The Penguin Who Knew Too Much (12 page)

I was hoping he’d get distracted and lose interest, but by the time I’d fetched my purse, car keys, and a few other oddments I might need, he was back, leading Spike. I was about to protest that we didn’t need Spike, but then I stopped myself. Eric was spending a lot of time with Spike. Bonding with him. Was there a possibility he’d bond so well that he’d want to take Spike home with him?

The idea cheered me up enormously. When Eric began singing “Old MacDonald's Farm” on the way to the zoo, I joined in with enthusiasm.

We’d gotten as far as “Old MacDonald had some sloths” and
were arguing amiably over what noise the sloths made when we emerged from a small stretch of woods and spotted the entrance to the zoo. It wasn’t deserted, as I’d expected—in fact, there was a small group of people milling around in front of it. I stopped the car to figure out what was happening before going any closer.

“You said the zoo was closed,” Eric said in an accusing tone. “I did and it is,” I said. “I have no idea who they are and why they’re here.”

But as I watched them, I realized why. Two dozen men and women had gathered in a rough semicircle in front of the zoo gate, carrying picket signs. Most were young and clad in jeans and dark green T-shirts with the words “Save Our Beasts!!” printed on the front. They were looking up at one young man who was standing on a bench with his back to the road, making a speech. He had long dark hair, a ragged beard, and wildly flashing eyes, making him look rather like a modern-day John the Baptist, or possibly a sixties radical made young again. The back of his T-shirt even had a picture of a clenched fist, the well-known logo of the Black Panther movement.

When I began driving closer, however, I realized that the fist was a paw, covered with grizzled fur and sporting long claws. Several rank-and-file protesters turned to whisper to each other, and I could see that the backs of their T-shirts bore the same logo. Then they began waving their signs up and down. I could see that the message on one side was “Animals Are People Too!” with “Let My Creatures Go!” on the reverse.

Rose Noire didn’t seem to be among them, so either she belonged to another, rival animal-rights group or she’d made the ultimate sacrifice, passing up an opportunity for a protest to help us move. Or perhaps she felt, as I did, that it was a little strange to have a protest twenty miles from town, outside an empty zoo
with no audience other than random passersby—and right now, Eric and I were the only onlookers, apart from a young man who was documenting the event with a bulky, old-fashioned Beta video camera parked on his shoulder.

I recognized the cameraman as one of Michael's film students, using the predictably functional but obsolete equipment available from the college. I decided he might not appreciate my interrupting his work by waving or saying hello.

My arrival seemed to spur the demonstrators on to new enthusiasm. As their leader continued to harangue them, they interrupted him more frequently with shouts and cheers.

“Aunt Meg, why are they all so upset?” Eric asked.

“They don’t believe in zoos,” I explained. “They want us to turn all the animals loose.”

“Even the hyenas?” Eric asked, wide-eyed.

“Especially the hyenas.”

I parked by the side of the road, as if we’d come to watch the festivities—but far enough away that the film student would have a hard time getting us in his picture. I wondered if the demonstrators would leave anytime soon so I could get into the zoo without being seen, much less filmed.

“Is this a protest rally?” Eric asked after a minute.

“Yes. Why?”

“So this is what Mom and Dad used to do when they were in college?”

“Sort of,” I said. “Only the ones your parents were in were much larger. And for...different causes.”

I had been about to say more important causes—war, racism, and civil liberties—but that wasn’t fair. Cruelty to animals was arguably just as important a cause. And while I had a feeling I’d probably disagree with many of the odder beliefs held by members of Save Our Beasts, what little I’d found out about Patrick
Lanahan made me think that perhaps if he were still alive I might be inclined to join their protest.

The whole business of farming out wild animals to untrained volunteers, for example. Was the man a complete idiot, or did he realize what a bad idea this was—for animals and humans alike—and not care?

Of course, if I were going to start an animal-rights group, I think I’d have worked a little harder on the name. Did they enjoy being called the SOBs?

Just then, the film student hoisted the camera off his shoulder and waved to the protesters. He turned and began walking toward a small nest of cars parked a little farther along the road. The protesters took his departure as an at-ease command. They put down their signs, and most of them sat down cross-legged on the grass in front of the zoo. A couple of them pulled out picnic baskets and began passing out water and sandwiches.

The leader strode over to my car and inspected us with narrowed eyes. Spike, who had been growling softly since we arrived at the zoo, took an instant and arguably quite rational dislike to him and began barking and lunging toward him, even climbing into my lap to get closer to his prey. I made sure Eric had a tight hold on the leash and rolled down my window.

“How would you feel if someone put a heavy collar around your neck and dragged you around at the end of a rope?” the chief SOB asked. He had to shout over the racket Spike was making.

“If I were in the habit of picking fights with dogs ten times my size and running out into traffic, I hope I’d be smart enough to realize that the leash was for my own protection,” I said. “And I should point out that I haven’t inflicted a muzzle on him, even though he's in the habit of biting passersby with no apparent provocation.”

The leader jerked back the hand he’d been extending in Spike's direction. Disappointed, Spike subsided into soft but menacing growls.

“Vicious animals are usually made that way through systematic abuse by humans,” the leader announced with a scornful look. Well, two could play at that game.

“I’ve never understood the narrow-minded tendency most people have to judge animals by completely inappropriate, an-thropocentric standards,” I said. “Calling a dog vicious, for example, merely because he acts in accordance with his own predator instincts, instead of behaving in a way we find convenient.”

The leader opened his mouth as if to retaliate and then thought better of it. Possibly because the film student had changed his mind about leaving and came over to eavesdrop.

“So did you just come out to mock our demonstration, or was there a good reason you came out here?”

Under the circumstances, I thought mocking their demonstration seemed pretty reasonable, but I stifled the impulse to say so.

“We were just passing by on our way to somewhere else and stumbled on your demonstration by accident,” I lied. “I confess, I was a little surprised at finding a demonstration outside an empty zoo. You did know it was empty, right?”

“Yes, but the evil it represents continues unchecked!”

“Besides,” the film student put in, “they’d already arranged for me to come and film them today.”

The leader shot an exasperated glance at him, but the film student just stood there, calmly observing us. He wasn’t filming, but he gave the impression that he’d be happy to if we provided more pyrotechnics.

“Since your group is here, I have a question for you,” I said. “Are any of you qualified and willing to help take care of some
of the animals recently liberated from their vile imprisonment in the Caerphilly Zoo?”

“You’re asking us to become their new jailers!” the leader shouted. His followers looked up at his voice, but they didn’t interrupt their picnic to join us.

“No,” I said. “I’m asking if any of you could take temporary responsibility for the welfare and happiness of even one of the beasts you’re trying to save. After all, if the zoo closes permanently, you’ll probably be at least partly responsible—”

“What do you mean, responsible?” the leader shouted. “Are you accusing us of killing Lanahan?”

“I’m not accusing anyone,” I said—though I was definitely keeping him high on the people who might deserve the accusation. “But someone killed him, and can you be absolutely sure your campaign against the zoo had nothing to do with it?”

“That's ridiculous!” he exclaimed. “You can expect to hear from my attorney; that's absolute libel!”

“Slander, not libel,” I said. “It's not libel unless I write it down. But I’m sure your attorney can explain that to you.”

The leader stormed off, still sputtering. One of his followers tried to placate him with a sandwich, which he rudely refused.

Mother would have assumed his guilt immediately. Of course, Mother would probably find it easier to forgive a well-bred murderer than a rude saint. Still, I had the feeling that if Chief Burke wasn’t already investigating the leader of the SOBs, he should do so immediately.

“Who is that guy?” I asked the film student.

Chapter 21

“Shea? He's the president of Save Our Beasts,” the student said. “You think he’ll try to sue you?”

“He might,” I said. “Then again, he might just be a law student, going through that difficult litigious phase. I remember it hit my brother around the middle of his first semester.”

“Sounds like Shea,” the student said. “Got an amazing talent for ticking off the people who already agree with him, so it's no wonder he's having trouble winning converts. SOB used to be a much bigger group before he took over.”

“Are they just opposed to zoos in principle or was Patrick Lanahan doing something particularly bad?”

The student shifted uneasily.

“There have been rumors that he wasn’t feeding the animals properly,” he said. “And skimping on their medical care. Given how broke he was, sounds plausible. I can’t prove it, though, and he's certainly run up pretty huge bills with the vet and the feed store. And I certainly can’t prove the rumor about canned hunts.”

“Canned what?”

“Canned hunts—you haven’t heard of them?”

I remembered Blake saying something about them when he was talking to the reporters, but I didn’t remember what he’d said, so I shook my head.

“It's barbarous,” he said, his voice becoming heated. “You take a bunch of animals and pen them up someplace—they usually call them game ranches or hunting preserves—and charge people a stiff fee to come in and shoot where they can hardly help killing something. Some of them guarantee a kill.”

“What kind of animals?” I asked.

“Depends on the operation,” he said. “Sometimes it's native species—deer, elk, even bear. Virginia outlawed it years ago, except for a couple of places that were already in operation, and they’re only allowed to use various kinds of pigs, goats, and sheep. But in some states, they bring in exotic animals to shoot at. Some of them bought from overpopulated zoos.”

“So is that why the SOBs are picketing—they think Patrick was selling off unwanted animals to be killed?”

The student nodded.

“Shea even accused Lanahan of running the hunts on his land—which would be totally illegal in Virginia, of course, and I’m not sure anyone takes that seriously. But even selling the animals to a game ranch—that wouldn’t be illegal, but it would still be pretty awful. I mean, these are animals that are used to being around humans—they don’t have the same fear of humans real wild animals have, so they’re a lot more vulnerable, and when you pen them in and let the hunters set up right where the animals have to come to eat or drink—”

“I get the picture. If Lanahan was doing that—well, I can’t imagine my father getting involved with him.”

“Unless he was trying to investigate him,” the student said. “That's what I was thinking of doing—work my way into his confidence to get the real scoop.”

“Yeah, that sounds like something Dad would do,” I said with a sigh. But was it something he’d do without trying to enlist me? I’d worry about that later.

“So where are the animals, anyway?” he asked. “I was hoping to film them while I was out here, but they all seem to be gone.”

“Out at our house,” I said. “At least some of them are, and every time I turn around, someone dumps another batch off with us. If we can’t figure out something else to do with them, in a day or so we should have the whole zoo reunited.”

“Cool,” the student said. “Hey, I could go there and film them. I mean, if you and Professor Waterston don’t mind....”

“Film away,” I said. “And make it as much of a tearjerker as possible—the poor helpless animals, orphaned by the savage murder of their protector, abandoned to the mercies of anyone generous enough to volunteer to care for them.”

“Sounds much more interesting than the protest,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just use the SOBs as local color in a report on the plight of the animals. I think I’ll head over there now.”

“You’re not staying to lunch with the protesters?” I asked.

“I’m not much on tofu and bean sprouts,” he said, grimacing. “And Shea gets on my nerves after a while. A really short while. See you later.”

“Oh, one more thing,” I called after him. “Is Shea his first name or his last name.”

“First,” the film student said. “Or maybe middle. He goes by Shea Bailey. Sounds more like a fancy restaurant than a name to me. You checking up on him?”

“Why, you know any dirt on him?”

“No,” he said, handing me a card. “But if you find any...” “I’ll keep you in mind,” I said.

He returned to his car and drove off a minute later. I glanced over at Shea and the other protesters. Most of them seemed to have eaten, but now they were lying about, sipping their water and enjoying the sunshine. Perhaps they were waiting for an
other news crew, or another, more sympathetic passerby, to renew their demonstration.

“Are we going into the zoo now?” Eric asked.

“I think we should come back when they’re not here,” I said, indicating the protesters. “We don’t want them following us in and spoiling our visit, do we?”

Eric shook his head. I started the engine, managed a tight three-point turn without squashing any demonstrators, and headed home.