Читать книгу Winterkill - P.H. Turner - Страница 14

10

At four in the morning, my cell jigged out its happy tune. No caller ID. “Hello… Hello?”

No one there.

I was wide awake now thinking about the anonymous email and the blocked call. No coincidences. I pulled on some ratty sweat pants. I needed coffee. Rummaging through the kitchen cabinet turned up an empty coffee bag. I shrank from drinking the cold dregs of coffee in the pot from yesterday morning knowing Starbucks was on my way to work. I decided to run. Nothing cleared my head like loping though the cold dawn. I ran a couple of miles, walked a half mile, and jogged the rest of the way home. By the time I’d showered and driven to town, I just needed coffee to help me write a follow-up story.

Through the drive-through window, I could see Jake and Morgan Hall enjoying their morning brew together. She looked beautiful and like she had slept well. I flipped down the visor mirror looking at the bags under my eyes.

“Ma’am? Ma’am? Here’s your coffee.” The window jockey interrupted my self inspection.

“Thanks.” I fumbled in my bag for the money. I coasted out to the street. Jake and Morgan. Were they an item? Friends? Lovers?

My cell danced. I sloshed coffee trying to put the cup back in the cup holder. “Good morning,” Hunter said. “Hope I caught you before you were too involved with the news business. I want us to go riding on my ranch. How about Saturday afternoon? We’ll picnic up on the ridgeline. What do you say?”

“I haven’t been on a horse in a couple of years,” was my knee-jerk response.

“You’ll be fine.” He laughed. “Sitting a horse is like riding a bike. You never quite forget. I’ve a great little mare for you. Interested?”

“You got me with the words ‘great little mare.’”

“I’ll show you a good time. Pick you up around two on Saturday.”

“I’ll just drive over to your place. No need to come by for me.”

The station was humming with activity when I pushed open the back doors. The lighting techs were setting up for Tobin’s morning shot and Dwayne was shouting at a photog. Clay called out when I rounded the corner by our offices, “Hey kiddo.” There’s that kiddo, again. “Whatcha got on the story from Foster’s place? I gotta plan the six o’clock rundown.”

“Give me a minute for the follow-up story. I’ll have it finished by the time Benita and I leave to interview George Carlisle this afternoon.”

“I thought Carlisle wouldn’t talk to you. How’d you get him to sit for an interview?” Clay asked.

“I appealed to his vanity. Suggested to him that he didn’t want to see this story run without his expert opinion.”

“You on a fishing trip with Carlisle, or you got something?” Clay looked up at me.

“Fishing.”

“He’s an important businessman in the community. I don’t want the station lawyers having to defend a defamation suit.”

“Got it,” I answered, walking out. I turned and called his name softly. “Clay, I’m a professional. No proof. No story.” The tension eased in his face. “And Clay, cut the kiddo, will you?”

He knitted his brows and cocked his head to one side, “Sorry Sawyer. Just a habit. I call everyone kiddo. You don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Thanks.”

Benita was standing in the edit bay with two coffees. Bless her. “Thought you might need some extra this morning.”

“Definitely.”

“Clay calls me kiddo, too. I don’t like it either. I keep wondering if he thinks I’m still a kid.”

“It means what it means. Kiddo. An adult-to-child form of address. I haven’t been a kiddo in many years and neither have you. Clay’s a good guy. He’ll deal with it.”

“I hope so.”

“I’ve got about thirty minutes of work here before the Carlisle shoot,” I said.

“I’ll be ready in thirty,” she murmured, engrossed in her editing.

I took my coffee to my office, got comfy and started working the phone. “Hi Sam. Got a minute?”

“One,” he said abruptly. I’m on my way to a cow that has been in breach labor all night. Whatcha need?”

“Did you work any of those old cases of mutilations around here?”

“No. Foster’s bull was my first. I hoping it’s my last, but I don’t believe it.”

“Why do you think it wasn’t a one-time event?”

“Young lady, I can do some research too, you know. Folks that cut up animals for fun don’t just do it one time.”

“Had some aspects of ritual with that tamped down grass and rock cairn,” I said.

“Don’t forget his balls were cut off. And are missing.”

“Hard to overlook that. How many people you think have the skills and tools to do that?”

“That’s Barton’s job. Talk to him,” he growled.

“What message is he sending by taking the testes?”

“I’m a vet. Only message I see is, you aren’t getting calves this year. I do know the asshole doesn’t know how to figure a dose of anesthetic. I got work to do. Just drove through the ranch gate.”

Sam had the tools and the skills. A vet tech might have access to the tools and witnessed lots of castrations. Nurse? Doctor? Surgical tech? Rancher who castrates his own bulls? There were too many people who could get their hands on a good knife and have some knowledge. But who had the most to gain?

I called Jake. No answer. Damn it! Why couldn’t he answer his cell phone! “Jake, it’s Sawyer. That offer for coffee still stands. I’m on my way to interview George Carlisle. I need your perspective to balance this story. Give me a call.”

* * * *

Carlisle’s office was dark and stuffy. Benita set up an auxiliary light and the dust motes danced through the stale air. “Ready for a sound check?” Benita called out from behind her camera. Carlisle was rubbing the two fingers of his left hand across his forehead. I asked Carlisle about the picture of him and his dogs while Benita checked his audio level. He quit fidgeting and picked up the picture.

“These two bitches are my prize cattle dogs. Work a herd all day without a whimper.” Benita gauged his voice levels, giving me a thumbs up. “Whelped some great pups out of these two.”

He looked less antsy. Nothing worse than an interviewee who stares straight into the camera lens, nods, and answers stiffly “Yes” or “No” to every question. Hard to make those interviews stick to tape.

Benita counted me down and cued me. After the standard request that he agreed to be interviewed and the thank you’s, I pitched him an easy first question. “How did you get started in the cattle business?”

Carlisle leaned into the camera, hanging his hands between his spread knees. “I came back from Nam in ’69 with a little money in my pocket. I didn’t want to move back onto the family ranch with my dad. I wanted my own place so I used my stake from the Army to start Cattleman’s Auction in ’70. Had my first cow-calf auction that spring. Cow-calf pairs went for under twenty dollars back then. Yesterday we sold five cow-calf pairs for twelve hundred a pair.” He shook a leonine white head. “Business has improved.” A satisfied smile split his craggy face.

“Tell me some of the changes you’ve made.”

He jerked his jaw up and expanded his chest. “My feedlots are open twenty-four hours a day. We have our regular weekly sales and our special quarterly sales like the one you saw the other day. We live stream our auctions. Come a long way from the two squeeze shoots and a couple of holding pens I started with.”

“Does Cattleman’s Auction handle the sale of buffalo for the local ranchers?”

Carlisle swung his weight forward in the chair, his booted feet thudding on the floor. “Absolutely not. Buffalo are a menace to cattle. Heard of brucellosis? Threatens the cattlemen’s way of life.” Carlisle’s knarled finger was jabbing the air in front of my face. Spittle sprayed on my cheek. “Brucellosis can destroy an entire cattle herd. Ask Wayne Johnston or Sam Jordan. They lost years of breeding. They’ll never build a herd like the ones destroyed. You know what happens to an infected heifer? Abortion and sterility. Heifer’s worthless if she can’t be bred.”

“Why do you think buffalo are the problem?”

Carlisle leaned forward gripping the rough wooden desk top. “Buffalo are the host animal for the infection. Why do you think the government regulates those wild bison in Yellowstone? To keep them away from domestic cattle. I won’t help buffalo ranchers make a dime off their herds by slaughtering their meat.”

“How does the infection spread to cattle?”

“Disease spreads through a healthy animal eating the infected animal’s placenta or licking the cord blood after the birth. Animals are attracted to the rich blood in the birth fluids—good protein source for them. Animals seek out birth sites. Can’t keep ’em away from it.”

“Why aren't ranchers fencing their cattle away from the buffalo?”

“You listening, Ms. Cahill?” He rubbed his fist in the palm of his hand. “Buffalo pass the disease to the elk, the deer and even the big horn sheep. You can’t fence elk and deer out of a cow pasture. Buffalo are the original hosts who pass the infection to the wildlife who jump fences and get in the pastures infecting cattle. Gotta stop this cycle by getting buffalo out of cattle country.” The ghost of a smirk passed over his face.

“But one way to protect cattle herds is to vaccinate them for brucellosis, isn’t it, Mr. Carlisle?”

Carlisle waved his hand irritably. “That vaccine isn’t proven effective. Plus, it costs cattlemen money. Won’t be needed if you eradicate the host animal.” Carlisle tapped his steepled fingertips together.

“So cattlemen risk the infection to save vaccination costs?”

“It’s a business, Ms. Cahill.”

“You compete with buffalo meat for space on the family dinner table and also with feedlot operators, who don’t have roundups, pay extra hands and don’t have losses to predator animals which make the animal cheaper to bring to market. How do you compete with a cheaper beef product?”

“Americans like the sweet taste of grass-fed beef. No comparison to inferior beef fed out in a lot. Don’t ever underestimate the consumer, Ms. Cahill. They know good beef.”

“Your solution is to get buffalo out of Wyoming’s cattle country. How would you suggest that be done?”

Carlisle narrowed his eyes. “I’d like Wyoming to follow the example set by Montana’s Governor Schwarz. Montana just prohibited the importation of any buffalo into the state. Wyoming should do the same and all Wyoming slaughterhouses should be prohibited from slaughtering buffalo.” He held up three fingers and jabbed them at the camera. “Third, Wyoming counties should have the right to prohibit buffalo ranches in their counties. The cattle industry must be preserved for our children and grandchildren.”

“One last question. There was a buffalo mutilation over on Ray Foster’s ranch a couple of nights ago. Do you have any comment?”

“Yes, I do.” He set up straighter looking directly into the camera. “Animal mutilation is sick behavior. I support Sheriff Barton’s efforts and urge all the ranchers in the county to be alert and to support the authorities.”

“I appreciate your time today, Mr. Carlisle.”

We did the shake hands and thanks so much and we were out and off camera. I called Clay and verified a minute thirty-second package for tonight’s news.

Benita asked me what I thought about Carlisle’s interview on the drive back to the station.

“I think he’s angry, maybe defensive, certainly entrenched in his beliefs. But is he angry enough to indulge in a little terrorism in a pasture to protect his share of the meat market?”

“I don’t know,” Benita said

“At least, with all that emotion, Carlisle’s interview will play well on TV,” I said.

I got a local phone book from the station’s receptionist. Sometimes research was just that simple. Wyoming Big Game Guide was located on I-80 on the edge of town. His yellow page ad claimed Javier Contreras could help you bag a trophy elk.