Did Not Survive (16 page)

Chapter Eighteen

My mother had scored excellent seats, six rows back from one of the two rings. Each ring was defined by foot-high barriers and covered in wood chips. Above stretched a tangle of wires, lights, ropes, nets, platforms, and mystifying contraptions understood only by circus roustabouts. The visibility was great, the noise was a thunderous combination of over-amped pop music and screaming children. Instead of a Big Top tent, we clustered in the cavernous Portland Rose Garden, the stadium where the Trail Blazers play basketball and big-name music acts perform. Confetti drifted in the breeze from giant fans above. Popcorn scent was thick, with a hint of horses. I shared my row with four fifth-graders to my right and five to my left. Most of the kids wore the little red clown noses the ticket-takers handed out. My mother sat a row forward to my left and a parent sat to the far right in my row, a military-like deployment over “our” two rows to maximize adult presence.

I'd tried to get Marcie to join me, but no luck. She and Denny were off to a concert. A small girl behind me kept kicking my seat. I turned around and glared at her with zero success.

On the way in, an earnest young woman in a long dress had handed me a brochure about circuses mistreating animals. I'd tucked it into a pocket to study later.

My job was to be a responsible adult. My skills did not yet lie in that direction, but no problem. The kids were safely entranced by clowns goofing around in the ring, except for one red-headed boy on my left who focused on catching the floating confetti. This scene was all about entertainment, with a capital E. It totally obliterated the morning's soul-stain from Janet née Lorenz.

The clowns invited a few kids from the audience to practice tight-rope walking and circus-style bowing in the ring in front of us. Our bunch nearly stampeded that direction, but my mother employed The Voice, and they sank back in excited defeat.

The audience was a standard Portland crowd dressed in drab tee shirts and jeans with sensible shoes. The high-wire couple above us shimmered and glittered in purple and silver, the clowns vibrated in fluorescent green, red, and yellow. Dark-clad roustabouts—men in a range of ages—hauled gear around and set up wires and platforms. The men were swift, efficient, and nearly invisible. I suspected that few in the audience noticed them at all.

The first acts, or maybe pre-acts, were low-key despite the relentless music. Clowns zipped around in tiny cars, young men jumped sturdy bicycles through hoops, a little white dog ran around and got into trouble with the clowns. The kids shrieked and parents smiled. It seemed hokey and unspectacular, until I realized that this non-scary action acclimated the little kids so they wouldn't freak out at the more high-powered acts. I'd been one of the freak-outees in my early years, and I appreciated the thought.

The real Big Show kicked off with a parade around the outside of the two rings. Pretty horses, some white, some black, with silver spangles. Two elephants with huge red and gold spangles on the harnesses adorning their heads. More clowns. Family groups of performers, each family in a different bright, tight costume, waving at the crowd. More horses. Zebras, of all things. A pack of fluffy dogs. Two more elephants.

I tried to notice more than spectacle. The animals in the parade looked well fed and surprisingly relaxed. They bustled along as though they knew exactly what to do. The zebras, who seemed to be young fillies—hard to tell for sure—looked pretty bratty, but they mostly did what they were supposed to. I suspected that an adult zebra would hold circus discipline in contempt, no matter how long the buggy whip.

Two elephants trotted into the ring nearest us, trunk of the second locked onto tail of the first, a red and gold costumed woman on each neck. Damrey and Nakri used to live this life of constant travel, new situations, noise and confusion. They, too, had spent long hours chained or confined in a boxcar stall. Neither of these elephants showed a pink scar around an ankle like Damrey's. One looked like Nakri with the addition of little tusks—“tushes”—at the corners of her mouth. She sat on a stool while her leggy rider did a headstand on her forehead. Then both elephants stood teetering with all four legs on the little stools, curling their trunks up. I felt embarrassed for them, but unclear about what all this was like from their perspective. Perhaps the performance was a welcome respite from boredom and inactivity. Even if it was, did that justify a life so different from what they were built for? Perhaps their winter quarters were warm pastures where they roamed free for months in payment for entertaining our young. Perhaps not.

The elephants exited and were replaced by clowns, then a trapeze act. The high-wire performances made me anxious, despite the net. I rubbed my belly to reassure my child that we were safe on the ground and no one would fall to their death. The kids in our bunch were riveted, leaning forward with open mouths. So was my mother, except she kept her mouth closed.

When I looked back from scanning my charges, the lighting had changed, and somehow a netted ring full of tigers had materialized in front of us. I'd been expecting this, yet all the setup slipped right by me, and I flinched to see the cats so close.

Some of the tigers were normal gold and black, like Rajah, others were white with black stripes, and one was all white. They did not look as accepting of their jobs as the elephants. The trainer earned snarls and threatening paws as the cats leaped from stool to stool, jumped through hoops, and rolled over on the ground. He carried a lightweight pole and the cats were trained to respond to its position. Several times the trainer's hand passed swiftly by tiger mouths, handing out little meat rewards. The kids would never notice. The unhappy body language was troubling despite the sleek coats and healthy weights. I couldn't pretend the tigers enjoyed the performance. When the trainer was focused on a complicated stunt with the white tiger, one of the normal-colored animals slipped off his stool, ears flat, body crouched, moving behind the man. The trainer caught it in his peripheral vision, turned, and flicked the whip, shouting. Busted, the tiger climbed back onto his stool. The episode could pass for part of the act, but all my instincts insisted that sooner or later, that trainer was doomed. Like Rick. I was glad when the act ended.

I relaxed at the liberty horses. Black ones and white ones, bridles and belly-bands glittering in silver and gold, they pranced in formation, guided by flourishes and taps from a light whip, whirling and rearing with long manes and tails billowing. Amazing grace. The sensual display of power under control. A willing partner-dance with their trainer. I hoped.

After acrobatic performances, more trapeze daredevils, and a dog act, we arrived at the raucous final crescendo—another parade of human performers, elephants, horses, and dogs with the loudspeakers straining to achieve new decibels. Then we edged out through the crowd, trying to keep our kids together in the crush. I saw them all onto the school bus, with my mother boarding last. I hadn't contributed more than a warm body, but that seemed sufficient for her.

Still half-deafened, I drove home thinking of the many peculiar ways humans interact with animals. Thor was right that Nakri and Damrey deserved better quarters, but it looked to me as if they might prefer what they had now to returning to the circus. They had freedom of movement and as much entertainment as the elephant keepers could devise. In the zoo's case, it was the elephants who were being entertained.

I greeted my dogs and, scratching under a collar with each hand, considered the contract we'd made with wolves. Humans ensured, more or less, that dogs ate regularly without the risks of chasing down and biting hoofed mammals, and also that their offspring had a good chance of survival. In exchange, dogs more or less did what we told them to, and humans got to tinker with their DNA. Winnie and Range seemed content with the deal.

The deal with elephants or any wild animal didn't feel the same. I stroked my dogs and tried to work it out. Wolves became dogs by domesticating themselves around campfires and villages, and house cats may have done the same. Elephants hadn't volunteered. Originally people wanted their muscle power for logging and their terrifying appearance as war machines. Now we wanted mostly to be around them, to see these huge, strange creatures up close, and, being the primates that we are, to touch them with our hands if we could. Elephants who weren't party to the captivity deal were losing ground. We change all the land and seas for our own uses, and wild animals get the scraps. Wild elephants who raid crops—what else to eat when the forest is cut down?—end up dead. And, of course, the ivory trade devastates elephants on two continents. It was all so sad and hard, it made my head ache.

I gave it up and took a shower, feeling briefly guilty for adding another person to the planet. Someday, if all went well, I would be the parent of a fifth grader. Unimaginable, but easier to face than a tiny newborn.

In bed, struggling with multiple pillows to find comfort, the image of elephants sitting on stools in the midst of noise and confusion returned. Damrey and Nakri had lived the circus life for years, had once had the same nerves of steel. That tolerance must have worn off, considering how upset they were when the NAZ committee met in their barn. They hadn't liked the crowd of strangers at all. Odd.

What would the new curator do about better housing for them? Maybe he or she would get the new exhibit moving forward. I should ask to see the master plan. Where, exactly, would this new exhibit go? Asian Experience was occupying the logical space.

Janet's poisonous depression seeped back now that I was quiet and unoccupied. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn't live in that mind. She seemed fully capable of braining the man she blamed for her troubled life.

Janet could get a key to the elephant barn from her father, with or without his knowledge.

Detective Quintana was on her trail. Would the shoe swabs Janet had mentioned prove she'd been in the barn? Why hadn't I inquired about her alibi for that morning? My skin crawled at the thought of returning to ask where she'd been and who could back up her story. Maybe I could wait and see what the police came up with. After all, Dr. Reynolds had told me to back off.

At last I slept. The only dream fragment I remembered featured myself as a four-year-old in my beloved lavender tutu with silver glitter.

The next day, Marcie took me crib-shopping at Target so I could pacify my mother, but the concept of paying a lot of money for a wooden cage for my child unnerved me. Marcie made me eat lunch, then we tried again. We discovered something called a co-sleeper, a three-sided bassinet thing, that would park the baby next to me in his own little space at the same level as the mattress. The clerk assured me that the baby would be close for nursing, but I wouldn't be able to roll over on him. That sounded good. Marcie told me to suck it up and pay the money rather than shop for a used one.

She cooked dinner for me and Denny—spaghetti with homemade pasta and homemade sauce and homemade everything but the parmesan. Denny waited until she was busy in the kitchen to share that Ian had no alibi for the night Wallace was attacked. I gathered from his caution that Marcie objected to him messing with police matters as much as she objected to me doing so.

Ian's lack of cover was not news, but it gave me a reason to summarize my visit to Janet. “Why don't you ask her neighbors where she was that night?” I suggested. “Don't talk to her because that will get Calvin mad. Just ask the neighbors. Be discreet, for once in your life.” He spun off onto finding aerial photographs of her neighborhood with timestamps. He was sure the military or one of the mapping services had such records and that they would show whether her car was parked at her house when Wallace was attacked. He dropped the subject when Marcie returned to the table with an experimental pudding-thing with lychee nuts. It was strange but delicious.

I drove home feeling pleased with myself for the baby-corral solution and for enlisting Denny to do what I didn't want to. He might actually go ask Janet's neighbors. I considered whether using him as my cat's paw was irresponsible and decided it wasn't. People had been manipulating me for weeks. I was entitled to try my own hand at it.

Chapter Nineteen

Saturday morning at the employee parking lot and there was Thor Thorson, bad hair, coveralls, and backpack. I lacked the time but had the inclination to investigate. “How did you get in? What are you doing here?”

He seemed delighted to see me. “Good morning, Iris! I'm leafleting cars. Here's one for you.”

I stuffed the paper into the pocket of my coveralls. “How'd you get in?”

“I enjoy a challenge. Let's say that the gate to this lot isn't much of one.” He put down his backpack to pull out another handful of brochures.

The gate was eight feet of mesh fence with barbed wire at the top. Not a challenge? I followed him from car to car as he lifted windshield wipers and slipped little brochures underneath. “What, you slip-streamed through on someone else?”As cars pulled in and parked, Thor smiled and leafleted them. The drivers climbed out and retrieved the piece of paper, looking puzzled or annoyed.

The shaggy little troll shook his head at me as if I were dim.

I got it. “That was you sitting on the hillside with binoculars. You watched people coming in and scammed the combination for the keypad.”

“Bingo! We'll make an activist out of you yet. Now I want you to read that handout and really think about it.”

“I think what I'll do is call Security.”

“Suit yourself. But I'm done here. Have a nice day!” Most vehicles had brochures, including Hap's motorcycle, where it was rolled into a tube and jammed under a cable on the handlebars. Thor ambled toward the gate.

“Hey, wait a minute.”

Thor turned around. “Want to talk about natural environments for elephants?”

“No. I want to talk about Ian Sullivan. You showed up at the tavern to discredit him with us.”

Thor shook his head. “Not at all. I wanted a chance to talk with you guys in some place relaxed, and he happened to be there. You have a suspicious mind, you know that?”

“Now Ian looks like a mole feeding you information. Which, of course, he could be. How did you know Wallace was hit with an ankus?”

“Easy enough to guess. I have to do my own guessing and digging. Ian doesn't want to talk with his old friends. He turned on us, turned on our whole mission, and came here.”

“Why is that? I'm thinking it's more than Ian feeling guilty. What happened at that sanctuary? Ian didn't like maintaining elephants on a shoestring budget?”

Thor hesitated, then shook his head. “Nah, he's embarrassed about bailing. Did you enjoy the circus? The cow with the tushes—did you see the scar behind her ear? Not recent, I'll admit. From a different outfit.”

Two could play at this. “You were at the barn, early in the morning. The day before Wallace was killed. And the next day, when he died.”

Thor cocked his head. “You are
so
fishing. I had nothing to do with his death.” He hitched his backpack over a shoulder. “Tell me, do you ever date guys shorter than you? Let me know if the idea appeals. I'll be around. But now I have other places to go, other people to charm.”

I said to his back, “Keep Dale away from me, and tell him to quit following Sam.”

Thor stopped and turned around. “I'll look into that. But I don't own Dale.”

At the gate, he waved his hand over the motion sensor. It creaked open, obedient to anyone or anything exiting. He passed through, turned and walked backward a few steps to wave at me, and walked away on Finley Drive.

I shook my head to clear it. As my dad might say, the guy had some bark on him. Six months pregnant, “Calvin” on my bulging brown coveralls…He'd hit on me. Nobody had hit on me for a very long time. Was it a trick? Should I be pissed off? My brain got back to business. How did Thor know I'd been to the circus? Because he or his sidekick had seen me there. Had to be.

One thing I knew for sure—Thor starred at getting in and out of zoo areas. I thought about that on my way to clock in. I recalled running into him at Elephants before the zoo opened. Maybe his story then about the main gate being left unlocked was fresh, steaming organic fertilizer. Maybe he'd lied about reconnecting with Ian, maybe they'd been hanging out discussing old times. Simple enough to steal his keys and have them copied. As Janet might have stolen Calvin's. Thor might break into the barn to take pictures of Nakri's wound as evidence of abuse. Thor bumping into Wallace. Wallace yelling at him…Thor reacting out of fear or anger…

I was finding way too many people with reason and opportunity to do away with Kevin Wallace.

George, the security guard, steered the electric cart around me, heading toward the gate to the employee parking lot. He waved hello. Too late, Thor was long gone.

At the time clock, I found a notice for an unscheduled keeper meeting that was half over. Mr. Crandall hadn't included an agenda. Probably an update on the NAZ committee report or on hiring the new curator.

Ian wasn't at Elephants and neither was Sam. It was Sam's day off, although he kept showing up anyway, and Ian must still be in the meeting. Ian arrived before I got too restless and anxious about my other work. I asked him about the meeting.

“Hired a new curator,” he said.

Good news, I hoped. Mr. Crandall was looking haggard, our work schedules were goofed up, and we needed a leader who could make informed decisions about animal management, if that wasn't too much to ask. “Any details?” I realized what I was hoping for was something along the line of “just like Wallace, only nice.”

Ian shrugged and turned away without answering. Skittish or hostile? I couldn't tell. So much for a relaxed relationship. I would ask Jackie about the new hire, such as the start date and whether this person knew a kiwi from a kudu.

Damrey and Nakri had gone ahead with their big morning pee, judging by the puddles. Ian stood by in stony silence as they did their best to deliver, but the process took longer than usual and left me even more behind schedule.

I hastened to the Penguinarium, where hungry, irritated penguins brayed at me. It was Saturday, Calvin was off, and I was almost an hour behind. This was not going to be my best day as a zoo keeper. I set my brain to Efficient and worked hard and fast, but circumstances continued to conspire against me. Mrs. Brown ate less than usual and stood with her head pulled in. I suspected a broken heart since she'd had to watch her ex making whoopee with that immoral hussy, Mrs. Green. Or it could be aspergillosis, a fungal disease deadly to captive penguins. Or avian malaria, or any number of other ailments. After consideration, I decided she didn't look bad enough to call Dr. Reynolds. I would mention the poor appetite in my daily report.

I was still at the counter fixing food pans for the aviary when the door banged open. “Who the hell are you?” I asked the guy who barged in. I'd been focused on cutting fruit as fast as possible, and I'd nearly lopped a finger off.

“Your new boss. You missed the meeting this morning.”

He was a little taller than I, maybe five-foot ten, about thirty-five or forty years old, a round head with close-cropped light brown hair above a broad, tense set of shoulders. Vivid blue eyes in a tanned face. Short-sleeved white shirt, jeans, dark leather boots.

Wrong day to be late. “Um, yeah. An unauthorized person was leafleting cars in the employee lot. I got rid of him. I was due at Elephants.” Why hadn't Ian said anything about the new guy actually starting? Because Ian did not communicate.

“Next time call Security and come to the meeting. That's what “all hands” means. It means you. What were you doing at Elephants?”

I strained to keep my voice even. “Collecting urine samples for a research project.”

“And why are
you
doing that and not one of the elephant guys?”

“Ask them. Or Dr. Reynolds. Not my idea.”

“I'll do that.” He looked around the kitchen like a realtor calculating the market value.

“I'm Iris Oakley.” Good. No hostility leaking out.

“I know that. I saw your file. I want you all on the same page about my management style. I went over this at the meeting. I've got the same expectations for everyone—the same policies and the same consequences. Making up your own rules as you go along is a non-starter. Plan to clock in on time. Meetings are not optional.”

So I was one of the bad kids, and the teacher was starting off tough. A bit of insight thanks to being my mother's daughter. “I was hoping to learn your name.”

“Oh. Neal Humboldt.”

“Okay. Do you want a tour of Birds? Calvin's off until Monday.”

“I took a look at the aviary and the duck pond. It looks like a stamp collection. One or two of everything. Is there any theme or organizing principle?”

“You could ask Calvin about that. He keeps hoping for a great collection, but we never get any money for decent exhibits.” Wow. Talk about hitting the ground running. I needed to warn Calvin before he walked into this buzz saw.

“I'll look at the priorities. We should close that aviary down. Tear it down. And those ratty cages by the pond with the owl and the hawk. We could keep the duck pond until we need the space.”

Maybe he was just musing out loud, but I felt like I had hoof prints all over me. This guy made Denny seem sluggish. “Sounds like you've already made up your mind about a lot of things.” I couldn't keep the resentment out. I turned and leaned my back against the counter, as much to brace myself against this onslaught as to ease my spine.

“First cut only. I'll need a full review of the master plan.” He looked me up and down and gave a little groan. “Oh, no. I suppose you're going to resign and leave me another keeper down. Play out your family leave and decide you'd rather be a mommy than shovel shit.”

“Not likely. I like to eat, and nobody else is going to pay the bills.” Slipping a little, voice-wise. Breathe. Breathe.

“What, no husband? Did you skip that step?” A tight little smile.

“No. I. Did. Not. The lions killed him, you stupid bastard.”

“Oh.” A pause.

I wasn't going to cry. I wasn't going to care if he fired me. I wasn't.

His stance changed, a subtle crouch, a readiness. For what?

Ah.

The forgotten chef's knife was still in my hand. I gently set it on the counter.

He said, “I should have read that file a little more carefully. Let's start over.”

“I have work to do. Come back later.” I was definitely going to cry.

He met my eyes for a moment and backed away and out the door. It closed softly behind him. I crashed into a chair at the little table and buried my face in folded arms, rage, grief, and anxiety ebbing and flowing in rip tides.

I bumbled through the rest of the morning, dropping a full food pan on the kitchen floor, banging my head hard on a branch at the aviary, and jabbing my palm on a protruding bit of fencing at the spectacled owl. I stared at the blood welling through the vinyl glove, perversely relieved that something so real could happen despite the emotional chaos. The survival-oriented part of my brain examined the blood and said, “Chill out, or you're really going to get hurt.” The rest of the cortex stepped back and chilled. A little. I took a breath, found a Band-Aid, and continued my work with a stinging hand and a steadier heart.

I didn't have time to get the scoop from Jackie, but I had to anyway. I ducked into our spot under the eaves of the Administration building and called the zoo on my cell phone. The intern answered with a long, perky greeting. “Let me talk to Jackie,” I said, more curt than I intended.

“HowcanIhelpyou?”

“Jackie, it's Iris. Can you come out? I don't want to run into that Neal guy.”

“He's off the grounds.”

“He might come back. Come on outside.”

“Can't. Had my lunch already. Come on in.”

I stepped into the office, ready to stampede for the high grass.

“I've got to copy this stack,” she said. “Come down to the basement with me.”

We climbed down the steps and stood in the windowless little basement with the copy machine gasping and thunking. It was cool and the air was stale and tainted with strange copy machine odors. Claustrophobia nibbled around the edges of my awareness.

“Tell me about Neal whatshisface.”

“Humboldt. He's a piece of work. Ex-military. Ran some kind of little zoo in Peru or Ecuador, I can't keep those countries straight. Then he was a training consultant for big corporations on some software, nothing to do with zoos. Then he took a bunch of zoo management courses. Kind of zigzagged around. He doesn't seem like Mr. Crandall's type, but here he is. He's already thrown out most of the stuff in Wallace's office.”

That made this all too real. “He stopped by Birds. I think I'm in trouble already.”

“That was fast. Let me guess. He made you mad, and you mouthed off.”

“Could be. Is he going to fire me?”

“On his first day? I think he'll wait until tomorrow. Go kiss up if you're worried.”

“I'll pass, thanks all the same. But call me if he says anything.” Like asking whether Iris Oakley often stuck a knife into her superiors.

The copy machine stopped cold. Jackie filled the paper tray with unthinking proficiency and pushed a button to reanimate it. “He may be way better looking than Wallace, but he's trouble. Now I have to take minutes at all the manager meetings. He assumed we take minutes. That's going to be a ton more work if he keeps it up.”

“Oh. I almost forgot. Thor, that bushy-haired guy with the pickets. He has the code to the gate at the employee parking lot. Better get it changed and tell Hap.”

Jackie leered. “‘Thor' is it? You're on a first name basis with him now?”

“Yeah, we're dating. He wants to take me to Hawaii. The sex is fantastic.”

“Don't be sarcastic. Ruins the complexion.” She took the stack of copies and tapped the edges even on the top of the copy machine.