Endangered: A Zoo Mystery Part 24

"I could be convincing." Milk. We needed one-percent and some half-and-half.

"Try me."

"Where would they put string cheese? It's not with the rest of the cheese. Oh, I forgot they have two sections. I misheard Jerome's last words. I finally figured out what he really meant and it points to where he hid his stash."

A pause. "They've failed with you once."

"I can make the case. And they're stumped. Otherwise, they wouldn't have tried for the tortoises. Did the Tipton van have a GPS gismo?" I'd forgotten lettuce. I headed back to the produce section.

"I can find out."

"I think Jerome buried his stash in the forest around the house or off the main road. Everything in those woods looks the same-fir trees, sword ferns, fallen logs. He'd either have to bury it by a landmark, which isn't all that reliable, or use the GPS. He could pick up the GPS coordinates of his hidey-hole from the device-I tested that with the one in the zoo's van-and write them down." Coffee. Peet's or another brand? They were out of Peet's French Roast. An experimental brand, then.

"We're looking for a string of numbers." Craig didn't sound excited.

I parked the cart at the self-serve bins. "Yup. That's why the barn was searched. And probably the house, after all the agencies left. But the Tiptons and their buddy didn't find it. Hold on, I have to bag up some granola."

"Did you really find a piece of paper with coordinates? You're not making this up?" Now he sounded interested.

"See? I convinced you. But I can't figure out how to make it work without risking my life. Or how to make it work, period. It's not like we're Facebook friends. I can't communicate with them." I tossed the granola into the cart.

"Let me think about it. Where'd you find the numbers?"

"Think away. I'm stumped." I was in the checkout line and distracted by loading groceries onto the belt. What I needed was a partner. Craig was smart and energetic. He could help me figure this out.

He said, "On second thought, Gettler was right. This is a terrible idea, for you, anyway. I'll find a way to tell them I found that piece of paper, and we'll take it from there. You don't have to be part of it. But you and I should meet first, when you aren't distracted."

"Um, you do remember that one of them shot Liana?" The teenage boy ahead of me gave me a concerned look. I smiled.

"I haven't forgotten. I'll take precautions."

"Like working with Gettler."

"Exactly. I think I can get him on board easier than a woman could. No offense."

Yes, offense...for about a second. This sounded great. But only for another second. "Hey, I didn't mean to set you up. You don't have to do this. It's truly risky." Now the clerk was looking at me.

"I can take care of myself."

Lame or not, he did seem as though he could do that. Hope flared that he would bust the Tiptons, get his article, and just possibly join me in the bedroom of my own home. How fine would that be?

He said, "As long as those boys are still in the wind, you need to be careful. There could be wild cards from some terrorist group that Jerome a.s.sociated with. Listen, I did a feature on witness protection programs. I know how to keep you safe, so call me if anything happens. Promise?"

"Sure." I walked out of the store with heavy bags and a lighter step.

Chapter Twenty-nine.

After dinner, my mother wanted us to watch How to Train Your Dragon. I walked the dogs first, keeping watch for Tiptons or home-grown terrorists jumping out at me. We got soaked and the dogs shook all over the kitchen. I didn't catch their feet in time to keep prints off the rug. I flurried around with a towel.

My father declined the cartoon feature in favor of finis.h.i.+ng the dishes, so the three of us settled in front of the TV. Robby was glued to my lap, entranced. It was fun, but the scarier scenes inspired him to point at the screen and protest-"Him hurt on arm! Bad fire!"

"It's not real, honey," I said. "It's pretend. n.o.body really got hurt." I could never tell if my commentary made any sense to him. How could it not be real if it was right in front of his eyes?

I liked the movie's concept-that understanding the dragons could turn enemies into allies and that yelling was not the optimal training technique. Still, it was upsetting Robby. I announced that it was bedtime and shut it off.

My mother said, "I'm so sorry. A friend said it was fine for little ones. I should have researched it more. I hope Robby can sleep."

"Mom, he'll survive. Don't beat yourself up." I repressed a guilty delight that the parenting boo-boo was not my fault and carried my child upstairs.

For his bedtime story, Robby wanted an old favorite, a Beatrix Potter book called A Fierce Bad Rabbit. He demonstrated with dramatic re-enactments using his stuffed bunny how the bad rabbit fought dragons, but it wasn't clear whether it actually won. I explained that his armadillo was really a species of good dragon that would protect him while he slept. Thankfully, he bought that and tucked it under his chin when he lay down.

My poor boy, exiled from his home, missing his friends Pete and Cheyenne, saddled with a mother who half the time was over-wrought by her troubles.

I stretched out alongside him and almost fell asleep myself.

d.a.m.n. The macaws had to be fed.

I grumped about Neal as my father and I drove through slanting rain to my house yet again. Any curator worth the t.i.tle could find a place to store those birds where someone else could look after them. I wasn't even getting overtime pay for this.

My father, tall in the pa.s.senger seat, wasn't interested in my resentments. "You've been out a lot lately. I'd be happier if you'd tell me what you're up to. Don't mean to pry into your personal life, but your safety is my business."

A lot of people seemed to feel that way. I couldn't complain. Where to start? I'd provided regular reports on Denny. I told him about the stolen tortoises being recovered, about my hospital visit with Pluvia and Wanda, and my conviction that someone else was helping the Tiptons. "And I seem to be dating two men."

We sat in the car in front of my house, reluctant to face the wet, as he absorbed all this.

He said, "Two. Complicated."

I opened the door.

"The job is okay?"

"No problems. My boss said to take the time I needed to look after Denny. Not that Marcie will let me near him." I shut the door again.

"Your housemates moved to Denny's, right? What makes them think they'll be any safer there?"

"Someone needs to look after Denny's animals." Which led to telling him that they were moving out permanently in a month.

Which somehow led to telling him about Calvin retiring.

"You going to try for the position? Your boss owes you after all this trouble with the Tiptons."

"'Fraid not. It requires a college degree."

I had to wait for his response.

"You're going to let that stop you?" He sounded curious rather than challenging.

"Well, it's impossible."

"We can help with the tuition."

"Thanks, but it's still impossible."

"Now why is that? You did all right for the two years you stayed."

"Dad. Listen. All I want to major in is biology, and I can't cut it. Calculus? Organic chemistry? No way. If all it meant was learning more about real animals, I'd be fine. But that's not how it goes. And I need a major that relates to my job, so it's not going to be Creative Knitting Studies or something. And I don't have the time anyway."

I got out of the car and shut the door. He did, too. He would have to tell my mother and I'd have to deal with that. How long could she hold off from "I told you so?" Then I would snap at her and we'd be stuck in the same house because of the Tiptons. Argh!

We collected real estate fliers and ads for gutter cleaning from the porch. I calmed down a little. My house felt cold and barren, lonely and a little spooky. The macaws yelled at us, which made it feel more like home. Maybe I'd miss them after they were gone. My father came down to the bas.e.m.e.nt with me. I inspected the half-nude bird for feathers growing back and found a hint of regrowth.

The cage was due for a cleaning and I started in on it. The less-plucked bird, the one that had begun to warm up to me, flirted with my father instead. He, or maybe she, hung in front of him grasping the wire with feet and beak. I suggested rubbing his face at the base of the beak, with all due caution. My father tried it, the bird loved it, and I was relegated to char woman. The other bird let me scratch his forehead, but only out of politeness. "You are the new Jerome Tipton," I told my father, who made a face. But he didn't quit petting the bird.

When I was done, he examined the cage and stopped at the bas.e.m.e.nt door. "Look here. Is this the way it was?" It was barely closed, not enough for the latch to engage. The deadbolt wasn't turned.

Not good. Not good at all. I tensed up and glanced around. "I left it locked. Pete must have gone out and not closed it right."

"Or someone broke in."

No evidence of the signature Tipton pry bar. "It's a good deadbolt and nothing looks damaged." That rea.s.sured me not at all.

"Good deadbolts can be picked with a couple of bobby pins."

How did he happen to know that?

He shook his head at me. "There's a video online that shows how to do it. Let's take a look around upstairs."

I found a hammer in the kitchen junk drawer for him and grabbed a poker from the fireplace for myself. I rubbed my hand on the first step of the stairway to the second floor. The carpet felt a little damp, as if a wet shoe had pa.s.sed that way recently. My father pushed past me and went up first.

My room smelled stale and seemed undisturbed. Pete and Cheyenne's room was shockingly bare. They really were gone, their stuff in storage or over at Denny's. The bathroom was tidier than usual without toothbrushes or hair products, just a towel or two.

"Iris. Here."

My father stood at the open door to Robby's room. I looked in and froze. Robby had a huge collection of stuffed animals courtesy of my zoo friends. I'd taken only a few of them with us. The rest were no longer heaped in the green plastic box where they lived. They were strewn around Robby's room like bombing victims. Soft-furred bellies gaped open, clouds of white polyester stuffing drifted on the floor and the bed. I picked up a slack, empty panda, stomach slashed open. Same with a musk ox, a bat, a polar bear. Eviscerated and tossed aside. My stomach twisted with nausea and my hands shook.

Why? I had nothing small and valuable to hide in the toys. Not robbery-malice. An outlet for anger and impatience.

My father said, "You can see the sidewalk and front yard from this window."

"We sat in the car for several minutes. Maybe he thought we were waiting for back-up."

"Ran downstairs and out the way he'd come. He didn't stop to jigger the deadbolt shut."

Bored and frustrated, he'd slashed them one by one while he watched, ready to move downstairs and lurk behind the front door to attack when I walked in.

I called Gettler and left a message, then the Portland police. After I told them this was connected to a previous break-in, they said they would send an officer out.

"Dad, the Tiptons wouldn't have the patience or skill to pick a lock-they'd break their shoulders busting in. It was someone else. This has to be Ethan. He's after the Tipton gold."

My father shook his head. "I think he's after you. You talked to Wanda Tipton and learned he really exists."

I s.h.i.+vered as this sank in. "He's been watching the house. He knew I'd be back to take care of the birds, and he could tell that no one was here." This was a guy who was determined to stay hidden. If I was right, he killed Liana to keep his prints and DNA safe from law enforcement. Yet he'd crept out from his hiding place to find me and lost his temper when he couldn't. How hard would it be to find out where I was staying? My skin crawled.

A police officer showed up while we were checking every cranny and window. When he had taken pictures and interviewed us, I asked him to escort us to my parents' house. "First, can you wait a few minutes?"

He said he could.

I couldn't leave Robby's room contaminated. I pulled two black plastic garbage bags from under the kitchen sink, and we went back upstairs. Little puffs of white polyester lay everywhere, almost too soft to feel between my fingers as I picked them up. Some of the stuffed animals had bare patches from Robby scooting them along the floor or rubbing their ears while he fell asleep. At first I put the ones that might be repairable into one bag, and the truly ruined ones in another. Soon I realized I could never bear to see any of them again and quit discriminating. I hauled the two bags out to the garbage can and set it on the curb for pickup. My father carried up the vacuum cleaner. A few swipes would have to do for now.

Nothing that simple would remove the sense of menace.

The police promised to keep an eye on my parents' house. That didn't matter. I knew Robby and I couldn't stay there any longer. I was sick with fear, and I couldn't think what to do.

When we returned, I galloped upstairs to confirm that Robby was safe. As a baby, he'd slept with his arms out, open to the world. Tonight, he was curled tight around his armadillo. I stayed a few minutes to watch him breathe.

By silent agreement, neither I nor my father mentioned the mutilated animals to my mother, just the bas.e.m.e.nt break-in. I told them both, "This changes things. Robby and I can't stay here and neither can you. It's too dangerous."

My mother said, "Dear, you haven't checked whether Pete might have left the door open. I think you could be over-reacting. Jim, you were there. What do you think?"

My father said, "I think Iris and Robby are safe here. We're three adults, for pity's sake, and we can always call the police. I wouldn't panic."

I gave up. "I'm going upstairs. We'll talk in the morning."

I called the person I least wanted to ask for help.

I eased out of the bedroom in the morning without waking Robby. My parents were having a peaceful breakfast reading The Oregonian. After a bracing swig of coffee, I handed each of them a piece of paper and made a speech. "Mom and Dad, we have an ugly situation here, and I need to be sure Robby is safe. These are tickets for a 3:15 Southwest flight this afternoon so you can visit your friend Cecile in Berkeley. Here's the one for Robby. I know you both have work commitments, but this is an emergency. You can take your laptops and work from Cecile's. You both do a lot online so that should help. I'll be moving to a safer place myself."

I do not understand why people cannot see logic when it's staring them in the face. I might as well have suggested we all put on clown noses and jump off Rocky b.u.t.te. Half an hour later, I'd described the mutilated stuffed animals, which upset my mother, but not enough to convince her that I was right. I was losing it, my reasonable voice frayed into shrill. "Look, do you not understand that a murderer is after me? Do you not get that he will track me here? What part of 'keeping Robby safe' is unclear to you?"

I'd stayed up half the night figuring this out and my credit card had taken severe damage, damage that would require years to heal. Now I had to scream at them to get this to happen?

Robby stumbled downstairs in his pjs, armadillo under one arm, wet diaper sagging on his rear. The discussion ceased. Robby climbed up on a chair and looked around. "Robby home today," he announced. "My home."

I nearly wept. "No, honey. Today you get to fly in an airplane. A real airplane, up in the sky." My intention was emotional blackmail directed at my parents, but it failed.

"No sky," Robby said. "Dragons. Fire. Go to my house."

Thwarted, I left the battlefield to deal with the diaper and help him into clothes.