Carnosaur Crimes (5 page)

“Humpy?”

“The owner.” She motioned toward the grill, cackling a laugh. “Humpy Duval. Can't miss him. Long beard and a bump on his back.”

Ansel looked toward the sizzling, ember-spewing pit. Humpy, sporting a waist-long black beard and standing behind roaring, log-stoked flames, chopped raw buffalo steaks into narrow strips, then dipped them into fry batter. For the first time, she noticed the large tent of shirt fabric pushing up between his shoulder blades. Humpy had an abnormally curved spine caused by Kysosis.

“Do you know what he talked to Humpy about?”

“Asked about some Indian who ate here last Friday night. Talked to me, too. I waited on the fella.”

“An Indian? What did he look like? What was his name?”

Forehead scrunching up again, the waitress stared thoughtfully at the water-stained roof squares and drawled a barrage of words. “No name. Young, quiet, and polite. Short black hair. Thin face. Cowboy duds. Ate a buffalo sandwich and left with a limp. Paid in cash. That's all I know. Gotta git to cleaning tables. Come again.” She hustled away.

Irritation coursed through Ansel's veins like electric heat. So Reid knew the poacher had eaten at the restaurant the same night he'd gone to steal the fossil tracks. Somehow he'd tracked the man's activities to Humpy's and hadn't shared that information. She didn't like being skunked. Reid wanted to catch more criminals associated with the poacher while she wanted to save the museum grounds from government real estate barons like Broderick. They both had their reasons for learning the poacher's identity.

Ansel left the restaurant a few minutes later. She was unlocking the truck when the dim vapor light on the storefront behind her winked out, and a shadow fell across the driver's door. Someone had moved soundlessly up beside her. Startled, she whirled to her left side, door key poised between her knuckles to be used as an eye-jabbing weapon if necessary.

A man stood next to her, his body haloed by backlighting. He wore a black tee shirt and jeans. For a split second as her eyes took in the short-cropped black hair and thin Amerind face, Ansel thought the dead poacher had been magically resurrected. A visceral fear engulfed her. This was impossible.

“Relax, Miss Phoenix. I'm Agent Standback. FBI,” said the apparition's calm, tenor voice as he brought out a badge from his rear hip pocket.

Ansel sagged against the truck. “What the hell are you doing here?” she cursed, adrenalin anger replacing her fear.

Standback's sienna eyes gleamed in the moonlight. “Escorting you to Agent Outerbridge.”

Chapter 7

“Only two relationships are possible—to be a friend or to be an enemy.”

Cree

Never in her wildest dreams could Ansel expect to find herself where she was at the moment, strapped in a seat and staring past her feet out the tinted windshield bubble of a shiny black Eurocopter 120B as it lifted off.

The noise was deafening. Turbines fired, the rotor drummed, and three humongous blades scythed through the hot evening air. Everything vibrated. The flight deck and the aft cabin containing three passenger seats. The tail. The nose. The resulting updraft produced by the thirty-seven-foot long helicopter sent jet fuel fumes and grit swirling like airborne banshees.

Ansel's hands gripped the arm rests as the skids abruptly left the ground, toes first. Then the aircraft's nose lowered slightly and began its forward motion via a boost of added engine power. As the craft made a straight-angled climb, the concrete landing pad beneath her grew smaller with amazing speed, and her stomach flip-flopped. In less than a minute they were going seventy miles an hour.

She wished that Reid hadn't talked her into eating a chili dinner. What would he think about this? Ansel wondered as the small agricultural airfield used by crop-dusting planes became nothing but a postage stamp square dotted with pinpricks of light. It was too late now. All Reid cared about was her being be a “good girl” while he was away. Fat chance.

As instructed, she'd followed Standback's black Bronco in her truck and parked near the airstrip outside of Swoln. He'd told her nothing except that they would fly a short distance to meet Agent Outerbridge. Since then, Standback had been deliberately evasive with her questions, busying himself with pre-flight inspections, the engine warm-up, and then pre-takeoff checklists.

“How are you doing?” he suddenly asked, seated to her left.

Ansel forced herself to look away from the pitch black void beneath her. His head was covered by a helmet with a radio headset and a microphone boom as was hers. One of his hands operated the cyclic stick between his legs while the other manipulated a collective lever between their seats. His feet also controlled two rudder pedals. Digital screens, knobs, buttons, and engine gauges filled the cockpit. Multi-colored, control panel lights illuminated Standback's face with an other-worldly, neon glow just as surreal as this whole adventure.

“I'm all right as long as we don't fly over water,” Her voice sounded muffled through her earphones.

“We'll be over solid terrain all the way,” he assured.

“At least the ride is smoother.”

“Above a hundred feet, this baby is pretty quiet compared to other copters,” Standback said with pride. “The aft New Generation Fenestron tail rotor really reduces noise print in forward flight. As we level off above the clouds and hit one-hundred-forty miles per hour cruising speed, you're going to get a great view of the full moon and the stars. Where we're going, there won't be any more lights.”

“I know we're headed northwest, but where exactly are we going, Agent Standback? I have a right to know. It's not like I can change my mind, open the door, and leave.”

A smile cracked his deadpan expression. “True. Grab that map in the waterproof pouch from your door pocket. Then hit that little switch on your microphone. It's a reading light.”

Ansel pulled a 12X12 inch map bag from the elastic-topped receptacle on her right. Rather than the typical air chart, the bag contained a folded USGS map. She clicked the mike switch and a flashlight-like, red glow encompassed her chest and lap.

When she opened the geological survey map, she was surprised to see a close-up segment of a familiar Montana Badlands area about twenty-six miles north of Jordon. The yellow-green area marked with a “K” delineated the position and areas of contact in the Hell Creek rock formation, a Cretaceous age geological strata which had always been commercially searched by those in search of ore, minerals, and fossils.

“We're going to the Hell Creek State Park?”

“Close to it. Ever been to the area?”

“Not by air. I've driven through it and once I took a pack trip forty miles west through the Devil's Creek Recreation area. It's beautiful, but dodgy to navigate even in good weather. Why does Outerbridge want to meet there?”

“I'll let him explain,” he said, clamming up.

Ansel's heart raced with excitement. She studied the bumps and dips on the map for quite a while. There was no doubt that she was going to the same Hell Creek Formation where Barnum Brown had unearthed his two Cretaceous-era T-rex skeletons.

The Hell Creek Formation was a desiccated, dun-colored range of hilly terrain peppered with gumbo buttes, and sharp, drop-away canyons eroded away by the Missouri River. It was fringed with ponderosa pines leading down to the shores of Fort Peck Lake. During her pack horse vacation, she'd seen elk, deer, eagles, foxes, and coyotes. Waterfowl even inhabited the lakeside regions.

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?”