Saving Cecil (18 page)

Butcher Enterprises was a plush affair. However, the spacious reception area, featuring mural-sized renderings of past residential accomplishments, was deserted. I was observing each mural in turn: Horseman's Ridge—A complete equestrian community—and Taylor's Landing—The good life on the Outer Banks—when a perky young lady with a dangerously short skirt, nose-bleed heels, and enough makeup to go on camera, came up behind me. “Hi!” she said. “Can I help you?”

I jumped, startled by her sudden appearance. “No,” I said, wishing I'd had more time alone. “I was expecting to catch up with my … husband here. He was meeting with Mr. Butcher. I dropped him off earlier and I'm returning to pick him up.”

“Oh, there must be some mix-up,” Perky said. “They went out to grab a drink and I'm just holding down the fort. I understood Mr. Butcher to say he'd make sure your husband got back to his hotel. Would you like me to double check?”

“No. That won't be necessary, but if you don't mind, I'll wait for a little while just to make sure. Husbands can get grumpy if their plans are upset.”

Perky wrinkled her brow. I had the feeling she didn't want me to hang around, but didn't want to refuse a possible client a simple request either. She seemed to deliberate, then said, “Sure. There's coffee in the urn on the credenza. Make yourself at home, but … uh, I have to be in and out so … ”

“No problem,” I said, trying to put her at ease. She twittered about the reception area while I took in the rest of the gallery of residential renderings. After straightening the magazines at least twice, she said, “I have to step out for a minute. Will you be alright?”

I thought you'd never ask
. “Sure,” I said. “Take your time.” I gave her my most trustworthy smile.

She hesitated, then grabbed her purse and booked it for the elevators.

Since she didn't grab the only jacket hanging on the cloak hanger in the corner, I surmised she was going somewhere in the building, just not on this floor. I nosed around in the reception area a little longer, keeping a close eye on the glass sidelight beside the door to see if she was coming right back.

After a few minutes, I made the executive decision to check out the only hallway that broke off from the reception area. Surely that's where the ladies' room would be. Always a good excuse for being discovered wandering about where you shouldn't be.

Impressive brass lettering on a raised panel walnut door let me know I'd found the office of Fred J. Butcher. I turned the knob. Imagine that. It was unlocked. I gave the door a stiff push and listened. The silence in the complex of offices was deafening. I felt sure I'd hear Perky if she returned, so I moseyed on in but didn't touch anything.

It was a large and swanky office with lots of cerebral gadgets and glossy architectural magazines scattered about on glass and brass tables. Very impressive, and very uninformative. I left, quietly pulling the door closed behind me and moved on down the hall.

I found the ladies' room and several other offices, all unlocked, all boring. When I got to a large conference room, however, I hit the jackpot. Scattered haphazardly on an end table were early conceptual designs for another residential community, including several informal sketches done in colored pencil. One was an aerial view. Even though the rendering bore no catchy name, I knew immediately I was looking at the Lauderbach Farm. The notes jotted along the margins made the theme for the development clear.

They were planning an exclusive hunting community.

NINETEEN

Friday morning, fifteen thousand
feet above the ground, zipping along at three hundred miles an hour in Bud's King Air 350, I sipped my Dr. Pepper and thought about the drawings I'd seen in Fred Butcher's conference room.

Someone had big plans for an exclusive hunting community on the Lauderbach farm and I was pretty sure it wasn't the Lauderbach's. My common sense gene gave me the ability to reason that they wouldn't be risking all they had in gas wells to save the dairy business if they were planning to sell to a developer.

Bud returned from the cockpit where he'd gone to confirm our arrival time, flopped back in his seat facing me, toed his shoes off, and propped his feet in my lap. “Are you excited about your new ride?” he asked.

“Kind of,” I said, giving him a foot massage. “The minivan was getting on my last nerve, although I'm sure Tulip will miss it. I'm just worried the Hummer won't be ready and I'll have to ren
t something else so I can keep my appointment with Watson. We're getting together out at the site around three o'clock.”

“You'll make it with time to spare,” he said. “I've been thinking about those drawings you told me about last night after my meeting with Butcher and I agree with you. It makes sense that the Lauderbachs aren't the ones contemplating developing the land. It takes big bucks to even break ground on a project like that. From what you've told me, they don't have that kind of cash or credit. But Butcher definitely does.”

I tilted my head in agreement. “By the way, I meant to ask you something … ”

“Yeah,” Bud said, taking his feet back and leaning over to nibble my ear, “were you going to ask if we could pick up where we left off last night?”

“Uh...I don't remember leaving anything unfinished last night. Actually I recall a grand finale … ”

“I can start there if you want,” he said, his voice getting all low and sultry. A jolt of sexual energy shot through me at what that implied. “Stop,” I snickered, pushing him back into his seat. “You'll get me all hot and bothered up here and then what would we do?”

“Ever heard of the … er, three-mile-high club?”

“Umm, I've heard of the mile-high club.”

“Well this one is three times better,” Bud said, heading for the cockpit door to close it, shielding us from the pilot's view.

“Bud Cooper,” I laughed. “Get back here. We need to finish talking about your meeting with Butcher. For one thing, I want to know how you managed to worm the conversation around from investments in residential communities to hunting hogs.”

Bud returned to his seat. “You aren't going to turn into one of those boring wives that doesn't want to have adventure sex, are you?”

“Of course not,” I played along.

“Prove it,” Bud said, calling my bluff.

I glanced over my shoulder to make sure the door was closed, then flashed him with two
almost
perfect Ds—I have had two children, after all. “Later, I promise. Right now, tell me more about Butcher.”

“Okay, but I'm like an elephant,” he said petulantly. “I never forget. Actually, it was pretty easy to maneuver the conversation. Especially after I regaled him with a few hunting stories from my past and told him about how bow hunting had brought a new excitement and tension to the experience. It didn't take long before he suggested we go to the waterfront bar, where, the more we talked, the more he drank until finally, with a wink and a nod, he told me he knew of an undiscovered place where very large, very aggressive wild boar can be hunted for a fee and how he might be able to arrange something for me.”

“But he didn't say when?”

“No. He said he might have some good news about that when he calls me back in a couple of days with the information I requested about investing in one of his communities.”

“At the risk of sounding like Nancy Drew,” I said. “I think maybe we should keep our little trip and what we found out about Fred Butcher to ourselves, at least until we know more. No sense ruffling anyone's feathers.”

“If you're talking about Chris Bryant, I disagree,” Bud said. “I think we should meet with him as soon as we can after we get home. This could be a big break in his case, especially if he ran up a blind alley chasing that other idea he had … ”

“The ticked-off creationist?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“And what do you propose we say when he asks why we did exactly what he told us not to do?” I asked.

“We did no such thing,” Bud said indignantly. “Remember, I helped you with this not because we were trying to solve his case, but rather to get rid of folks who could be a danger to you and your paleontologist friends. I'm trying to get you out of harm's way, not let you follow your usual path and fall right into the middle of it.”

“Hey!” I snapped.

“Seriously, you don't think he can imagine what would happen if one of the paleontologists that you and your friend Watson put out there got shot accidentally? Especially if it ends up having some connection to a case he's in charge of solving. Trust me. He understands your predicament and my natural desire to help you out of it.”

“I hope you're right,” I sighed. “We'll set it up soon as we get home.” I checked my watch. “Do we still have time for me to change my mind?”

Bud frowned. “About what?”

“The three-mile-high club.”

“Sure thing!” he said, pulling his sweater over his head.

“Dang, Jackie,” I said upon seeing the rig back in operation. “You're a miracle worker!”

The site foreman beamed and, eyeing my new vehicle, said, “Maybe, but I can see I don't have anything on you. Somehow you've managed to turn a piece-of-crap minivan into a piece-of-art Hummer.”

Tossing a skeptical look back at the Hummer, I said. “You like it? The jury is still out for me.” Luxury
and
functionality would definitely take some getting used to.

“How about you, girl?” Jackie said, rubbing Tulip's sides vigorously. “You like it?”

“As long as she can slobber out a window, she's happy,” I said. “So tell me what's going on.”

“Well, nothing much to tell, we just did what Greenlite told us to. Cemented the bottom hundred feet, put the directional bit on, and went back to drilling. Basically, just starting the turn 100 feet earlier, lessening the bend in the curve, you might say.”

“Simple. Uncomplicated,” I said. “Hey, as long as it gets us to the right spot, I like it.”

“Me too. No sense throwing more money at trying to hook that fish.”

“And risking collapsing the well,” I added.

“Amen to that,” Jackie said. He lifted his hard hat and scratched his scalp. “We're making good time now, though. Another day for the turn. Then, when you tell us we're on target, we'll run the horizontal sections and be ready for fracking.”

“What about the Lauderbachs? Has anyone notified them yet that they can stop worrying?”

“Overmire did, but if I were them, I'd rather hear it from you. He's usually short on explanations.”

“I need to speak to them about Lauderbach #2, so I'll take the opportunity to make sure they understand everything that's happened here. By the way, did you ever find out what was down the hole?”

“Yep. We could tell by the mold we made it was a short piece of pipe. I'm surprised it went all the way to the bottom, but it did. It was about three feet long and bent in such a way that every time we'd get hold of it, it'd flip and dig into the side wall. Whoever threw it down there knew it would give us fits. I still wish I knew how they got through the gate.”

“I don't know,” I said, “unless, like you suggested, they simply climbed gates and walked in overland.”

We were contemplating that thought when, from the direction of the gate in question came the sound of a car horn.

Watson had arrived.

I hopped back in the Hummer and drove up to let him in. He was as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. I got him into the doghouse long enough to show him the location on the aerial. “Also,” I said, opening the floor safe, “this is Tulip's contribution to the project.” I removed the bone she'd found from the safe and handed it to him. “As far as I know it's the only bone that isn't with the skeleton.”

Jamming the Jungle Jim hat he'd been famous for wearing while at UNC on his mostly bald head, he said, “Let's hurry! I can't wait to meet Cecil!”

Then Tulip, Watson, and I set off in the Hummer for the clay pit. Now was as good a time as any for it's maiden voyage into the woods.

On the way there, I gave Watson a brief explanation of the hog operation and how, since it was only the two of us, I wasn't too worried about our safety. “We'll be in and out pretty fast,” I told him. “Today is really only so you can see Cecil for yourself and verify his existence for our extraction team, whoever they may be.”

As we bumped across the pasture, Watson chattered about who he thought might make a good member and my thoughts went to how dramataically things were going to change in a relatively short time.

Economically, the Lauderbachs were only days away from tapping into an asset, which would turn them from debtors into millionaires. Scientifically, the world was about to be introduced to the find of a lifetime—albeit a short one—for Clinton Baker, a heretofore unknown paleontologist.

Not wanting to take Watson past the crime scene, I skirted the first patch of woods, then crossed the second pasture. A short distance into the second patch of woods, I stopped the Hummer.

“Something wrong, my dear?” Watson asked impatiently. “Are we waiting for someone?”

“No,” I said. “It's only a quick walk from here to the fork in the trail I was telling you about—the clay pit lies to the right and the hog pens to the left. I think it'd be a good idea to be as quiet as possible.”

“Good idea,” Watson grabbed his satchel and hopped out. “Lead on!”

I wanted Watson to get the full effect when I unveiled Cecil, so I placed him between the front and hind legs of the beast. As I untied my hitch knots on the twine securing the canvas tarp to the ground, I realized I'd forgotten again to bring more twine to replace the bottom left piece. I looked at Wa
tson. “Ready?” I asked.

“My dear, I've been ready for this day all my life!”

I pulled the tarp back.

A huge inhalation of breath from Watson. Tears sprang to his eyes. I went to stand beside him and patted him on the back. “Not in my wildest imagination did I expect it would be this … perfect,” Watson said, dropping to his knees. He reached out and ran a trembling hand over the exposed skeleton. “And what a masterful job someone already has done in getting the excavation started. Why the entire length has been exposed to a depth of 18 inches or more.”

“Yes,” I said. “And, I want you to know as much as possible about Clinton Baker, the young man who discovered Cecil and did all this work. ”

“I'd like that very much,” Watson said quietly as he took in Cecil's perfect form. I let him soak in the miracle before him. Shortly he said, “More often than not it's impossible to understand why things happen the way they do. We can only react to what we are given in life, and I for one intend to do everything in my power to see that young man gets the credit he so richly deserves for this monumental find.”

As we gazed at Cecil, stretched before us in plain view, a weak autumn sun shone down on us. I closed my eyes momentarily, imagining the world when he'd been the top predator in a tropical paradise. When North Carolina was located just a few degrees above the equator, part of the giant continent, Pangaea. When the Atlantic Ocean was forming, creating the rift valleys known today as the Triassic Basins. Back then they were vast inland lakes and swamps where creatures like Cecil lived and died and became the gas the Lauderbachs now sought.

Watson pulled his calipers and other measuring tools from his satchel and we set about measuring every imaginable detail about Cecil. He took more photographs as well, and all the while we discussed who would get a coveted position on the soon-to-be prestigious excavation team. When we finished, I pulled the camouflage tarp back into place and proceeded to tie down the corners that had twine.

Watson stopped repacking his satchel long enough to look at his watch. “We need to hurry along, dear, if we're going to get me to the airport in time for my flight back home.”

“No problem,” I said, holding the bottom left corner of the tarp in my fingers. “You don't happen to have some twine and a knife in your satchel do you?”

“Twine, yes. A knife, no. I had to bring my things through airport security, remember?”

“Right. I'll bring one next time I come and you're right. We'd better hurry.” We hustled back to the Hummer and booked it for the airport, all the while jabbering about our next meeting—Watson said he'd email the date and time—and who he would be calling in the next few days.

Detective Sergeant C
hris Bryant was having a drink with Bud, Henri, and Will when I got home. The first thing I noticed when I sat down on a bar stool in the kitchen to join them was that Henri was even more radiant than usual. She sat on a stool opposite Chris, casually swinging a leg clad in skin-tight, designer jeans and sipping a glass of white wine. Glossy red toenails peeked from her black, cutout suede Prada b
ooties.

My practical mind went to the fact that they cost more than Chris made in week, but hell, that wasn't my problem. She was happy and glad to see me and that was all I cared about right now.

Our upcoming wedding dominated the conversation. Surprisingly, Chris seemed eager to join in a discussion of such foolish trivialities as to a change in the lead singer of the band they'd booked and how a different china pattern had to be chosen for the dinner as their first choice had been discontinued. As their laughter and banter bounced around me, I studied Chris. Not for the first time since I'd met him, I wondered what his life had been like in the military. Had he seen combat?