Wounded Earth

For Florida Book Awards Bronze Medalist
Effigies
:

“We mystery lovers who've enjoyed
Artifacts
and then decided that
Relics
was even better may not believe this, but Ms. Evans has done it again, and
Effigies
is the best one yet. Again, she makes a lesson in our past a fascinating read.”
—Tony Hillerman, recipient of the Mystery Writers of America's Grand Master Award, and the Navajo Tribe's Special Friend Award, among many other honors.

For Benjamin Franklin Award-winner
Artifacts:

“It's always fun to discover a new Florida voice, especially one who can bring to life the rich texture—the sand, the sea, the moss-draped live oaks, the seedy fishing shacks, the salted boat culture—of the state's coast…the menace and the history are resolved in a hurricane of a finale.”
—Tampa Tribune

For IMBA Bestseller
Relics:

“A fascinating look at contemporary archaeology but also a twisted story of greed and its effects.”
—Dallas Morning News

For IndieNext Notable Book Findings (starred review):

This is a series that deserves more attention than it garners.
—Library Journal

Wounded Earth

Copyright 1995 by Mary Anna Evans

eBook ISBN: 978-0-9827092-0-7

Published by Joyeuse Press

Discover other titles by Mary Anna Evans at
www.maryannaevans.com

Cover by Mary Anna Evans

Interior design by Rickhardt Capidamonte

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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A Novel by

Mary Anna Evans

Summer 1995, New Orleans, Louisiana

Babykiller
was meticulous in all things. It was his defining quality. Attention to detail was the key to longevity in his chosen profession, and Babykiller had been in business a long, long time.

Most of his competitors from the early days were dead or in prison, and he couldn't claim responsibility for all their misfortune. No, they had simply chosen a dangerous line of work. He was well on his way to outliving a second generation and he was considering retirement. At least he had been, before the oncologist's verdict. Retirement planning seemed so futile when death was certain.

Babykiller had created a life out of certainties. He left nothing to chance. He made no mistakes—at least, he made no mistakes that were obvious to the cretins who purchased his services. He had built a seamless organization that ran like a Volvo. It was reliable. It required little maintenance. It was safe. It was boring as hell. Even if his organization survived him—and he cared very little whether it did or not—it was a plain-vanilla sort of legacy for a man of his caliber.

Babykiller had more money than he could have spent in a normal lifetime. He had more than a fair share of cunning. And he had a long list of scores to settle with the world before he took his leave of it. It was time to retire and focus his considerable attentions on something more interesting. Or someone more interesting.

Babykiller had kept extensive files on his target for years, ever since he began thinking of retirement. He had videotapes and audiotapes. An accordion file labeled "BioHeal Environmental Services" held her company's annual financial reports, one for each of the twenty years she'd been in business. His clipping file bulged with articles dating to her first appearance on the cover of
New Orleans Business News
.

Larabeth McLeod had enjoyed good press from the start, for the usual reasons. She was an easy interview. Her field, environmental science, was red-hot. She was witty and down-to-earth. Her strong jawline made for good photographs. Reporters loved her.

She smiled out of the manila folder at him, wearing her success like a crisply tailored suit. He replaced the clippings in reverse chronological order and closed the file over her elegantly sculpted face. He remembered that face. He had cherished it long before the photographers fell in love. He had seen it contorted in pain, spattered in blood.

He would like very much to see it that way again.

* * *

Larabeth wouldn't ordinarily have answered the phone. That's why she had a secretary—to screen calls she was too busy to take. And she was too busy. The morning had been frittered away on tasks that should have stayed buried in the middle of her to-do list. It was only Wednesday, and it was already clear she'd have to work on Saturday if she hoped to catch up.

She checked her watch. Yes, the morning was gone. Blown to hell, in fact. If she didn't leave in ten minutes, she would be late for a televised appearance that her publicity people had spent weeks arranging. But the phone was ringing and it was her personal line. Only her biggest clients and a handful of key contacts had that number. If she missed this call, she might well regret it. Of course, if she took this call and missed her speech, she would regret that. Or if she took the call and brushed off an important client in order to leave in time, she might regret that, too. A no-win situation.

Or, she thought, perhaps it's a no-lose situation. It could be hard to tell the difference. She answered the phone on the sixth ring.

“Larabeth McLeod, your voice is as lovely on the telephone as it is on television. Or in person, as a matter of fact.” The man's voice was unfamiliar. She fumbled for the list of people who had the private number. It was short, no more than fifteen people. Eight of them were women. If she stayed cool, she could figure out who this guy was without insulting him.

“You're so kind to say that,” she said, scratching Oskar Weinbaum, Guillaume Langlois, and Manuel Ganzerla off the list of possibilities. This man had absolutely no accent.

“Not kind at all, just truthful. Your speaking voice is matter-of-fact, honest, and very feminine. You're a shrewd enough businesswoman to recognize it as an asset.”

Larabeth laughed politely, scratching the next three names off her list. Terry, James, and Guy were old friends. They didn't bother with flattery. That left one candidate: Joe Don Simpkins, a middle-aged oil mogul and a major prospective client. Joe Don's cowboy drawl was too broad to be fake. She threw the list down. Who was this guy and how did he get her number?

“I won't keep you long. You've got an important speech to make. I just wanted to tell you personally how. . . impressed I've been with your meteoric career. What other lowly Army medic could have become a hotshot biochemist so quickly? I should call you Doctor Larabeth, shouldn't I? Or maybe just Doc. And your business—why, not so many years ago you were running a one-woman shop out of your garage. Now you're on the brink of going multi-national. Congratulations, my dear.”

Larabeth was taken aback, but only momentarily. “Who is this? Are the personal details supposed to make me think you know me? Everything you've said has been in the papers a dozen times. I'm hanging up now. As you said, I have an appointment to keep.” Her hand moved to break the connection.

“Keep your wits about you, Doc,” the voice purred. ”I know you can. You're level-headed enough to kill a man who's in the process of slicing you up. I'd say you were someone to be reckoned with. Almost my equal. Almost.”

Larabeth's hand froze just short of the telephone. She had never talked about that. Not to reporters. Not to anyone. That incident was buried somewhere in her military records. Maybe somewhere inside her, too, but she hadn't checked lately.

”I would like you, Larabeth, if I liked anybody, and I do admire you. I think you understand my dilemma. It's damn unfulfilling to dream and plan and act when no one has the capacity to understand you. It's a burden being superior to those around you. You know that, don't you? Well, you may not like my plans, Larabeth, but I've chosen you to share them with me. Good-bye, Doc. Stay close to the phone.”

Larabeth hung up slowly and looked at her watch. She still had time to make it, if she stashed this disturbing incident in the back of her mind, for now. She rushed out past her assistant, Norma, who held her jacket and briefcase.

”Your VIP pass and cell phone are in the outer pocket,” Norma said, walking Larabeth to the elevator, “and I made sure you had the proper shade of lipstick to match your outfit. Bittersweet, I think. I just love having a woman boss.”

Larabeth looked down at her suit. “This color? Bittersweet? Decayed pumpkin is what I'd call it.”

“Whatever,” Norma said. “Anyway, it looks great on you.”

Larabeth grinned her thanks. "I hope I look okay for a woman on the far side of forty. Listen, Norma, I just had a scary phone call from some kind of a nut. Do me a favor and call J.D. Hatten.” She grabbed a sticky-note and scrawled a number on it. “He's a private detective and we go way back. Tell him to call me this afternoon.” The elevator doors closed between them.

* * *

Norma studied her own plump legs. She herself was also on the far side of forty and looked it, unquestionably. Larabeth might owe her brunette pageboy to L'Oreal and her resemblance to Sigourney Weaver to God, but her slender waist could only come from discipline. Norma sucked in her gut, promising herself fifty sit-ups when she got home. Or maybe after dinner. She hurried to call J.D. Hatten, wondering why Larabeth knew his number by heart.

* * *

“Well, as best as I can tell, I have once again avoided embarrassing the firm,” Larabeth announced as she strode into the office and set her briefcase down with a thunk. Norma noticed that Larabeth's hair was slightly mussed, her makeup could use freshening, and her skirt was wrinkled across the lap. She still looked great but she was, thank goodness, human.

“Did your speech go well?” Norma asked.

"It was okay, just the usual spiel. You know, ‘We've all got to work together to save this beautiful planet.’ Everybody wants to hear what they think they already know.”