Mesozoic Murder (25 page)

War Bonnet, her beloved horse, stood grazing in the truck's path. The old paint stallion lifted his head and looked toward her fearfully, ears flicking forward with startled alarm. The vehicle would never stop in time to avoid hitting him.

Ansel dropped the gun and lunged for control. She yanked the steering wheel harder right and the Ford jerked away from War Bonnet but lost traction. The vehicle left the ground, tilting dangerously to the right, then rolling over. She slammed into the passenger door. Tim's limp body, hurtled from behind the wheel, crushed against her as everything in her vision turned upside down.

The truck rolled again and again, momentum spinning it like a log. Ansel bounced inside the cab, slamming into everything: dash, seats, steering wheel. All the while, Tim's careening corpse pummeled her with flailing body parts: head, arms, legs. Everything became a topsy-turvy world of screeching and deafening sound. The roof crumpled inward. Doors buckled. Then the truck landed upside down with a jarring thump, rocking violently several times before finally settling.

A hazy darkness enveloped Ansel. She rested on her back, dazed and gasping. Her body was stretched parallel to the dash above her and humped over the caved-in roof liner in a tangled mass of limbs, hers and Tim's. Something incredibly cold crept along her shoulders and neck. She became aware of a tomb-like silence in the cab, disturbed only by creaking metal and the muted splashes and trickles of liquid. Water. A welter of unspeakable terror gripped her. Not again, her mind begged. The pond.

Feeling spent beyond all reserves of energy and her head throbbing, Ansel forced herself to move her right hand. She managed to touch the cold spot along her neck. She withdrew her fingers to stare at them. Not blood. Water. She whimpered and found the strength to turn her head and look out the windshield beside her. A murky brown soup filled her view, but she could see the black mud pushed up against the glass and the slimy, floating strands of green algae. A large black bass skittered by. The truck was underwater.

More water seeped into the cab every second. The closed windows had prevented a sudden onrush of water, but openings in the undercarriage or under the hood still remained. Not to mention the damaged roof, thought Ansel. Already the water beneath her had risen above her armpits. It would continue to rise until it covered her. She tried to move, but she couldn't. Had she hurt her back? Was she paralyzed?

Terror took root in her chest. A tremble started in her shoulder blades and spread through her body in a numbing embrace. Her thoughts flew to long-ago images of white ice and murky waters, but there was no one up there to snag her jacket with a fishing line and reel her to the surface. Trapped in this metal cubicle with a dead maniac, she would die by either suffocation or drowning.

A sudden thump on the windshield startled her. Ansel could barely move her head to gaze out into the airless world ready to devour her. Her teeth chattered. A ghost looked back. Large staring eyes and fine brown seaweed hair wavered in the mucky water. No. Not a ghost. A shoeless man, wearing a white shirt, tie, and dark pants.

Dorbandt knocked on the glass again, trying to get her full attention. Ansel couldn't respond with anything but a stare. He looked into the cab, took in her expressionless face and Tim's bloody body lying on top of her, then swam away.

Giving up, thought Ansel. I would, too. She had no idea how long it was before Dorbandt returned and tapped on the glass again. She had blacked out. Cold water splashed over her breasts now.

Dorbandt swam around to the passenger door by her head and reached for the handle. Before Ansel could try and yell for him not to touch the door and let the water in, he pulled on the outside lever. Nothing happened. The door wouldn't open. He looked surprised and disgusted. She was relieved, but wondered why it hadn't moved. Was it locked?

Ansel watched as Dorbandt swam frantically around the front of the truck and tried the driver's door. Again, nothing happened. He kept yanking at the door. Even braced his feet against the side of the cab, but it made no difference. He made a finger sign that he was going up for air and disappeared from Ansel's view.

Alone again, Ansel noticed that the water had risen over her chest, its color a vibrant red from Tim's blood. She was so cold. She lifted her chin above the water and closed her eyes, refusing to acknowledge that a dead man lay on her stomach. A man she'd killed, even if she'd done so in self defense.

Dorbandt rapped on the windshield. His cheeks bulged with a mouthful of air. He wanted her attention. He brandished something long and orange. Ansel's eyes widened with recognition. Nick's pick hammer. Somehow he'd gotten it out of the tool box on the flat bed.

The detective came very close to the glass, placing his left hand against it. He smiled encouragingly. Ansel placed her hand on the cold glass over his. She nodded her understanding.

Silly man, Ansel thought. He believed he could save her, but she knew she'd never get out again, no matter how good his intentions. She'd cheated this pond of her death once before. It wasn't going to happen again. Her only regret was that she couldn't die with her mother's Iniskim around her neck.

She turned away from Dorbandt and stared at the upside-down seats and floorboards hanging above her. She began to sing in a whisper, chanting a Blackfoot prayer her mother had taught her.

Dorbandt struck the windshield twice with the pick, and the black pond waters raged inward. Ansel twitched as glass shards raked over her, and water thundered into the cab. A torrent of brackish filth swirled around her body, clawing at her life force with sharp, icy fingers she'd felt before. In only seconds, the truck's interior became the domain of primordial, underwater things.

Ansel lay in Tim Shanks' embrace, singing her death song until the stinking, bloody water poured into her mouth. Then Dorbandt pulled her into his arms.

Chapter 33

Ansel's battered body hurt all over. A mild concussion, sprained wrist, bruised tail bone, spine and cheekbone, electric shock, and near drowning had taken its toll. She pulled tan jeans up over the shirttails of a white long-sleeved blouse, which was unbuttoned low enough to get attention. A horse-hair belt and suede loafers were added last to the ensemble.

She peered into the dresser mirror. Some wounds nice clothes, makeup, and cleavage couldn't hide. Her face looked like something squashed on the floor of the Red Rose restroom. A glove-like wrist support covered her left hand. Her left cheek had a half-dollar-size blue bruise where Tim had hit her. Not to mention the large gauze patch taped to her right forehead, where something had hit her skull during the rollover into the pond.

The pond, Ansel thought, taking a deep breath to calm herself. She didn't remember too much. Just enough to feel anxious. She did remember Tim Shanks, and the emotional scars from killing him were going to last a long time.

And the truck. Totaled, her father had told her. Hauled out by a salvage wrecker, and impounded by the sheriff's department while she lay in the Big Toe hospital for three days. Her father had lent her a ranch pickup until she got an insurance settlement and bought another. The police had also taken her gun. Speaking of cops, she'd better get going.

Ansel found Dorbandt standing by the sofa. He stared out the rear window toward the two apiaries.

“Thanks for waiting.”

Dorbandt turned his lean, muscled body. “How are you?”

“I feel like bruised fruit.”

Dorbandt had interviewed her after she'd awakened in the emergency room. She'd been groggy, but had managed to tell him about the crystal paperweight in her jeans, which had been stripped off as triage techs stabilized her vital signs.

Later in her hospital room, Ansel had told him everything about Becker, Stouraitis, Milos, Nick, and Shanks. She also told him what she'd found in the bee hive. With her trailer key, he'd fetched the amber, coins, and tranquilizer dart she'd hidden in a ceiling panel over the kitchen sink. She hadn't seen him since he'd returned the key at the hospital.

“Well, you look a hell of a lot better than you did,” he said, smiling sympathetically.

“Thanks to you. Pearl said you performed CPR on me. You saved my life.”

Dorbandt rubbed nervously at his neck with one hand. “Don't thank me. Thank that orange hammer. I couldn't see a thing in that pond until the pick stood out against the bottom mud. Guess it was thrown from the flatbed when the truck tumbled.”

Ansel sat down on the sofa. “It was a miracle. Have a seat.”

Dorbandt sat next to her. “I stopped by to fill you in. We found a .22 caliber dart rifle and a Benjamin Sheridan air pistol in Shanks' apartment. We figure he used the pistol on Capos and Benchley. The rifle on you. The dart you gave me didn't have any prints, but it matches disposable darts we found in his bedroom drawer.”

Ansel shivered. “Did you find the strychnine?”

“Yeah. Shanks stashed it in a cologne vial on his dresser.”

“Where did he get it?”

Dorbandt shrugged. “I don't know, but he was damaged goods. We found pictures he'd taken of Capos and Benchley while they died. He'd blown them up into eight by tens. If we hadn't confiscated the roll of film in his camera and all the rolls in his car at the Capos crime scene, he'd probably have photos of Capos at the grave. Shanks also had thousands of pictures of dead pigs.”

Ansel's eyes widened in horror. “Pigs?”

Dorbandt nodded. “Yeah, and I think Shanks' father is responsible for how his son turned out. William Shanks Sr. is an environmental scientist. Owns a couple hundred acres of empty land near Glendive and leases them out to a swine farrowing facility for pig composting. Pigs dying from natural and unnatural causes are trucked in by eighteen wheelers and shoveled with front-end loaders into twelve by thirty-four foot bins built on the property. Nasty business.”

Ansel nodded. “I've heard about composting, but never seen it. Since they closed the state rendering plants, my father has to pay twelve dollars a carcass for the removal of any dead Angus in order to adhere to commercial livestock laws. Did Tim visit the pits?”

Dorbandt snorted. “Visited them and helped to work them during the summers. His father told me Tim had hung out there since he was eight years old. What kind of father takes a kid to a place like that? Nothing but afterbirths, piglets, and large breeder pigs that have to be split up the middle with a knife to compost. A lot of times the pigs and piglets aren't even dead. They bury them half alive in sawdust. No wonder Shanks took Capos out to Pitt's pig ranch to die. Probably seemed natural to him, and he knew the seminar was going to be there.”

“That's horrible. I can't believe it. I liked Tim. I wrote a recommendation letter for his admission application to Montana State just a few days ago, and he brought me some oranges from California.”

Dorbandt noticed as Ansel's complexion went pasty. “Sorry. Sometimes I can't keep quiet.”

“It's all right. What did you find out about the hoatzin?”

Dorbandt had already told her about finding the hoatzin feather on Nick's body and tracing Shanks' trip to South America via airplane tickets. Nick Capos had bought the tickets. Since Shanks' father had told Dorbandt that Tim was going to the Beastly Buffet with Lydia, he'd come looking for him.

“Shanks picked up the hoatzin parts for Capos. We found hoatzin feathers stuck into Tim's hatband. The Capos crime scene feather most likely came from it.”

Ansel nodded. “Makes sense. Tim told me he faked the dinosaur inclusion with bird and reptile parts, rubber, and resin. I found Sil-Mold, Por-A-Kast, and Wonder Putty in Nick's work room. Those products are used to make fossil copies. The bee smoker was there, too.”

“And we found the connection between Shanks and Capos at Bowie College,” Dorbandt added. “Shanks helped Capos rent a small art department studio. According to a written request, Capos specifically wanted to use their hot glass glory hole oven and some propane tanks.”

“A glory hole oven is used for glass blowing,” Ansel replied. “Nick must have blown the hot amber around the fake inclusion and picked it up inside the resin the way ornamental paperweights are made. I bet he used Leslie's paper on caustobioliths and their breakdown by heat to figure out how to avoid destroying the amber's chemical structure so much that an expert would know he'd altered the resin. He knew that if the resin tested as genuine, the average fossil collector would never question the authenticity of the dinosaur inclusion.”

Ansel thought of how she'd inadvertently missed Evelyn's funeral during her recuperation in the hospital. “Why did Tim kill Evelyn?”

“I'm guessing because of her relationship with Capos. Maybe even because she wore that necklace associated with Stouraitis' cult. Capos may have given it to her as a gift, but it made her a mark for Shanks' rage. Which brings us to Stouraitis. He'll get his coins back if he can prove he acquired them legally. Since the amber is a forgery, I can't charge him as guilty of anything except being gullible. Milos Elios is another story.”

“You know his last name?”

“Through your sketch. Elios is a small-time bully with some aggravated assault arrests. He's into para-military politics and weapons. I need you to press charges against him for the two assaults, one here and the other at Becker's place.”

“I'd be happy to,” Ansel agreed, thinking of Milos peeing in her best black handbag.

“You'll have to go to court,” he said carefully, “and testify.”

“Good. I want Milos Elios out of circulation for a while.”

“The papers are in my car. I'll go get them.” He stood.

“Are you working undercover today? You're not wearing a suit.”

When she'd first seen him, she'd hardly recognized him. He wore a red and blue plaid shirt, tight cinch jeans, and brown hiking shoes. And he looked very, very good.

“Today's my day off.”

“Terrific. Come with me to the ranch for lunch. My parents are preparing a ‘welcome home from the hospital' spread and inviting a few of my friends. It's the least I can do for the man who saved my life. You'll be my escort.”

Uncertainty marred his face. “What about the papers on Elios?”

Ansel rose slowly from the couch. “We'll do those when you're on duty again. Come on, Dorbandt. Cut yourself some slack. We're having prime rib seasoned with onion and pepper, garlic new potatoes, corn on the cob, Caesar salad, and chocolate truffle torte.”

Dorbandt's face brightened. “All right, but I can't stay too long.”

“Let me grab my things, and I'll meet you outside.”

“Hokay.” Dorbandt opened the front door and disappeared into the sunshine.

Ansel moved her aching body over to the kitchen counter and grabbed a temporary leather purse. Pond water had ruined her fanny pack. A stack of four days' worth of mail fell off the counter onto the floor. She bent down with difficulty and retrieved the splayed envelopes and circulars. A nine-by-twelve-inch mailer had fallen right at her feet. It was from the law offices of Gabrielson and Zim. Preston Opel's attorneys.

Placing the other mail on the counter, Ansel opened the packet. Between her bandaged hand and her shaking limbs, it was slow going. She dreaded what might be waiting inside. Had Preston's sister filed a claim against the will bequeathing the Pangaea Society three hundred thousand dollars? Inside she found a thin stack of paper-clipped sheets. She read the top page.

Unbelievable. The law firm was notifying her that the memorial gift funds had been transferred to the Pangaea Society, Inc. banking account as per the terms of Preston Opel's last will and testament. All county, state and federal filings were completed. It was finally over. The POP Center could be built.

Ansel set down the package. She could hardly wait until the other members knew the good news. Suddenly an immense weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She quickly grabbed her father's truck keys. At the front door she punched a security code into a new alarm keypad before leaving. Dorbandt was leaning against the hood of his unmarked car, a flat brownish packet in his hands.

“Oh, no. We're not going to lunch in a cop car,” Ansel said, marching toward an old black pickup. She tossed the keys to Dorbandt. “You drive. I'm injured, remember?” She held up her swaddled wrist.

“Like a pygmy rattler,” Dorbandt mumbled, remembering McKenzie's statement about Phoenix bloodlines.

Ansel went to the borrowed Arrowhead truck and opened the passenger door. “What was that?”

“I wondered if this rattletrap will make it to the ranch?” Dorbandt replied, climbing behind the wheel. The inside smelled like sour hay and cigarette smoke.

Ansel donned her sunglasses. “What're you talking about? It's only got a hundred and fifty thousand miles on it. Where I come from, we don't ditch a truck unless it won't run long enough to cook brown salmon wrapped in foil on the engine block while we make the twenty-minute ride between towns.”

“Terrific. Here, this is for you. The forensic techs are done with your car. This was clipped to a sun visor. Thought it might be important even if it is all muddied up.”

Ansel took the wrinkled, discolored thing from his hands and realized that it was the postal envelope containing Rodgers' check. It felt stiff and thick. The inside looked almost black with dried scum. She'd assumed that she'd never see it again or that it would be totally ruined from a dowsing in the pond. She'd intended to request another payment from Folsom Publishing.

“It looks worthless,” she said, disliking the very feel of the packet.

Dorbandt started the engine. It grated like a gas-powered tree clipper. “Do whatever you want with it.”

Ansel forged ahead, pulling the gritty, smelly letter from the envelope and opening it slowly. The correspondence had been typewritten on good quality bond and was surprisingly legible. The check looked worse for wear, but she still might be able to deposit it even though it looked like it had been run through a washing machine, dyed black and eaten on by hungry mice.

Dear Ansel,

I have enclosed your second cash advance as per our contractual agreement. I look forward to working with you on future
Science Quest
projects. Your work is of outstanding quality and merit and is an asset to this publication. I have received several requests for your artwork by other distinguished contributors and would like to discuss available projects for you to consider taking on. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.

Best regards,

Phillip Rodgers

Editor,
Science Quest Magazine

P.S. I have enclosed a small fossil which Dr. Andreasson believes is yours. The printer found it in your mailing box.

Her Iniskim. But how?

Ansel tossed the check and letter aside. At the bottom was a small, tissue-wrapped object. She scooped up the bundle and tore away the wrapping. The blue stone looked perfect. The star design on the fossil sea urchin's top shell was unbroken and unmarred.

This meant that the amulet had been inside the truck cab the entire time she and Tim had fought to the death. The charm had traveled across the country and returned to her just when she needed it to protect her from being shot or drowned.

“Everything all right?” Dorbandt scrutinized her carefully.

Only then did Ansel realize that he'd been sitting there watching her the whole time, the vehicle idling in the driveway. “I'm great. Let's get going.”

Dorbandt shrugged, adjusted the air conditioning knobs, which had absolutely no effect on the air puffing weakly from the vents, and switched the manual gear into drive with a gut-wrenching squeal of transmission gears. Dorbandt shook his head.