To Die Fur (A Whiskey Tango Foxtrot Mystery) (26 page)

“Yeah.” I leaned against the headstone of a deceased billy goat, suddenly exhausted. “Now comes the part where we actually try to get them to agree to something.”

“We’re not there yet. Now we have to talk to Augustus.” He cocked a beady eye at me. “Once we decide what we’re going to tell him.”

“Yes. Which is?” I asked carefully. Beyond protecting the Crossroads, I wasn’t sure what Eli’s agenda was; I’d told him my concerns with Waghai Devi’s possible reaction, but he hadn’t said anything in response other than “Hmmmm.”

“The truth, Foxtrot. As plainly and clearly as you can convey it. No matter what the consequences are, this has to be Augustus’s decision. You understand?”

“Not really,” I sighed. “I mean, I’m doing my best, but all this god stuff—it’s a little hard to wrap my head around. I feel like a kid in kindergarten trying to work out a nuclear armistice. Are you sure I’m the right person for the job?”

“Nothing’s certain,” he said, which wasn’t exactly the sort of reassurance I was hoping for. “But that means anything’s possible. So we’ll do our best and see what happens.”

“That’s very laid-back. Are all talking albino crow spirits so fatalistic, or is it just you?” That was more forward than I usually was with Eli, but my fight with Ben had left me feeling a little raw.

“It’s not just me, Foxtrot. It’s how things work. Everything, everywhere.”

I suddenly realized what he was saying. “Wait. Is this … official? Because usually you don’t want to talk about these things. In fact, you usually pointedly tell me you
can’t
talk about these things.”

He raised both wings ever so slightly in what I took to be an avian shrug. “Things change. That’s kind of my point.”

Well, I had recently been promoted from graveyard sentinel to afterlife diplomat, so that was hard to argue with. “Anything’s possible, huh? People actually have Free Will, with a capital Free?”

Eli chuckled, sounding disturbingly like Waghai Devi. “Nothing’s free, Foxtrot. And that’s all I’m going to say about theoretical metaphysics today.”

“What about tomorrow?”

“Ask me then.
If
we’re both still here and there’s still a Crossroads to ask questions in.”

Augustus was still napping. I checked in with Whiskey and Tango and told them both to stay there and watch him; if anything happened, one of them should come and get me. Then I took the opportunity to go have lunch. I wasn’t looking forward to it.

I needn’t have worried. Ben stayed in the kitchen, and I asked Consuela to bring some ham sandwiches to my office. I half expected them to show up laced with broken glass, but of course they were fine. That bad taste in my mouth had more to do with regretting what I’d said than his cooking.

Except all I’d done was tell him the truth.

And what was wrong with that? I kept replaying the argument in my head, trying to figure out where it went wrong, and I realized that the whole thing was less about
what
was said than
how
it was said. And isn’t that almost always the case when couples fight?

I tried seeing it from his point of view. First, this Foxtrot woman that I kind of like dumps a whole new pile of crazy in my lap, just when I was starting to get used to the not-quite-as-new crazy. Huge pressure, massive responsibilities, no prep time, unthinkable consequences if I fail. I don’t react so well, retreat into my man-cave for a little bit, roast some meat over the fire. Start feeling better. Get hauled back, brace myself—

And then get told I’m incapable of doing the job on my own.

I groaned. I’d walked right in and upstaged him. And initially, he’d been too relieved and confounded to object. But then we’d traveled to the lion afterlife, and things had worked out fine. And by the time we’d made the trip to Tiger Paradise, he was feeling like he could actually do this. That’s why he’d been more talkative with Waghai Devi than Apedemek.

But by then it was too late. Foxtrot Lancaster, Gal Friday—
and
Saturday,
and
Sunday,
and
the rest of the week—was on the case by then. Inexperienced Thunderbirds need not apply. “Making decisions is my job,” I’d told him. I might as well have said,
Hit the road, loser. You blew your chance and I stepped up. Hey, this is what I do.

No wonder he was so pissed.

Somehow, along the way I just took over. Treated this whole thing like it was a fire that needed putting out and I was a garden hose.

“Facilitate,” I muttered to myself, my eyes closed. “That’s what I was supposed to do. Not orchestrate, not negotiate, not dictate. Facilitate, as in to help. Not screw up,
help
.”

There was a knock on my door. I opened my eyes and said, “Come in,” hoping it was Ben.

It wasn’t, though. It was Oscar, and he had a satisfied smile on his well-tanned face.

“Spare a moment of your time? I have returned from my mission behind enemy lines with sensitive and valuable information.”

I waved him at a chair. “Terrific. Regale me with tales of your exploits and derring-do.”

He took a seat and studied me for a moment. “Are you all right, Foxtrot? You seem less than your usual annoyingly chipper self.”

“Nothing a nap and a straitjacket couldn’t fix. What have you learned?”

“That some people shouldn’t drink before noon. Myself excluded, of course.”

“Of course. And who was your early-bird tippling partner?”

“Jaro Karst. He joined me at poolside for a little sun and we discussed the necessity of regular doses of quinine to stave off malaria.”

“Quinine?”

“Commonly found in tonic water. We both agreed it was best administered in a medium of gin.”

“Wise. So, did you and your fellow anti-malaria crusader talk about anything interesting?”

“Tut-tut, my dear Foxtrot. If I’m going to be your agent in the field, you must let me deliver a proper debriefing. One does not simply ask a general who won the war; you allow him to describe his campaign first.”

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms. “I’m a little confused. Are you James Bond or Colin Powell? Because the first one prefers vodka and I don’t know if General Powell even drinks.”

“Anyone who prefers vodka over gin is a barbarian. An alcohol with no flavor? You might as well be drinking water.”

“What a terrible, terrible notion.”

“Isn’t it? Now, where was I … ah, yes. I hadn’t started yet. If I may?”

I sighed. “Please do.”

“Thank you. I began with the usual pleasantries, to put him at ease. That accomplished, I moved on to form a common bond—a mutual dislike of Mother. Not genuine, of course, but easily faked.”

“Mmm.” I restrained myself from making a pointed reply.

“We commiserated for a time on the foibles of women in positions of authority. Again, I relied on my imagination to produce a credible response.”

I bit my lip, and tried to smile.

“I segued smoothly into intimating that women couldn’t hold their liquor, which produced the desired effect of increased consumption. Feeling that we had now become comrades, I expressed admiration for his profession and interest in his past exploits. Adding compliments to alcohol is like adding fertilizer to a plant; the ego bursts forth into the sunlight, sprouting boastful anecdotes like a flowering bush.”

“You should have been a gardener, Oscar.”

“Don’t be absurd. If I’m going to be on my knees in the dirt, it’s because someone’s about to shoot me in the back of the head.” He paused, looking thoughtful. “Even then, I think I’d decline. Better to be shot on your feet, wouldn’t you say? More dignified.”

“I’d prefer not to be shot at all, Mr. Bond-Powell. Please continue.”

“Yes. As I said, the anecdotes were in bloom; they were colorful, plentiful, and smelled strongly of testosterone. Most of them had to do with his experiences ‘in the bush’ as he put it, and revolved around dangerous encounters with wildlife. It was here that I sensed a certain reticence on his part, which I took to be his belief in my attitude toward animals. Playing a hunch, I confided that I was something of a huntsman.”

I frowned. “Oscar, the man’s a conservationist. He’s not going to be enthusiastic about people killing animals for sport.”

Oscar smiled. “I’m aware of that. Should he have taken offense, I was going to play it off as a joke—that I used a camera, not a gun. But as it turned out, my instincts were correct.”

“What?”

“It seems our Mr. Karst is quite the marksman. He’s killed any number of animals—it seems he’s less of a conservationist than … well, whatever the opposite of a conservationist is. Oh, he claims those days are behind him and that he’s simply a guide these days, but I took the liberty of memorizing a few names he tossed about. An online search produced some very interesting results.”

He pulled a small notepad from his breast pocket and flipped it open. “Here are the sites I visited. Note the man in the background of several of the photos, and the dates.”

I pulled up the first of the URLs on my computer. It was a link to a company called Big Shot Safaris, and featured a great many pictures of grinning people with rifles posing over dead animals: Cape buffalo, zebras, even giraffes. Who would want to shoot a giraffe?

And, more than once, the person standing next to these ghouls was Jaro Karst.

“Don’t waste time looking for his name,” said Oscar. “He’s labeled in those pictures as Helmut Shreck, which I suspect is authentic. Jaro Karst seems to be someone whose identity he either usurped or fabricated.”

“Shondra is not going to be happy about this,” I muttered.

“Nor should she be. It’s her job to prevent these types of situations, is it not?”

“In theory. But let’s keep some perspective; this was about finding a home for an orphaned animal, not screening for potential terrorists. She did catch the fact that Navarro seems to be a made-up name, though.”

Oscar shrugged. “Perhaps Navarro didn’t care if he was found out, since he was already planning on revealing his criminal nature.”

“That’s true.”

“In any case, I believe that’s all I have to report. Should you have further need of my services, I shall be downstairs researching the effectiveness of scotch for quinine poisoning.” He got to his feet, a little unsteadily.

“Careful, Oscar. I think you may have already done a little too much research.”

He smiled at me. “Perhaps you’re right. I may take a brief siesta, instead.” He turned and headed for the door, then stopped and turned back. “Oh, and Foxtrot?”

“Yes, Oscar?”

“I quite enjoyed myself. Let me know if you need me to do it again.”

“I will. And thanks.”

He tottered through the door. I stared down at my computer’s screen into the grinning face of Helmut Shreck and wondered why he was really here.

I decided I’d go ask him.

*   *   *

Maybe I shouldn’t have gone alone. But I didn’t want to pull either Whiskey or Tango off Augustus-watch, and I thought Shondra might overreact. Besides, all I wanted to do was talk to him.

I found Karst—or Shreck, I should say—in the tennis courts, doing his best to work off his gin-and-tonic lunch by practicing his forehand. He’d changed into khaki shorts, a white T-shirt, and sneakers, and seemed to be locked in a struggle to the death with the automated ball server. Every ball it launched at him he returned by smashing it as hard as he could; many went straight into the net or over the high fence. If there were any chicken spirits in the graveyard, right about now they were all screaming about the sky breaking into little yellow balls and falling on their heads.

“Hey there,” I said, walking up to the fence. “Interesting technique. Is the idea to terrorize your opponent into surrendering, or just confuse him so badly he can’t remember the score?”

He spared me a glance but didn’t stop what he was doing. “Neither. Just getting in a little exercise.” He slammed another ball hard and high, and I watched it disappear over the fence and then the hedge.

“Sure. All the exercise you get knocking them out of the park, and then all the exercise you get later when you have to go look for them.”

“Think I’ll leave that up to someone else. Not much for hunting
balls,
myself.” His tone was light, but there was an undertone of suppressed anger. The booze was eroding his ability to keep his frustration from showing.

“No, I guess not. You’re more interested in things like Cape buffalo, right?”

That got his attention. He lowered his racket and stared at me while the ball launcher fired another shot past his head. He blinked, then fumbled with the remote on his belt and turned the machine off.

“Or wildebeest. Or even giraffes, though that one still amazes me. Seriously, who would want to shoot a giraffe?”

He studied me through narrowed eyes, sweat streaming down his face, then gave me a hard grin. “You’d be surprised. Working as a guide, I’ve met people who wanted to shoot all sorts of things. But that’s their business, not mine.”

“Sure. You just take them to the animals, you don’t pull the trigger.”

“Something like that.”

“How about Helmut Shreck? Does he enjoy big-game hunting, or don’t the two of you talk?”

The grin drooped a little. “Ah. I’m not sure who you mean—”

“Uh-huh. Game’s up, Mr. Shreck. I know who you really are and what you really do.”

He didn’t reply for a moment. Then the smile came back and he shrugged. “Ah, well. Doesn’t really matter now, does it? Augustus is dead and there’s no way your boss will let me have the remains. Can’t say I didn’t give it a bloody good go, though, can you?”

“Honestly, I think you were one of the top contenders when Augustus was still alive. But ZZ isn’t going to let you stuff and mount his body just to turn a few tourist dollars.”

He chuckled. “Well, you’d be surprised how many of those dollars there are up for grabs, Foxtrot. Especially when it comes to the Japanese. True, a live liger would have been a bigger draw, but a dead one would still have generated some decent profits. Barnum and Bailey did all right by mummified mermaids and unicorn corpses, and those were all fakes.”