Lizardskin (54 page)

“Pay for viable brainless babies, you mean?”

“Crudely put.”

“It’s a crude thing, Doc. How much? By the ounce? By the truckload? By the inch?”

“There were substantial funds available.”

“Millions, Doc?”

“Easily.”

“What was Maureen’s cut?”

“It wasn’t a ‘cut.’ As you said, she was paid a finder’s fee. She wasn’t the only one. There were some others, in South Dakota.”

“I asked what her cut was, not how you planned to describe it to the IRS.”

“Usually, depending on the viability, on the reliability of the donor, whether or not the donor was likely to create problems for the project, we’d pay around five or six thousand dollars.”

Jesus.

“Did Dwight know about Maureen’s part in this?”

“
No!
Dwight had no idea! Dwight was no part of any of it!”

“How could he miss it?”

Hogeland grimaced, shook his head. “Dwight has a … literal turn of mind. He thinks in black and white. Some of the … nuance … of events tend to pass him by.”

“Maureen was spending a lot of cash. How’d he miss
that
?”

“I told him she was helping me in an expansion plan. I was paying her as a consultant. Some of it was true. We
did
have plans to expand the clinics. There are many reserves across the southwest. There’s a tremendous need—”

“Christ! It’s a good thing Bell fucked it up for you. What I don’t get, when it started to go sour, why not come to me? We could have stopped a lot of it. We could have stopped Bell.”

A flicker of uneasy hesitation showed in Hogeland’s eyes.

“Bell had ambitions. He was pushing the Rancho Vista development. You know how it is with zoning boards. Money has its own momentum. It can roll over a lot of ethics. Sometimes a decision can go either way, and it goes where there’s money or a political debt. Bell had paid a few of the members. Not me, but still … I knew about it. I let it happen. I was … distracted, let’s say. Bell threatened to go to the papers. It seemed easier to … tolerate him. To go along.”

“So you condoned bribery and corruption?”

“Come on, Beau. You know how business gets done. The board is open to … persuasion. There are vulnerable people, people of influence. Bell could cause a lot of grief.”

“Couldn’t you see it falling apart?”

“It’s not easy to accept … especially when you … when you’re as deeply into the thing. It takes on a momentum of its own.

“I guess this is where your purity gave out, eh, Doc? Is this where you stopped harvesting and started planting?”

“So many wasted lives, Beau. Why not make something good come out of it?”

“How much money were you going to give back to the Lakota and the Crow and the Cheyenne?”

“We were providing free medical care. I was building better clinics. We had new ambulances. I was planning another wing at the hospital.”

“Couldn’t get enough from our paychecks, right?”

“
Paying
the native peoples—it would have been vulgar, an affront to them. They would never
sell
their children.”

“No, Doc. They wouldn’t. That’s why you and Maureen and the rest of your people had to steal them.”

“It wasn’t
stealing
, Beau! Can’t you see? Our intentions were for the best. We could
still
do something great. We can change medicine—transform it. Isn’t that a cause worth risking
yourself for? Enough organs for all the sufferers, freedom for all the innocent animals now being slaughtered in labs. And you know the fetuses have no inner life. Many people would argue that we have no right to victimize other species for the sake of our own. At least my methods used our own kind. And they weren’t babies, Beau. They were—they couldn’t even be called sleepers. They were—”

“Spare parts, Doc? Never mind, I’m not the guy you’re gonna have to convince.”

“Beau, you saw what happened to Julia—you saw how it was. If there had been a
system
then, an organized
program
for harvesting, for
cultivating
organs, Julia would be alive now. You lost a wife. I remember how it was for you. Can’t you understand how I felt? After all, Julia and I had been together for thirty-six years. Something had to come of that!”

“Tell me, why’d you set Dwight up, that day in your office?”

“I was surprised by the intensity of your reaction. I wanted an opportunity to deflect my son’s obsession with you.”

“Because you were afraid I’d start to dig around, find out more than you wanted me to?”

“Dwight was creating a climate of confrontation. I wished to dispel some of that, to provide breathing room.”

Far in the east, at the curving of the earth, they could see the gridlights of Logan Airport and the shimmering web of Billings and Laurel, amber and blue against the black density of the hills and valleys. Starlight glittered on the Yellowstone, a silvery scintillation that snaked and coiled through the city lights and on up the valley toward its distant connection with the Missouri. The Missouri would take you to the Mississippi, and the Mississippi would take you to the sea.

The jet rose on a crest of cold wind. They were both silent, watching the lights roll toward them on the great curve of the earth.

For the cop in Beau, it was very simple. Land at Logan, hand the man over to the FBI. Type it up, and go back to Lizardskin to sleep the whole thing off. Let the morning, and
the mornings after that, wash it all away, as the river takes everything to the sea.

“Five five private, this is Logan Tower. Come in.”

Hogeland picked up the radio. “Logan, this is five five private.”

“Five five, you are directed to land runway niner four and proceed to the security hangar. Do you understand?”

Hogeland seemed to settle in the pilot’s seat. “I guess that means Eustace has some people waiting for us. Is that right?”

Beau rubbed his face with his hands, fatigue draining him.

“The FBI came back to us about Gabriel Picketwire. The name rang
big
bells with the Defense Department. They sent a couple of men in, and the whole operation is going to be handled by the federal agencies—Indian Affairs and the Justice Department.”

“What about Maureen?”

“SPEAR has Maureen. Charlie Tallbull’s boys—they’re Crow—are running that part of it. They want national coverage, and they’re going to get it. She’s going to be making a public statement. This BlueStones woman called a press conference. They’re going to turn Maureen over to the FBI at the television station, in return for air time. Charlie Tallbull’s boys have her right now, but she’s apparently okay. This Picketwire guy, he turned her over to them.”

“Why did he do that?”

Beau looked at the old man for a while.

“Come in five five! Do you read?”

Hogeland ignored the radio.

“He wanted to stay out of it, I imagine,” Beau said.

“You mean, he got what he wanted? He got Joe Bell?”

“No, Doc. I’d say he wants you.”

Hogeland was silent for a long time.

The radio burst into urgent chatter.

He leaned forward and shut it off.

“Has anyone talked to my son yet?”

“No. Eustace went to Vanessa Ballard, and she’s waiting for Maureen to turn up, tell her story. Until then, Dwight’s beside the point.”

“Is there any way I could get some time with him? Try to explain? Before everything gets out of my hands?”

“That’s up to the feds. Maybe Vanessa would have some say. I’d guess your chances were poor.”

“What’ll happen when we land?”

“It’s up to the feds. You’ll be well treated.”

“There’ll be a trial … public disgrace.”

“Christ, Doc. You should have thought of that before you started all this!”

“They’ll never understand what I was trying to do.”

“No, Doc. They sure as hell won’t.”

“And Picketwire—he’s still free? Still out there?”

“Count on it, Doc.”

“How old are you, Beau?”

Suddenly, Beau’s heart blipped, and he felt his belly tighten. A cold wind blew across his backbone.

He looked down at the wheeling earth ten thousand feet below.

“Too young to die in a blaze of someone else’s glory, Doc. Let’s get this over with, okay?”

Hogeland’s seamed and leathery face was closed, his thoughts gone inward. “Don’t fly, do you, Beau?”

There wasn’t much to say. Beau watched the old man and tried to keep himself under control.

“I won’t get the death penalty, will I, Beau?”

Beau considered it. “No. Criminal conspiracy. They’ll call the baby trade ‘kidnapping.’ One thing sure, though, you’ll do a fair stretch of prison.”

“Deer Lodge?”

“That’s the usual destination.”

“A lot of Indians in Deer Lodge. A lot of Crow and Lakota.”

Beau saw the point. “They could sequester you, or your counsel could argue for transfer to an out-of-state prison.”

“That might take care of my fellow prisoners. But what about this man?”

“Picketwire?”

Beau looked out the window, stalling. The answer was very
clear. Wherever they put Hogeland, Gabriel Picketwire would find a way to get to him.

“Tell you the truth, Doc, I think the guy will come after you. I think he’ll do whatever it takes to get you.”

Beau watched the ground coming up. It was an honest answer, and it was probably going to get him killed.

The doctor’s face was heavy, his eyes hidden. His hands moved on the stick, and the little jet started to climb.

“Doc, there’s nowhere to run to. And if you take me down, that’s a real killing. Doc … Doc …”

Hogeland pulled on the stick. The turbines kicked in, and the jet rose, banked, rolled right, and fell away through the black night. Cold stars rolled across the windshield, and the earth rose up to meet them like a flat denial of metaphysics, vast, limitless, solid as death.

Vanessa Ballard could hear the sound of a television set as she came down the hallway toward the heavy wooden doors of Doc Hogeland’s office. Mrs. Miles, the doctor’s secretary, was waiting for her outside the doors, lines of concern and uncertainty marking the satiny perfection of her face, her hands clasped tightly across her stomach, elbows in, her posture rigid with anxiety. Beside her, a large young man in a security guard’s uniform stood with his arms folded across his chest, a Maglite in his hand, a large pistol visible at his belt. His face was flushed and shiny.

Other than the sound of the television from inside the office, the suite was silent and dark, the only light coming from concealed spotlamps that cast a dim yellow glow over the oil paintings in gilt frames that lined the oak-paneled hallway.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Ballard. This is Frank, the night guard. He’s the one who called me.”

Vanessa nodded and looked past Mrs. Miles and Frank at the heavy wooden doors, the brass cartridge cases hammered into the wood.

“Is he still there?”

She dipped her head once, a birdlike gesture. “Yes. I’ve tried to reach him on the intercom. He won’t answer.”

“Can you open the door?”

Frank spoke up. “We can, ma’am. But I’m not sure we should. I’ve talked to him once, over the phone in Mrs. Miles’s office. He says if we try to break in, he’ll hurt himself. What
I think, ma’am, I think we should wait for the police. I think the guy’s a little unstable.”

Vanessa considered the man. “If we call in the police, they’ll turn this into a sideshow. Right now, he’s done nothing illegal—”

“Criminal trespass, ma’am.”

“Not really. His father’s the director here. Dwight’s firm is on retainer to the hospital. He used a key, didn’t he, Mrs. Miles?”

She nodded briefly.

“Then it isn’t trespass, Frank.”

“He’s been drinking, Ms. Ballard. I could hear it in his voice. My recommendation would be, let the cops have him.”

Vanessa smiled at him. “Let’s just see how it goes, Frank. He asked for me, and here I am.”

Frank grunted and stepped away from the door. Vanessa reached up and knocked on the wood panel. “Dwight, it’s Vanessa. Open up.”

The sound of the television cut off abruptly.

“Vanessa?” Dwight’s voice was muffled, slurred.

“I’m here. Now open up. It’s late, and I’ve got a lot on my hands right now.”

“Are the police with you?”

“No.”

“Is the guard still there?”

“Look, Dwight, I want to answer a skill-testing question, I’ll stay home and watch
Jeopardy
. Now open up, or I’m going back to the station.”

A few seconds passed. Then the doorlatch buzzed and clicked. Vanessa twisted the steerhorn handle and stepped inside. Frank tried to follow her, but she turned and put a hand on his chest. “Thanks, Frank. If I need you, I’ll call.”

Doc Hogeland’s office was in darkness, except for a small green-glass lamp on the big oak desk, and the flickering blue glimmer of a television set in the bookcase. The desk lamp illuminated a pair of hands holding a glass full of amber liquid. Beyond the desk, the city lights of Billings glimmered in a haze under a broken moon. Past the lights, the bluffs on the
south bank of the Yellowstone bulked dark and massive, cutting into the stars. Vanessa walked over and sat down in the old leather armchair in front of the desk.

“Drink, Vanessa?” Dwight leaned forward into the light. His tie was loose and his shirt undone. His bruises were fading, but he looked gray and sweaty.

“Yes. Scotch, if you’ve got it.”

Dwight reached down beside him and picked up a silver bucket filled with ice. He pulled out a bottle of Laphroaig and poured a shot into a glass. He pushed it across the desk.

“Your health, Vanessa.”

“Cheers.”

Dwight gestured at the television. “You’re missing all the excitement.”

On the screen, a female reporter was talking to the camera in front of a low cinder-block building. A sign beside the building read
KBOY TV
. A crowd milled around in the background, and a line of Highway Patrol cars was drawn up in front of the entrance, red and blue lights flashing crazily. Rifles were out, and uniformed officers were walking the perimeter. Vanessa could see Frank Duffy in the background, in the middle of a crowd of men in gray suits and tan overcoats.