Carnosaur Crimes Page 6

  When Ansel put the map away and looked up, her breath hitched in her chest. The forward view out the Plexiglas nose was magnificent. The helicopter had climbed to one-thousand feet, just below the clouds which spread over her in wispy, cotton batting patches. Overhead a gigantic, radiant orange moon, pockmarked with blue-gray mountains and craters, spilled pastel light into an infinity of night. Stars flickered like silver glitter thrown across black velvet.

  Ten minutes later, the aircraft’s nose angled downward. When the helicopter descended into the wind, everything below was pitch black. Standback was right. There were no city electrical power grids or road lights. Even the moon looked dimmer, slightly shrouded by gray clouds skimming past them.

  Ansel’s fingers dug into the arm rests as her nervousness returned. “We’re already there?”

  Standback turned his head and smiled again. He was quite attractive, Ansel thought not for the first time. He had narrow lips and straight white teeth. Dimples pierced his cheeks, adding long creases that reached down to the ends of each jaw. His almond-shaped eyes were topped by thick black eyebrows. A five-o’clock shadow of chin and moustache stubble darkened his light brown complexion even more.

  “As the crow flies, our ETA was about thirty-five minutes.”

  She glanced at his hands. He wore no jewelry except a ring on his wedding finger, but it didn’t look like a marriage band. It was black and stoneless, resembling something like a plastic kid’s ring pulled from a novelty bubble gum machine. Standback probably wasn’t engaged or married.

  The helicopter’s pitch changed as they made a continuous drop toward the ground. Eventually they leveled off. Even with the moonlight, Ansel was unable to define any landmarks. Only the flashing movement of the tallest rock formations five-hundred feet below were visible as the ground rushed past the undercarriage. The fine details of spiring pinnacles, fallen boulders, and hidden cutbacks were impossible to see. Her anxiety heightened several more notches. Flying didn’t bother her, but they could run head-on into a precipice and never see it coming until it was too late.

  “How easy is it to land in the dark like this?” she asked, peering into the darkness.

  “Don’t worry. We’ve got a state-of-the-art GPS/navcom unit tied to a TCAM system, which is great for street or low altitude patrols and warns of nearby aircraft. There’s also a radar altimeter transponder. I’m going to turn on the Night Sun, too. It’s a searchlight that will guide us down so we don’t hit rock.”

  Standback carefully watched the control panel, monitoring RPM’s, turbines, rotors, altitude, and airspeed. The ground reached up for them as they continued to descend, then the aircraft evened out again at one-hundred feet. He reached for an independent control box with toggles and flicked a switch. Thirty-million candlepower of light sliced through the darkness in a blinding flash as the fifty pound spotlight mounted on the helicopter’s belly flared.

  Ansel blinked against the sudden daylight glare illuminating the rocky, boulder-strewn hills and barren brush-laden ground, then bouncing the rays back into her eyes from gray-banded shales, mudstones, and siltstones.

  He glanced at her. “We’re going to come down alongside a hill. The terrain is flat, open, and easy to maneuver so we shouldn’t have any unexpected surprises.”

  “What kind of surprises?”

  “The criminal type. Since the spotlight makes us visible for miles, everyone knows we’re cops. That makes us sitting ducks for anybody out here with a gripe against law enforcement.”

  “People would shoot at us? If you’d told me we were coming here and this was going to be dangerous, I’d have brought my Colt pistol.”

  Standback cocked his head curiously but said nothing. Ansel enjoyed the moment. Obviously he hadn’t expected that answer from a female civilian. And she meant what she’d said. She had quite an experienced working knowledge of firearms. More than she liked.

  They passed alongside a small bluff, and the searchlight beam zig-zagged across a banded strata of cliff wall riddled with deep fissures caused by winter runoff and occasional thunderstorm washouts. Next the searchlight flickered so quickly over a group of vehicles parked beside the hill that Ansel almost missed them completely. There were lights down there, too.

  Ansel pushed her face against the passenger window. “I see people.”

  “ERT members,” Standback responded.

  Soon after, he expertly maneuvered the helicopter into a tight turn by pivoting the entire fuselage beneath the spinning rotor and beginning a fast, steep-angled rush toward the ground and into the wind. Ansel cringed, believing they would crash at sixty miles per hour, but Standback bled off the airspeed, and slowed the craft into a perfect ten foot hover before quickly setting the skids gently down on a level grade of shaley ground.

  “Wait until I cut the power before getting out, Miss Phoenix.”

  Ansel nodded. “Can I take off this helmet? It’s driving me crazy.”

  Standback laughed and began shutting down the mechanical beast, spotlight included. “Sure. Hope you enjoyed the ride because we’ve got a return trip.” His eyes met hers, relaying more than just a gentlemanly attention to her presence. He was actually flirting with her.

  “I’m looking forward to it, Agent Standback.”

  Ansel unstrapped the helmet and pulled it off. It was a relief to get all that electronic paraphernalia out of her face and to hear normally. She also released her seat harness. The rotor blades slowly stalled their gyroscopic spin above her head. All vibration ceased, and lights winked off over the control panel. She gathered her purse and sat quietly until Standback nodded for her get out.

  As the door opened, the smell of jet fuel and vegetation assailed her nose. A man quickly appeared beside her in the camp’s dim lighting. Agent Outerbridge. She hardly recognized him in casual civilian clothes – high, rubber-soled hiking boots, blue jeans and a long-sleeved blue cotton shirt covered by a dark bullet-proof vest. The butt of a large gun in a white holster Velcroed to the right side of his vest shone in the lantern light.

  “Good evening, Miss Phoenix,” he said, showing his slightly uneven teeth along with a welcoming, creased-face smile. “Glad you could make it.” He politely offered his hand to help her down from the seat and over the skid.

  Ansel grabbed his palm and jumped down. “Agent Outerbridge,” she acknowledged, stepping carefully over the rocky ground in her expensive calfskin half boots. She was not properly dressed for hiking the Badlands at night, but the fresh smell of sagebrush, wheatgrass, and ponderosa pine was like the perfume of a long-lost friend to her. She hadn’t been in the field -the true harsh and dangerous environs of Montana – in a long time.

  The agent silently led her away from the copter, leaving Standback behind. He stopped by a folding table supporting maps and a lantern. Agent Walthers, wearing identical casual apparel with vest, nodded a greeting, then returned to studying a topographic contour map. Dr. LaPierre stood beside an SUV, sipping from a Styrofoam cup and giving her a quick wave. She, too, wore sensible, cool clothing, overlaid by neoprene and steel body armor.

  None of them were taking any chances out here, Ansel realized, feeling suddenly contrite over her glib remark to Standback about packing a handgun. She squelched her shame and concentrated on Outerbridge.

  “The first thing I want to know is how you found out who I am,” Ansel demanded.

  Showing no surprise, Outerbridge said, “Fair enough. BLM Special-Agent-In-Charge Kevin Broderick mentioned your name.”

  Ansel’s eyes widened. “Of course. And I suppose he told you all about me. Let me set the record straight, Agent Outerbridge. I had nothing to do with what happened at the museum.”

  “I believe you, even if you were trying to pass yourself off as a county lab tech at a crime scene. That’s considered falsifying your identity to federal officers by the way.”

  “I was leaving. Detective Dorbandt gave me that smock. Ask him why he did it.”

  Outerbridge shrugged. �
�It’s not that important. I’ve checked you out. Graduate of the University of Montana with dual degrees in geology and fine arts. Valedictorian of your graduation class. President of the Paleontology Club. Now a nationally recognized paleoartist and past president of the esteemed Pangaea Society. Even the driving force behind the formation and probably the operation of the future Preston Opel Paleohistory Center. Very commendable.”

  Ansel crossed her arms, nicely accentuating the upper body curves. “Funny how you’re leaving out the part about last summer. Broderick seemed to think that my past experience with a murderer was a national incident.”

  Walthers looked up, casting a concerned look at Outerbridge, who simply said, “I’ve reviewed the jacket on that case and have my own opinion. I consider your presence at the museum rather fortuitous, Miss Phoenix.”

  Relieved but dubious, Ansel brushed back her hair. “Really?”

  “Yes. I have something to show you. Then I have a proposal, if you’re willing to hear it.”

  “Why in the world would the FBI have a proposal for me?”

  Outerbridge grinned like a Hell Creek fox. “Because you’re Indian.”

  Chapter 8

  “The good looking boy may be just good in the face.”

  Apache

  Chief Cullen Flynn parked his vehicle on the weed-infested driveway in front of a dilapidated house, shut off the headlights, and cut the engine. The cool air rushing from the vents died with it. The only sound inside the green Range Rover was that of the engine block ticking off a temperature drop second by second. God, I don’t want to do this, he thought. But he had to.

  It was his job to follow every possible lead in the museum investigation. So far, none of his inquiries had panned out. Coming here was a long shot. So far-fetched that he hadn’t even told anyone at the station.

  He peered through the grimy windshield, hands dangling over the top of the steering wheel, keys still in the ignition. Nothing had changed in the last three months. A full moon illuminated the house, and the place was still a dump. No doubt about it.

  One exposed ceiling bulb cast a feeble light over the rectangle porch with four spindly, leaning pillars with cinder blocks pushed against their bases. Windows not covered with plywood held no screens, just open casements with a tick-tack-toe alignment of cracked panes. Dirty sheets, pinned inside as curtains, lay motionless in the sweltering heat. Big Sky weathering had made a seborrheic dander of the cheap, white latex paint. The front door, stained an incongruous Kelley green, gaped open.

  Nobody came out to greet him, even though a primer-splotched, green El Camino was parked beside the squad car. Hell, he knew who was inside, all right. Snubbing a law officer was part of the game in this repeating scenario, carefully choreographed for maximum affect and aggravation. And it worked on him every time.

  “Damn pain in the ass,” Flynn sputtered as the door creaked open, and he stepped into an ankle deep patch of dandelions. Nothing else could survive the drought.

  He slammed the door, adjusted his ten gallon hat, and walked toward the wood-rotted porch. Blue flies buzzed around the brown bottles strewn across the veranda planking, the yeasty smell of fermenting beer holding the promise of an easy feast. A large rat skittered under a porch corner as he approached, and Flynn popped the grip strap on his holster. All he needed was to get bitten by vermin while trying to corner a pest of another kind.

  “Cyrus, you in there?” he called, climbing two warped steps. “It’s Chief Flynn. I’m coming inside.”

  There was no answer so Flynn stepped onto the porch and continued with purpose toward the door. Beyond the opening, everything was dark. No lights. No sound. He slowed and edged against the doorjamb, trying not to make the floorboards squeak. The acrid smell of piss and marijuana wafted from within. No real surprise, but he wished he hadn’t smelled it.

  Flynn moved through the doorway, middle-aged eyes adjusting to the darkness oh-so-slowly. The tiny space serving as a living room held little furniture. He saw a sofa and the man sleeping on it first. Then the end table and recliner. A small portable TV on a shelving unit made from eight-by-twelves laid between more cinder blocks stacked up on ends. The rest of the room was a disaster of dirty clothes, fast food containers, and faded boxes that had never been unpacked since being carted in the summer before.

  He took the opportunity to walk quickly around the house while the man slept. From the open doorways, his eyes scanned for a pot stash or other drug paraphernalia within the filthy kitchen, both bedrooms, and the minuscule bathroom with unflushed toilet. He didn’t see anything illegal in plain sight. No weapons either. He passed the basement door as he headed for the living room, considered going down, but decided he didn’t want to turn his back on Cyrus too long.

  In front of the couch, he said, “Wake up.”

  When there was no response, Flynn walked over to a scarred oak end table and turned on a pole lamp with a stained, yellow shade. Ochre light washed away little of the room’s sloth and despair. The man wearing only blue jeans rolled over onto his side, swatted at the long coppery hair falling into his face, then slid back into a deep sleep.

  Flynn roused him with a stiff push to the left shoulder. “Get up. We’ve got to talk.”

  Cyrus’ torso bolted up from the frayed black cushions, blue eyes wide but disorientated. “What the fuck,” he yelled as his dilated pupils finally settled on Flynn’s annoyed face. He began coughing in hoarse spasms, then stopped. Goose flesh covered his arms. “What are you doing here, man?”

  Flynn surveyed Cyrus’ lineless face. Normally a looker, according to the ladies, tonight his skin was pasty beneath a surprisingly well-trimmed, reddish moustache and beard. Dark smudges underscored his lower lashes.

  “You don’t look good, Cyrus. You’ve lost weight. I saw the booze and I can smell the pot. What else are you jacked up on? Amphetamines? I thought you were clean since Riverton.”

  Cyrus’ gaze solidified into a piercing green stare. “I’m clean enough. I’ve just been sick. Got the flu or something. The pot helps me sleep. Besides it’s all gone.”

  Flynn didn’t bother arguing. He walked over to the recliner, body tense and ready to spring into action. Cyrus could get feisty without warning. “You’re violating your parole.”

  Cyrus snorted. “Things that slow in that cowpunch Mecca of yours that you’re checking up on me for the DOC?”

  “Don’t get smart, laddie,” Flynn warned.

  Wisely dropping his challenging gaze, Cyrus reached toward a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the junk-cluttered table. Besides the trash, an assortment of over-the-counter cough medicines and lozenges peeked out.

  “Sorry about the pot and the beer. I promise it won’t happen again. So what can I do for you, Chief Flynn?”

  “I’m looking for information. Have you ever seen or heard about a young Indian with a claw foot who might have worked around the rodeos or somewhere else busting horses or bulls?”

  Flynn watched with a mixture of irritation and awe as Cyrus adroitly delayed his response by using a disposable lighter to stoke his smoke. Every turn of the head, hand gesture, and body twist was smooth and slow despite his condition. Cyrus always used his good looks and animal charisma as a lethal weapon. Just like a glossy sidewinder’s undulating crawl was malevolent yet mesmerizing, the man knew how to work every muscle so you did absolutely nothing as he made a slick, inevitable approach into your strike zone.

  As a cop, Flynn had always been intrigued by the spiritual concepts of good and evil in human beings, as if he could figure it out given enough time and study. He’d known Cyrus since he was a toothless, undernourished baby and over thirty years of staring and cogitating on the remorseless soul locked inside that pearly, unblemished skin still had him mystified. Mostly because Cyrus had gone bad as an eight year old child. What he did know was that genetic fluke or psychological disease, the man was morally and socially defective and well beyond saving.

  Cyrus completed his ritual.
“An Indian? No way. I don’t pal around with tee pee trash.”

  Flynn cringed and his thoughts wandered, as they often did around Cyrus, toward Ansel Phoenix. Dark and light. That’s what they both represented to him: the in-your-face, physical reality of the differences between what could be either Heaven and Hell on Earth.

  “Maybe somebody you know knows him. I want you to ask around.”

  Cyrus brushed hair away and sneered. “I’m not a snitch.”

  “This is important. You’re going to do it, and then I’ll permanently forget about your little indiscretion with the marijuana and the booze.”

  “You are all lathered up. What’s this Indian done?”

  “He tried to rip off some fossil tracks at the Big Toe museum. Got himself blown to bits with faulty equipment and burned beyond recognition. It’s been on the news and in the paper.”

  Cyrus’ eyes sparked with interest. “Like I said, I’ve been sick. And when I haven’t been laid on my back, I’ve been working the night shift at that crappy job at the meat packing plant.”

  Flynn exhaled. They’d had this discussion before. With his brains and looks, Cyrus could have made something of himself. Maybe gotten a degree in Agriscience or even a doctorate in veterinary medicine. He’d always had a penchant for tending to animals. Instead he’d led a life filled chapter and verse with petty crimes of assault and battery, misdemeanor drug trafficking, car theft, and B & Es. So far, he’d only ended up in minimum security prisons or places like the Wyoming Honor Farm in Riverton. He’d been lucky.

  “Stop scratching an old itch. It’s part of the parole package. If you’d kept your sticky paws clean, you wouldn’t be where you are today.”

  Cyrus puffed his cigarette and considered Flynn’s words. “And why exactly am I supposed to know the right people? I’m not an Injun.”

  “Don’t play dumb. At Riverton you trained mustangs in the wild horse adoption program sponsored by the BLM for eighteen months as part of your rehabilitation. You know a lot of jailbirds who might know this Indian. I need a lead and I want to notify his family. Every man deserves a decent burial, even a thief.”