environmental consultant. She was on her way to bigger and better things—if she performed well.

As if her nerves weren't already jangling enough, the idea of working directly with Larabeth McLeod made her wish for a stiff drink. To wash down a double dose of Prozac. Dr. McLeod was a walking, talking icon to her employees. She was smart. She was beautiful. She was successful. All the men wanted to marry her and all the women wanted to be her. Or to kill her.

Cynthia was looking forward to meeting the big boss. She just hoped the legendary Dr. McLeod didn't hear her knees knocking together.

* * *

Larabeth had stood, motionless, gazing out her kitchen window for an uncharacteristically long period of time.
Do something. Anything. Don't let this Babykiller brute terrorize you,
said one voice in her head, the calm, competent voice that had guided her through a life fraught with professional success and personal tragedy. It was her own voice and she trusted it.

I don't know what to do. I'm too scared to even think
, said another voice, one she hadn't heard from in a very long time. It was the voice of a frightened little girl and it was her own voice, too.

“I need to talk to J.D.,” she whispered out loud, unsure whether she was speaking in the voice of the competent woman or the terrorized child. She dialed the phone and was comforted by the sound of his soft, masculine voice.

“Babykiller called again.” Larabeth was trying to sound confident and in charge. She could hear that she had succeeded.

“I was afraid he would.” J.D. sounded sleepy.

“We need to go to Nebraska. We may be able to get some information on Babykiller there.”

“Nebraska. God. Couldn't we go someplace with fresh seafood and good snorkeling?”

“Nebraska. We leave at two-thirty.”

He yawned. She could hear the sheets rustle as he rolled over in bed. “Is BioHeal paying?”

“Yep. And my exalted frequent-flyer status puts us in first class with utterly obsequious flight attendants. They'll keep your pillows fluffed and your glass full.”

”Too bad. I'll be on duty, so I'll have to stay sober. You can update me on the way to the airport. Oh, and get the tape out of your Tattletale. I want to hear for myself what Mr. Babykiller has to say. I'll pick you up at noon.” The phone clicked.

Larabeth laughed out loud. She was used to consultants who hung on her every word. Actually, they kissed her ass. Anything to keep the client happy. J.D. just announced what he was going to do for her, then hung up. He never had been able to remember who was the boss.

She drummed her fingers on the cover of her calendar. There was no productive reason to call the police. What would she tell them? That she'd just had an unpleasant phone call?

The police had been supremely unconcerned over her break-in. How seriously would they take her taped conversation with a man who made no threats and never admitted to anything illegal? They would probably just tell her to hang up on him and record the incident in her harassment log.

So why didn't she hang up on him? Because she was convinced he was dangerous? Because she believed in knowing one's enemies? Because she was afraid of what he might do if she refused to let him terrorize her? Yes, on all three counts.