Zero at the Bone (13 page)

He’d intended to explain it all to her, but now he couldn’t; she was on her own.

She reached for one of the sheets and studied it more carefully. The heading in bold type said, “Austin Zoological Garden Acquisitions.” Under that were nine column headings: “Access No., ISIS No., Classif., DOB, Sex, Source, Paym. Fund, Acq.D, and Quar.” The entries under those headings were printed in tiny, precise, accountant-like handwriting.

She wondered what the sheets had to do with the photos. Maybe the zoo had also acquired some of these same species. She pulled over the other five sheets and checked back in the book for the bongo’s scientific classification. It was
Boocercus euryceros.
She ran her finger down the second column of the first sheet, then the second sheet. On the third one, she found it: (Access No.)M-139744, (ISIS No.)11-2504, (Classif.)Boocercus euryceros, (DOB)6/3/85, (Sex)M, (Source)MFWAD, (Paym.Fund)-ACDF, (Acq.D) 10/2/89, (Quar.)21.

The zoo had acquired a bongo on October 2, the same day her father had photographed one being unloaded at the RTY Ranch in Kerrville.

So what?

If I knew a little more about the zoo, she thought, I might be able to figure this out.

She looked at the sheet again, intending to check for the Barbary sheep,
Ammotragus lervia.
But the tiny numbers and letters blurred and dissolved. She closed her eyes and felt the gritty friction of lids against bloodshot eyeballs. She put a hand to her face. The skin felt greasy and slack. God, she was tired. This had been the longest day of her life. She glanced at her watch—ten past midnight.

She needed to sleep a few hours and then come at this fresh. It was too confusing right now.

Slowly she rose from the floor, one aching joint at a time. She shouldn’t lie on her stomach. It made the small of her back sore. Standing, she arched her back and groaned. She started to leave the papers and photos on the floor, but changed her mind and gathered them back into the envelope. He had gone to great pains to conceal these; so would she.

Both dogs struggled to their feet and padded behind her as she walked to the bedroom, carrying the envelope with her.

She lifted the mattress at the head of her father’s bed and tucked the envelope between the box spring and the mattress. Then she collapsed on the white chenille spread. The last thing she heard was the dogs flopping down onto the floor next to the bed and the last thing she felt was the tufty pattern pressing into her cheek.

*   *   *

The pointman took his time to savor the moment. The morning air was brisk and invigorating. Yes, invigorating. Just mouthing the word made him feel renewed and powerful. Two days, two down. He was powerful, doing now what he was meant to do.

He looked around him at the old wood-slat blind on its spindly tripod legs, listing hard to the south. This was a world where he felt at home: country air and hunting. He’d like to have a ranch like this—a little place with some acreage and good hunting. When he finished this work, then, finally, he could concentrate on living.

He gazed down on the buck’s antlers—ten sharp points. Perfect. “Practice makes perfect, sonny,” his mother used to say. She was so right.
Well, this one’s for you, Mom.

The deer’s huge dark eyes were wide open and already beginning to glaze over with white. The mouth was agape, with a trickle of blood oozing out onto the dirt. But that was the only blood. This part of it was very neat. The next part would get bloody; he’d need to get rid of these clothes, just as he had done with the others.

He leaned down and grasped the bases of the main antler beams and began to drag. Amazing how heavy in death these animals were who looked so light in life, as if they were subject to a different law of gravity. He tugged it a few inches at a time through the dirt, until the buck lay at the edge of the tree line. So it could be seen from the blind. Bait. It would draw the real prey.

Breathing hard from the exertion, he leaned over and caressed each of the five pointed tines on the left antler. It was the fighting tine, ten inches long and sharp as a skewer, that would do the job, he decided. He wished he could be around to see the faces of the cops or the game warden or whoever discovered this one.

After this, he would be half finished. Unless he added one more to the list. He had forgotten that there was one more person there. He might have to add her now that she was intruding herself. Really, it was fate. She was asking for it, putting herself in his path like that, reminding him of her role in it.

He looked at the neat bloodless hole where the arrow protruded from the deer’s chest. He ran his eye up the shaft to the red plastic vanes, striated to resemble a feather, trying to decide whether to pull it out and get rid of it or just leave it there. He felt sour panic rising in his throat. It was childish and negligent that he hadn’t thought that important issue out ahead of time. One of the reasons things had gone so well yesterday was that he had thought everything out, just the way his mother had taught him to do. “Always think of the consequences, sonny, think of the worst thing that could happen and plan for it.”

He reached into his shirt for his talisman and held it, slowly squeezing, until the fangs punctured the skin of his palm. There. He felt better. It was fine. He was doing a good job. The first one had gone perfectly and so would this. He had right and justice on his side.

He could think about the arrow while he waited. There was time. He walked back into the trees and picked up his bow and quiver of arrows. “A good workman always cleans up his tools,” he heard his mother say. He sat at the edge of the clearing with his back braced against an oak tree. The arrow could not possibly be traced to him. It had been purchased ten years ago in Waco. There was no way it could come back to haunt him. So it didn’t really matter. It was just a—what was the word he had looked up the other day? Aesthetic. That was it. The question of the arrow was just an aesthetic matter. Would it look better in or out?

Now it came down to waiting, again. That was fine with him. He was a good waiter. He’d waited a long time for this.

*   *   *

The dogs woke her at eight. She sat up in bed with a jerk.

My God, that envelope.

She leaned over and pulled it from under the mattress. If Lieutenant Sharb was right, if her father had been murdered, then the information in the envelope might have been the cause. And now she had it. Having it could be dangerous, really a police matter.

How come I didn’t think of this last night?

I was just so tired.

She felt an unaccustomed flutter of fear under her breastbone.

Maybe I should run this over to Sharb right now and wash my hands of the whole matter.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and pulled the envelope from under the mattress. She stared at her name written in big loopy black letters.

But my father didn’t take it to the police. Why not, if my gut feel is right, and there is proof of illegal activities in here? He must have had a reason for keeping it to himself.

She ran her hand through her snarled hair. No, this is a communication between my father and me. There’s no need to tell anyone about it yet. Anyway, things have always turned out best when I rely on myself.

Now Ra began to prance in place and Belle gave one sharp bark of demand from the doorway. Katherine stood up and stretched. “You’re a tyrant, Miss Belle, you know that? Come on.” She led them to the kitchen, filled two bowls with Belle’s food and stuck them outside the back door, in the tiny fenced-in backyard.

Then she tried Travis Hammond’s number, but his answering machine was still on. She left another urgent message saying she had to talk to him. She could think of no other way to find out about the thirteen-hundred-dollar payments than to ask him outright. When she tried to conjure up a logical explanation for why her father had been paying almost half his salary to an attorney for nearly thirty years, as far back as his records went, she drew a blank. It was incomprehensible.

She located a can of coffee and brewed a pot in her father’s old electric percolator.

As she sat at his kitchen table holding a steaming cup, a surge of nostalgia gathered and swelled inside her chest, compressing her heart and lungs and her empty stomach, wringing them so painfully she had to set down the cup and wrap her arms across her chest. It was a feeling of longing for what had never been, for what she had only imagined. She wished above all else that her father were here now, to drink coffee with her. To talk about the secret pictures he took of her. To tell her about the contents of the envelope and what he wanted her to do with them. What could she do that no one else could? Had he had a premonition of his death? Did he feel threatened? Is that why he had urged her to come soon? Is that why he had sent the key and the receipt?

She leaned over and pulled the envelope from the counter. She laid the photos and documents on the table, one at a time, as if she were dealing out cards, and then studied them.

She focused on the documents and the headings at the top of the columns—not too difficult to figure out in the morning light: Access No., Classif., DOB, Sex, and Source were obvious; ISIS No. She had no idea about. Paym. Fund must be where the money to buy the animal came from. There were two separate sets of initials appearing in that column—AZSPF or ACDF. Surely anybody connected with the zoo could tell her what those were, but she’d have to be careful. They’d want to know why she was asking. Of the final two categories, Acq.D was certainly date of acquisition, and Quar. probably stood for the number of days the animal was kept in quarantine.

She turned all the photos face down and checked all the dates against the zoo records. The dates all matched up; each day a photo was taken, the zoo had acquired some animals. And for all those animal entries, the letters ACDF were written in the payment-fund column.

When the phone rang, she snatched up the kitchen extension, certain it was Travis Hammond finally returning her call. But a female voice said, “Hi, coz, this is Sophie. Just confirming dinner for tonight. Mother and Daddy are eager to meet you. You okay all alone there?”

“I’m not alone. The dogs are here.”

“Oh, sure. The dogs. Well, is there anything I can do in the meantime to help you?”

“No,” Katherine said. “Oh, yes. Do you have Travis Hammond’s phone number at home? I’ve been trying to get him.”

“Sure. Let me look here in Daddy’s book.” There was a silence. “Yes, here it is—538-9897. I don’t think he keeps regular office hours anymore, so you might have better luck reaching him at home. See you at six, okay?”

“Yes. Oh, Sophie, where’s a good place to shop for clothes? I didn’t bring any with me, so I might buy some today instead of driving home.”

She was silent for a moment, as if it were a weighty decision. “You’d like Scarbrough’s, I think. Over at Highland Mall.”

*   *   *

After getting no answer at Travis Hammond’s home number, Katherine called the zoo and made an appointment with Sam McElroy. He was going to be out of the office until five, Kim Kelly told her, but he could see her then.

Katherine put down the phone and groaned. More than anything in the world she hated to ask for favors. Well, he had asked—repeatedly—what he could do to help. She was going to take him up on the offer.

So she had a free day until then. She should drive home to pay Joe, check on the kennel, and get fresh clothes, but for the first time since she had bought the house eleven years ago, she didn’t want to see it. Somehow it was easier to get used to the idea of losing it when she was away.

She felt like doing something irresponsible for a change. Yes, she would buy some new clothes to meet the Driscolls in. But first, there were commitments to fulfill.

She drove downtown and located the tallest bank building, one with gold windows and a parking garage. She entered the marbled lobby and rented a safe-deposit box. After making copies of the photographs and documents, she locked up the originals. As she left the bank, she couldn’t explain to herself exactly why she had gone to the trouble, but it felt right.

She found the post office, wrote a check to Joe, and sent it overnight delivery.

Then she went shopping. She spent the afternoon alternately trying on clothes at the mall and telephoning Travis Hammond—at his office and home. He never answered and her frustration grew. The question of that thirteen hundred dollars a month paid out of a zookeeper’s salary festered.

*   *   *

At a quarter of five she walked through the elephant gates and entered the zoo’s administrative offices. Kim Kelly, dressed in a long khaki skirt, white shirt, and high boots, sat at her desk filing some index cards in a metal box.

“Sam’s not back yet, but I’m sure he’ll be right along,” Kim said, rising and opening the director’s door. “Why don’t you make yourself comfortable in his office, Miss Driscoll?”

As soon as the door was closed, Katherine jumped up and began to explore the office. The big desk was invisible under piles of papers and file folders. One wall was covered with bookshelves, sagging with books and magazines on animals and zoo management. Another wall was dense with framed photographs. She walked closer to examine them. Sam McElroy was featured with a variety of celebrities—a United States Senator, several Texas governors, Robert Redford, William Holden, a President’s wife, and a few starlets she couldn’t name. It was a celebrity job, and judging from Sam’s radiant smiles in the pictures, he reveled in it.

The largest picture on the wall was of Sam and a slender white-haired woman in a zoo uniform. Each of them held cradled in their arms an infant gorilla in white diapers. From the newspaper picture she had seen years before, Katherine recognized the woman as Anne Driscoll. Her grandmother was gazing down at the tiny animal with wonder and delight in her eyes. It made Katherine yearn to know her.

Maybe she should go to see Anne, pay her respects. She would ask at dinner tonight if that would be a good idea.