I’d sure give her that. And I wondered what role pride might have played. If Jardine chose this mine because it was easier access here than to others nearby, he likely would have assumed — as we had — that this place was abandoned. And then the woman in white showed up with her shotgun. A woman whose mine, and pride, were not to be trifled with. I asked her, “If you caught someone stealing, would you report him?”
Her venomous look swung to me.
“Or, you could tell him to pay or you’ll call the cops. A market of one is better than none. Right?”
She studied me. “Don’t need no thief money, girly. I got a big market lined up. Know what it is?”
Sweat sluiced down my back.
She came closer, tipping her hat brim back, bringing her face up to mine. “You wanna know?”
I could not look away. She had that effect, like a desert sidewinder. You wouldn’t want to turn your back.
She raised her index finger. She opened her mouth, emitting an overripe odor like fruit that has turned. She licked her finger. It glistened in the sun. It hit me like a snake strike, scoring my left cheek, and then withdrew.
My skin shriveled where the wet trail evaporated into the triple-digit air.
Chickie examined her finger. “Dirt,” she said.
I stiffened. What’s wrong with dirt?
Her own face was shiny clean. “Ever wear makeup?”
I said, tight, “Yes.”
She bared her teeth, white as her hat. “Then stick your nose down out of the air, girly. You’re my market.”
Hap gave me the bandana from his sombrero. I wiped her touch from my face. I wanted to disinfect it. I tried to return the bandana but Hap put up his hands: a gift.
And then I thought, maybe this was not a market question at all. Maybe Chickie was an accomplice. Maybe Chickie was counting on another source of income while waiting for Park Service approval to sell her talc.
“Ms. Oldfield,” Soliano said, “you are certain the talc originates here?”
“You want certain, go with DNA. I can give you probability. I can tell you the proportion of tremolite to talc, down to parts per billion, in the evidence talc. I can tell you it’s consistent with the talc here, and it’s inconsistent with the three other mines I sampled. I can’t promise there’s no other location it could have come from. Maybe there’s a mine out there with talc as good a match as this one.” I pocketed the bandana. “And maybe pigs can fly.”
Soliano turned to Scotty. “Let us look again here.”
Scotty groaned.
Walter said, “In the meanwhile, I have soils to sample around here.”
I nodded. It was, actually, within the realm of possibility that our evidence talc did not come from this mine — leaving flying pigs aside — and I’d be a whole lot happier if Walter could match the mud samples from Ryan Beltzman to this place. I moved to follow Walter, to lend a hand. I caught Chickie watching me. Her hooded eyes had slitted to emit a whitish gleam. It was, I thought, a truly pissed look and it was directed at me, the fucker who’d claimed to trace the talc to her mine.
That look convinced me I’d found the right address.
12
Walter and I followed the geology and our noses around the hill to the backside of Chickie’s mine. Here was another entrance, a back door. Just outside this tunnel, white mine tailings spilled to mix with the native soil.
Walter knelt to sample.
It didn’t take a forensic genius to read the story. Marks in the dried mud — knees, elbows, one unmistakable butt print, bootprints hither and thither — showed one hell of a fight and chase.
Walter agreed. “Preliminary,” he said, peering through the hand lens, “but I suspect the driver acquired his mud here.”
I glanced at the rough road that ran down to join the road our convoy had taken. Not fit for the radwaste truck but a more nimble vehicle could navigate it. In fact, there were faint tire tracks. I looked back to the tunnel. Gated, with a padlocked chain. I wondered if Roy Jardine had a key.
Chickie was astonished that some fucker changed the lock on her gate and she grudgingly gave permission for Scotty to use bolt cutters.
It didn’t take Scotty long to meter the tunnel. “Not hot,” he said, “but you won’t believe what’s in there.”
I swallowed. What’s in there?
Soliano went in. Then he summoned Walter and me, Hap and Ballinger.
The tunnel was wide and straight and dead-ended in a large room, like a driveway into a garage. A two-car garage. The vehicle on the left looked like it belonged here. It was dented and scratched and mud-spattered — a high-clearance offroader with a winch and cable drum mounted on the front bumper. All four tires were flat.
Soliano shined his flashlight at the right front tire, illuminating a ragged hole.
I registered the tire damage, and the mud, which I was going to want to sample, only right now the tires were not the main event.
The main event was the trailer behind the offroader.
It was a brutish beast. Big enough to haul a hefty payload. Tough, clearly, with big-knuckle bolts and beefy tires, now flat. Built for crazy guys on testosterone weekends hauling their gear where the pavement doesn’t go. Built for a crazy guy hauling stolen resin casks. The back of the trailer was gated with a fold-up steel ramp. A vaulted steel cover hung open and wide, like a clamshell.
The vehicle parked beside it was another beast entirely.
Half forklift, half crane, all business. It had a telescoping crane boom with its grappling arms wide open, as if for a hug. Slotted into one side were attachments: hooks, fork tines, a scoop. It had pneumatic tires with deep treads. It looked like it could go anywhere.
Arrayed against the mine wall were open crates of protective gear. Gloves, booties, suits, silvery tarps.
Hap whistled — surprise, marvel. “Lookee here. Boy’s got his own setup.”
Soliano eyed Ballinger. “This equipment is from your facility?”
Ballinger gaped. “Knothead helped himself to the store.”
One thing I knew for certain — Roy Jardine was in no way a knothead. Or, despite the events of last night, a screwup. This setup showed a level of competence that put me on high alert.
Soliano made a slow survey of the room. “I believe we have found the place of the swap. Mr. Ballinger, tell me how it is done.”
Ballinger jerked. “Me?”
“Easy Milt,” Hap said, “Hector just wants you to role-play. Pretend you’re Roy.”
“No friggin way.”
“If you please,” Soliano said. “You know this equipment, Mr. Ballinger. I wish your perspective.”
Ballinger gave Soliano a cautious look, then a nod.
“And so. You steal a cask, bring it here — perhaps in your blue Ford pickup. And here you fill it with talc, using this…forklift?”
“Telehandler,” Ballinger said sourly. “Roy could’ve.”
“Very good. So now you have a cask of talc. Meanwhile, your partner Ryan Beltzman approaches on the highway — that is the radwaste truck route?”
“That little twerp,” Ballinger said, “he was in on it?”
“Difficult to make the swap on your own, yes?”
“Wouldn’t know.”
Soliano’s face incised into a smile. “Let us put it all together. It is late night, little traffic, so Mr. Beltzman pulls just off the highway so the transponder will not show anything odd. And there he waits. Can you deliver the talc cask to him?”
“Sure I can.” Ballinger’s chest roostered out. “I mean, Roy can. Telehandler holds the cask like a baby. Drives like a dream. Go right out that tunnel down to the highway. Set the talc cask on the flatbed, pick up the resin cask.” Ballinger warmed to it. “I’d do it remote for the hot load — telly’s remote-operable. Then drive it back up here and set the resin cask in that trailer. Trailer’ll handle it.”