Did Not Survive (10 page)

Chapter Ten

My Monday, that is, Saturday, came around all too soon. My father had succeeded in pulling off the Great Vehicle Swap and I drove to work in a “new” green Honda CRV, fully equipped with tires, roof rack, and, crucially, a back seat. The cargo area was tight for two biggish dogs, and the car had been detailed with odiferous petrochemicals, but it drove fine, and I could breathe perfectly well if I kept the windows rolled down. I'd handed off my truck to Aaron and hoped he would love it. My Country Chick persona was evicted, Suburban Mommy had the wheel. At least it wasn't a minivan with a “Baby on Board” sign dangling from a window. Dad promised a custom painting on the cover of the spare tire bolted to the rear. A clouded leopard portrait would de-bland the Honda and—maybe—make it mine.

The Honda had a certain zip to it, I couldn't deny, or perhaps commuting in daylight put the zip into me. Mornings and evenings of the longest days of the year are often wasted under clouds in the Northwest, but today was clear. Approaching the old Interstate 5 bridge, I glimpsed the blunt, snow-streaked top of Mount St. Helens. Pictures taken before I was born showed a perfect cone. That peak was now scattered over a lot of acreage, and the mountain was a thousand feet shorter. Geology isn't theoretical in these parts, it's to be taken seriously.

Mount Hood loomed severe and snowcapped to my right as I crossed the bridge against the rush hour traffic migrating into Portland. The Columbia River gleamed below. My father had taught me the old names of the mountains, from the people who were here before our kind. Lewit for St. Helens, Wy'East for Mount Hood. It's a gracious thing to see a mountain or two on the way to work.

I pulled into the zoo in a better mood than I'd left it two days before. Walking toward Elephants, I wondered if I'd be able to locate my new wheels after work, given the two other green Honda CRVs in the employee lot. My license plate started with W. Or maybe Y. It had a 9. Possibly.

This was my third shot at collecting elephant samples. Knowing that Damrey hadn't killed anybody took most of the anxiety out. I rounded up the broom stick and cups. Ian was working alone in back, hauling bales to the hay racks with an ease I envied. I watched by the front stall's hay rack, musing that human strength means nothing against an elephant—hay bales are where the muscles count. “Sam's day off?” I asked when he brought a bale over. “You and I must be on the same schedule.”

He nodded as he clipped twine, broke up the bale, and shoved flakes into the rack. Mr. Sociable.

Nakri and Damrey were slouching around the front stall. Damrey swiped at bits of hay on the floor. Some she put in her mouth, some she tossed onto her shoulders. What made one bit “food” and the other “adornment”? Nakri slurped from the giant trough, blowing gallons of water into her mouth and dribbling gallons more onto the floor. The stall was littered with droppings the size of tea kettles. I'd have to claim a few for my mother. A dedicated gardener, she regarded herbivore manure as a natural resource equivalent to silver or timber.

Ian joined me and reminded Damrey what the deal was. She sniffed at the raisins, but was slow to offer up her liquid treasure. I could tell Ian was about to call a time out and usher me back to the work area when she wheeled around and presented her butt. I collected a half-cup of what she produced and tossed the clod of raisins into the hay rack. Nakri backed up to the bars, eager for her turn. I turned away to signal that I wasn't ready, left to put Damrey's sample in the work room fridge, and came back armed with a fresh cup. Ian stood silent and still by the bars. Nakri saw me returning, and I had to trot to catch the last of her premature contribution. She was really into dried mango and not into waiting around for sluggish research assistants.

I put the lid on the cup. Ian and I stood for a moment watching the big animals go on about their business, idling around the stall, brushing against each other, blowing softly through their trunks. I pulled the newspaper article my mother had given me out of my pocket. “Ian, why are their tails so bare? Nakri had that long tuft on the end two months ago when this picture was taken.”

Ian took the picture and studied it for a few seconds. He shrugged. “Reported it. Vet took skin scrapings. Didn't find anything. Growing back.”

I stuffed the picture back into my pocket. “Weird. The male cougar lost hair on his back a couple years ago. We added fish oil to his diet. Cougars don't eat fish in the wild, far as I've ever heard, but it seemed to work.”

“Giving amino acid supplements. Might grow back anyway, no matter what we do.” Never relaxed, he did seem a little less tense than usual.

“True enough. Sometimes you never know. Do you think we'll ever know what happened to Wallace?” I asked not because legions of co-workers were lined up demanding that I pump him, but because I honestly wanted to know what he thought.

“Hope so.” He looked at me sideways like a frightened horse.

“Who could get into the barn?”

He edged toward the work room. “Lots of people can get in.”

I trailed behind him. “I guess the blindness explains why Damrey is so particular.”

He stopped and turned toward me. “Also not well trained. Not aggressive, but doesn't know the commands she should.”

The door from the visitor area opened as he spoke, nearly bumping him.

“Hey, Sam, thought it was your day off. What brings you in?” I said.

“Had to. Wallace used to come in on the weekends and check on things. He'd call me if he found any problems. Everybody thinks this area's out of control. I never know what's going to happen when I'm gone.”

Was he referring to shadowy skulkers or the attack on Wallace or Ian?

It was clear how Ian took it. A flush rose from his neck up his face. The rims of his protruding ears slowly reddened. I tore my eyes away from him and took a step back. The two men faced each other with tight shoulders, tight focus.

Sam stepped to the open door to the workroom and looked inside, both ways, then stepped back toward us and examined the barn like a health inspector at a suspect restaurant.

Ian said, “Never called you because he never found anything wrong. Wallace used to come play,
play
with them.”

Sam snorted. “Wallace understood elephants better than you ever will. Must be nice for you to know all there is to know, so early in the game. Who needs experience?”

Shocked, I took another step back. I'd known Sam for years and never seen him
mean
.

Ian looked like a man who had finally been pushed too far. His voice rose in volume and pitch, words tumbling out in jerky bursts. “Right. I
don't
have thirty years with the same, same two cows. I worked with, with a dozen elephants in four facilities. Including bulls and calves. So, so don't preach to me about
experience.”

Sam reared his head back. “What did you learn from it, besides teaching tricks? Have you thought about running away and joining the circus? Might be a good fit.” He glanced at me. Was I the real target of this argument? I'd learned that Sam was happy to use me. Ian didn't seem to think that way.

“I can get a job, a job anywhere in the country. I'm here to make it better for these animals. Could train standard commands. Help with accrediting. If it weren't for you. Anything new is a challenge to the herd bull. Has to be beat down.”

“Damrey behaves fine with
me
,” Sam said in that same cold voice, “and she did with Wallace. Now everyone knows that.” He spoke to me, ignoring Ian. “Crandall is nuts to go for accreditation. Why do we need curators and directors from other zoos telling us what's good for our animals? Did you know the animals have to be trained to tolerate us sticking probes in their rears?”

I'd heard Dr. Reynolds on that subject. “Sam, what's the big deal? The vets want ultrasound because they can see what's going on inside the animal. You know it's a good tool, and the cows don't mind as long as the treats keep coming.”

“It's disrespectful. There's more to elephant-keeping than this kind of training.”

“Yeah, a
lot
more.” Ian was still hot. “Especially in a dump. Like this. Only reason to keep these animals here is that new exhibit. That I don't see happening. Those picketers are doing more than you or me to get them decent housing. More space.”

The elephants started pacing and ear-flapping.

Sam forgot me again. “Oh, is that it? You think those sign-wavers know what's best? That's rich. Every week I sit in some brain-snuffing meeting busting my ass trying to get the new exhibit moving, and you're ready to pitch it all out for some fantasy of a perfect sanctuary.”

“So why, why isn't it happening? You and Wallace were such buddies.”

“Because I don't run this place, and I couldn't get him off his rump any faster.”

“And why was that?” Ian pressed.

Sam shrugged, losing energy, losing the offensive. “He was staging the construction. It was coming up.”

Ian's eyes gleamed. “Don't think so. Think he took another look at the plans and realized, realized that you'd invest millions in a new exhibit. And it would still be too small. Finley Zoo doesn't have the acreage. You'll never get an exhibit big enough, not for more than two cows. No way to breed them. No way to keep a calf. Much less a bull. Reason small zoos aren't keeping elephants much anymore. That's what I think Wallace figured out.”

“If he did, it was because you told him so, and he was dumb enough to believe you.”

Ian said, “The next foreman or a new curator will take another look—”

Sam interrupted. “Yeah, and that might be me. We'll know soon. Won't that be interesting?”

Ian shut up, and I stopped cowering and came to attention. Mr. Crandall had decided to split the old foreman position in half and put the animal part into a new curator position. The foreman would hire and manage the keepers. Sam must have applied for curator. He was a senior keeper with years of experience. Why wouldn't he? Because, I realized, he'd have to leave Elephants. But a promotion might position him to get the exhibit he wanted.

“I got work to do.” Ian walked stiff-shouldered to the work room. After a minute, the door to the outside grated open. The two elephants stepped out briskly, putting hostilities behind them.

“I'll see you around, Sam.” I put my second cup of pee in the fridge and got out of there.

Cool wet air was a welcome relief. Clouds and drizzle had moved in, the weather as changeable as the people I worked with. The old giraffe was out in his yard near Elephants. He swung his head down toward me, hoping for a treat or just being sociable. Lord love a duck, what an emotional cesspool the elephant barn had become. Ian and Sam were a match made in hell. Ian said “you” and not “we” when he talked about the new exhibit. I wondered whether he planned to stick around. He must have some guess or theory about what had happened to Wallace, but he wasn't sharing it with me.

The elephants were messing with a big pile of browse Ian had set out for their amusement. I couldn't resist stopping for a moment. Nakri selected a long branch from the pile and tugged it free. She stood on one end of it, wrapped her trunk around the other, and yanked up. The limb snapped in two with a strip of bark still connecting the pieces. She stood on one and pulled on the other to separate them and began stuffing the leafy end into her mouth. I could hear wood being crushed to pulp. Damrey didn't bother with the preparation. She stuffed a leafy end into her mouth and chewed. The branch worked its way slowly up into her maw until she'd had enough and bit it off, the thick end falling away. Wood chippers were far noisier and less effective than those two.

As I walked to the Penguinarium and my nerves settled, I considered what Sam had said. Wallace's death opened up a career opportunity that no one had expected for decades. Sam might have two options for advancement: curator and, soon, foreman. Clearly he was interested. If Ian was right and Wallace no longer supported the new exhibit, his death also removed an obstacle to the better housing Sam wanted so badly.

Surely these were not sufficient motives for murder. No, not for a planned killing, but the depth of Sam's anger frightened me. Arguing with Wallace? A sudden, violent release of frustration…Where in my list of scenarios had that been? Number Two?

No, Sam was not a violent person. One shouting match didn't mean anything. I was over-reacting. Pregnancy hormones, maybe.

***

On Saturdays, the zoo was jammed with kids of all sizes and their adult shepherds. Jackie worked Saturdays, like Mr. Crandall. She and I leaned against the wall in our usual spot, hidden from staff and visitors alike. I shifted sides as soon as she lit up and I could figure out the wind direction.

I listened impatiently to her gripes about Mr. Crandall and the press and how black cohosh pills weren't helping her hot flashes. When I'd completed my quota of sympathetic murmurs, I broke into her critique of the contractors for Asian Experience and their expectations of the office staff. “Jackie, what's going on with replacing Wallace? Has Mr. Crandall posted the position yet?”

“Nope, and he's not going to. Not for a while.”

“How's that going to work? He can't be foreman for months. He doesn't know what he's doing. We're coasting on what Wallace set up.”

She took her time, blowing smoke out of the side of her mouth away from me, her idea of etiquette. “Don't get your knickers in a bunch. I think he's got another plan. He's going to recombine foreman and curator for now, hire somebody right away from the curator candidates, and deal with the foreman job later. Splitting them was stupid anyway. So maybe next week.”

“Huh. That fast. I guess that's a good thing.”

She quirked her eyebrows at me. “Sort of depends on who he hires, right?”