Saving Cecil (17 page)

“I can tell from your expressions that Greenlite has informed you of the problem at the well,” I said, following polite greetings.

“Yes,” Arthur said, reaching for Annette's hand. He looked tired and drawn.“I thought Greenlite was supposed to be the best. How could they be so careless?” Annette wailed. “Don't they realize how much this well is costing us?”

Assigning blame was above my pay grade and now wasn't the time to go into the possibility of sabotage. They were too upset for that. I gave her a few seconds to compose herself, then said, “Greenlite is one of the best energy exploration companies in the business and the company they hired to drill the well, Schmid and Medlin, besides having an impeccable work record, also has a very long history of success in their field.”

“It sure doesn't seem so, now, does it?” she screeched. “How could they let something just fall down the well? It's sheer incompetence I tell you!”

I took a deep breath. I needed to be very careful in my wording. They already felt I'd insulted Luther, a trusted employee. If I wasn't careful, I could make it seem that I was on the side of a company that didn't give a fig about wasting their money. “Both companies have spotless records when it comes to safety and accidents … of any kind,” I said. “I can understand your frustration, but before we accuse anyone of incompetence, let's see how this situation plays out. Also, you can rest assured that the incident will be investigated. For now, though, let's talk about what happens going forward.”

Annette crossed her arms over her chest and looked away. I continued to try to mollify her, saying, “I'm on your side here, and I can assure you that every attempt will be made to save the well. Here's the plan. Using a formula devised years ago, a certain amount of time will be allotted to trying to fish the junk out of the well.”

Before I could go any further, I needed to explain what fishing meant in regard to well drilling and how it's done. That accomplished, I said, “If, after that amount of time, it's determined that the junk can't be retrieved without risking collapse, it is possible that portion of the well can be cemented and drilling is restarted at an angle farther back up the borehole.”

Annette was still pouting so I addressed my remarks to Arthur, who was paying strict attention. “Since we were getting ready to make the turn anyway, this could work out. I don't want you to get your hopes up, but don't give up either. We're just going to have to take a wait-and-see stance here. But you should know, these things have been happening since 347 AD when the Chinese drilled for oil using bamboo pipes. Trust me, there are still lots of options available to us.”

“See, Lovey,” Arthur said, giving Annette's hand a squeeze. “There is hope after all.”

Annette dabbed tears at the corners of her eyes. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Just when we thought we were about to see the light at the end of the tunnel, this happens. Perhaps I need to take the advice of our oldest son, Arthur, Jr. He was here earlier. You just missed him. He came home when we told him what had happened and you know what his advice was?”

“What?” I asked

“Pray,” Annette said. “And I think he's right. You know, it's something we often forget to do what with the fast-paced lives we all lead, but when faced with odds such as we've had lately … well, maybe we should be doing more of it. Junior says God always has a plan and if we trust in Him, everything will work out for the best. That's sound advice, don't you think?”

Also way above my pay grade.
“Sure does,” I said.

“Indeed,” echoed Arthur before turning to me and asking, “Can we offer you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“Thanks, no,” I said. “I'm going back to the well before I leave. I'll be in and out for a while but as you know, I can always be reached at the number I gave you. Remember, stay calm. This is going to take a few days, but everything humanly possible is being done to minimize costs and, at the same time, save the well.”

Feeling I'd left the anxious Lauderbachs somewhat less anxious, I hurried back to the site to pick up Tulip and then head home where I was meeting Bud. I checked in with Jackie. They were preparing to make a mold of the object at the bottom of the well, thinking another type of fishing tool might work better. He followed me back to the van as I called for Tulip. I had to call her several times, but she finally trotted up, sat at my feet, and gave me a look I'd seen before. “What have you been up to, girl?” I asked. She just blinked dolefully.

“I saw her earlier out in the pasture eating grass,” Jackie said. “That's what my dog does when he don't feel good.”

I bent to give her a closer look, but she got up, wagged her tail, and hopped in the van. “She's fine,” I said. “Call me if you need me. I'll never be more than a few hours away.”

“Will do,” Jackie said as I waved goodbye.

I couldn't wait to get up with Bud and find out if he'd heard from Dr. Newsom yet as to whether Fred Butcher was indeed the mastermind behind the hogzilla hunts, as we'd taken to calling them.

EIGHTEEN

Before meeting with Bud,
I had one small matter to attend to: the minivan. I'd rented it on a week-to-week basis and it had now been a week since I'd wrecked my magic Jeep. I needed to either renew the rental agreement or buy something else. Picking out a new vehicle would be a daunting task. I simply didn't have the time it would take to look through all the models available and sort through the pros and cons of each. Besides, my heart still wasn't in it.

My text tune chimed just as I pulled onto the rental lot. It was an appointment reminder for the final fitting of my wedding gown. Just then, I saw the nice little rental agent that had taken care of me a week ago. A diminutive little fellow, quiet and unassuming, he dashed out the office door and hurried in my direction. I climbed out to greet him.

His mouth was agape. He held his head with both hands, a look of total astonishment on his face. “Oh my gosh!” he exclaimed. “Are you alright?! What happened? How did you roll the van?”

“Roll it?” I asked curiously. Then, looking back over my shoulder at the vehicle, I realized what he was referring to and added, “Oh, I see what you mean, but really, it's just a little dirty, that's all.” Little man's gape got wider. “And, there may be a scra—”

Now his eyes were rounder than the rims on his Ben Franklins. “Madam!” he rudely cut me off. “Are you saying you weren't in an accident?”

“No,” I said in exasperation. “I mean, yes, that's what I'm saying. I wasn't in an accident. I've just been using the van during the course of my normal work day.”

“Wait,” he said, holding up both palms. “You're saying you did all this damage by driving to and from work?”

“Yeah. Sorta … .”

“Where do you work? Afghanistan?”

“As I was trying to say, it might have a scratch or two, here and there, but … ” I stepped back and gave the van another look. Tried to see it from the eyes of the person responsible for maintaining it. “Okay,” I relented. “There's the occasional dent, too, but nothing I'm sure one of those dent-remover tools and a good wash job wouldn't fix.”

“Seriously?” fumed little man. “I'd be hard put to find an inch of space on the entire exterior of this van that isn't damaged. And, what about the interior? I shudder to think what that looks like!” He marched to the van's door and slid it open. “Oh, my goodness! What's this?” he asked, startled at being met—practically nose to nose—by Tulip. She gave him a half-hearted wag of her tail and he backed up a few steps.

“Oh, that's only my dog,” I said dismissively, stepping to his side. I hadn't meant for him to see her. I'd thought I could just run in the office, renew my rental contract, and be on my merry way. This called for more finesse on my part.

Planning an all-out assault on any weakness he might have for feminine charm, I turned to face him. All at once, and without warning, Tulip barfed up a belly full of slimy green cow dung and grass in the doorway. A few globs oozed down onto the courtesy step with a plop.

The smell hit us first. Little man and I jumped back as though we'd been blasted by the pressure wave of an exploded grenade. Then Tulip, apparently feeling much better, hit us next. Stepping into the muck on her way out of the van, she leapt forward to greet the little rental agent, who by now was ruing the day I drove onto his lot.

“No!” I yelled, grabbing her collar just as she planted both front paws on his crisp, white shirt. “Tulip!” I jerked her back. “What on earth has gotten into you?” Then to little man: “I am
so
sorry, sir. She never jumps on people. She must be feeling much better, having relieved herself of that … guck … ” My voice trailed off at the sight of the agent, grimacing in horror at the green smears down his once-pristine shirt.

“Eww,” he breathed, narrowing his eyes at me as if his fondest desire at that moment would be the ability to shoot lasers from them. “I can assure you, Ms. Cooper, you'll pay for this … this … disaster. If you think you can just waltz in here and turn this car in, suggesting all it needs is a dent popper and a good wash job, you're sadly mistaken. No one screws G.W. Harris and gets away with it. I'm calling the law!”

Oh, great! Just what I need. Another policeman after me!
“Wait, er … G.W. I'm sure I can satisfy you!” I called after him, wincing at my poor choice of words after just being accused of trying to screw him. Hurriedly, I shoved Tulip back in the van, slid the door closed, and followed him into the rental office. He was just lifting his cell to his ear when, checkbook in hand, I asked, “What would you say to a quick sale?”

He looked at me like I was a worm. “What do you have in mind?” he asked and snapped his flip phone shut.

Fortunately, Suds Car Wash was only a few blocks down from the rental lot. I couldn't get Tulip and my new minivan there fast enough. After I'd given the attendant the keys and dutifully warned him, I sprayed Tulip's feet with a nearby hose, retired to one of the picnic tables provided for customers, and called Bud. “I'm going to be a little late,” I said, and explained what had happened.

“So you had to buy that piece of crap?” he asked.

“'Fraid so,” I sighed. “But it's okay. I'll just trade it in when I decide what would work best for me.”

Silence for a few seconds. Then Bud said, “How much longer do you think you'll be there?”

“Not much. Have you heard from Newsom?”

“Yep, and it was just as we suspected. Fred Butcher is the man to see to book a hunt for the rare and illusive hogzilla.”

“Did he say it like that or have you been watching too much cable TV?”

“Too much cable, but it is nice to know you were right. Not that I ever doubted you. Now all we have to do is book a hunt and have Chris notify North Carolina Fish and Wildlife as to when and where it's going to be held and we'll shut them right down.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Maybe in the process he'll pick up additional information that'll lead him to Clinton Baker's murderer.” Another few seconds of dead air drifted between us. “You still there?” I asked.

“Yes, but I've got an idea. I'll be down there by the time they finish with the van. Then you can follow me to a place where there's a vehicle I think you'll really like. A few modifications to it—which can be done while we're in Baltimore—and it'll be perfect for you.”

I was intrigued and truthfully, now that the magic Jeep was gone, I didn't have anything in particular in mind so his suggestion, at the very least, would be a good starting place for me.

A short time later, I followed Bud onto a GM car lot. “Good grief!” I exclaimed as he unfolded himself from his Porsche. “You can't seriously be thinking a Hummer is what I need.”

“That's exactly what I'm thinking,” he said. “Take a look at your van, fireball, and tell me you don't need something indestructible.”

“Well, that was part of the problem, you see. The van was too big.” I pointed to three gargantuan vehicles parked side by side. “But look at
those
monsters. They're even bigger. How could I squeeze one of those tanks down a little overgrown logging road?”

“Follow me, babe. I'll show you,” he said. We headed for the back lot. “You may not know this, but they don't make Hummers anymore. However, before GM stopped production in 2010, they came out with a smaller version, the Hummer H3 Alpha.” We reached the lot and he scanned the rows until he saw what he was looking for.

“I've been giving some serious thought as to what you need and doing some shopping around for you. I found this one. It's a 2008 model.” We'd stopped in front of a grey Hummer that was indeed smaller that the mega SUVs out front. “It has a towing package big enough to pull one of your drill rigs out of the mud if you need it.”

“Get out! Really?”

“Really,” he laughed. “Plus its wheelbase isn't much wider than your Jeep's, but it's plenty bad-ass and just as durable. We can add a heavy-duty grill and a wench to the front and you'll be good to go. I know the general manager here and he can take care of trading in your … lovely van and have everything ready go by the time we get back from Baltimore. What do you think?”

For some reason the fact that, like the magic Jeep, this car was no longer being manufactured endeared it to me. That Bud had clearly gone to a lot of trouble to find it was also touching. Besides, if it couldn't stand up to my demands, I could always try something else.

I looked up at him. “Okay,” I said. “I'm liking this idea. Let's get the trade-in done and then go home. We've got other fish to fry. It's time to see if you can convince Fred Butcher that you're one of North America's great wild boar hunters and you've just got to bag a hogzilla.”

Bright and earl
y Thursday morning, Bud and I flew to Baltimore in his plane, landing about nine miles from the center of downtown at Martin State Airport. Our plan was simple: Bud would meet with Butcher—he'd arranged the meeting before we left, claiming to be interested in adding an up-and-coming residential development to his family's business—and I would rent a car an
d drive down to DC for my gown fitting. We'd spend the night and return home the following day.

After checking into our hotel, we drove the rental to one of the downtown plazas and parked in front of an impressive office building that housed Butcher's flagship company, Butcher Enterprises, Incorporated. “I've got his office number right here,” Bud said, pulling a post-it note from his pocket. “And we're on time.”

“Good,” I said, searching my iPhone for the location of the boutique where I'd bought my gown. “You're going to catch a cab back to the hotel after your meeting. I'll meet you there after my fitting and we'll make dinner plans, right?”

“Right,” he said as I finished locating my destination and prepared to move to the driver's seat. Then I noticed a Starbucks on the ground floor of the office building. A coffee for the road seemed like a good idea. We exchanged kisses and I hopped out to get my jolt of java.

As I reached for the glass door, someone pushed it open for me. Stepping back, I looked up and realized the gentleman who was holding it was none other than Fred Butcher himself. I froze. Talk about a plan going south in a hurry. Or had it? Butcher smiled benignly and nodded for me to enter.

“Thanks,” I said, slipping past him. I went directly to the order counter, which, as luck would have it, was backed with a large mirror. Between the giant coffee urns and stacked cups, I could see Butcher's reflection at the checkout station and realized he must have stepped away from paying his bill to open the door for me. He was now completing his transaction. Keeping my back to him, I watched in fascination as he counted out the correct change for his purchase and left. He never even glanced back at me.

Forgetting my coffee, I rushed back to the car to catch Bud before he left. “I can't believe it,” I said and told him what had just transpired. “You know what this means?”

“Offhand, I'd say he's never seen you before.”

“Exactly! He wasn't the one who gassed me. That leaves Luther as the culprit and honestly, I just find that hard to believe.”

We stewed on the ramifications of this latest development for a few seconds. Then Bud said, “Or, someone else is involved.”

“Either that or I'm a very bad judge of character. But, there is a plus side to his not knowing who I am.”

“What?”

“I can come to the meeting with you,” I smiled. “You know what they say, two heads are better than one. That's why they usually put police detectives in pairs when they question suspects.”

“I don't like it,” Bud said. “Let's stick with the original plan and keep you out of it. Besides, I don't want anything to interfere with you getting your gown fitted. It makes me very happy that you're taking a real interest in our wedding.”

Despite worrying about Bud's ability to segue from a phony interest in residential development into he-man talk about hunting feral hogs, and feeling guilty about the fact that buying the gown was the only real sweat equity I'd put into the wedding, I made it to the boutique in record time. That it wasn't rush hour was a big factor.

I'd forgotten how wonderful the gown made me feel as I slipped into it again. Fanny, the French saleswoman who was seeing me through the complicated process, zipped me up and a very talented pair of seamstresses went to work, making sure no other alterations were necessary to make it fit like a glove. Later, after a hug good-bye from Fanny, I made my way back to Baltimore.

Bud hadn't returned when I arrived at our hotel so I stretched out on the bed and clicked on the television. I didn't want to call him and interrupt his meeting, but after about thirty minutes of surfing cable channels, I reconsidered and reached for my iPhone. “Hey,” I said. “Where are you?”

“Hi, hon,” Bud said over background sounds of laughter and clinking dishware. Obviously he was still role playing. He never calls me “hon.” “I'm at a waterfront bar with Mr. Butcher. Remember, I was seeing him about perhaps investing in a residential property?”

“Uh, yeah … ” I said.

“I'm Mr. Butcher's last appointment for today, so we'll be here for a while, discussing some properties. Talk to you later.” Bud clicked off.

Was he trying to tell me something? Like maybe Butcher wouldn't be going back to his office?
I turned my attention back to the television just in time to catch a self-lubricating catheter commercial. I grimaced and punched the power-off button. After changing into a pair of skinny designer jeans and a cashmere turtleneck, I grabbed my little leather bomber jacket, and headed back to the shopping plaza.