He locked up the office and at last took refuge in his car. Only when he was speeding down the Broken Arrow Expressway heading for home did he feel secure. He would plan every day from now on, prepared to confront reporters, prepared to get control and keep control of every situation.
But as for the P.I.-Smith was overreacting. He was far more worried about the reporters uncovering something, because of some slip of his own tongue. No, there was no female in the world that was a match for him. He'd plow this bitch under like he plowed under brush. She'd be just another weed in his path. . . .
But still, the conversation left a bad taste in his mouth, one that lasted through the rest of the evening.
Jennifer pulled the Brat up to the edge of the cyclone fence surrounding the construction site. She parked there, and waited until the police were gone, even though she had no intention of getting onto the property.
Yet.
There were a half dozen other cars here, full of people watching the police, avidly. They were good camouflage for her. Finally Calligan left the site office and drove off in his ridiculously expensive sedan. Then the last of the cops packed up and left, and when they drove off, so did the sensation-hungry observers, leaving her alone.
The place was deserted now, yards of yellow police line-do not cross tape all around the area of the explosion, flapping in the breeze. It looked like any other construction site she'd ever seen; yards of plowed-up and leveled dirt, heavy equipment scattered around-the river in the background, low now-heat rising in waves from the open areas.
But there was something really wrong here. Something that had nothing to do with the yellow police tape, and the spilled blood that cried out to her for justice. Something that lay deeper than that, buried under the raw earth.
She had checked on all the permits, and they were clear. Calligan had not stepped one inch outside the law. She had spoken to other contractors, and no one was willing to say anything against him.
Nevertheless, there was something wrong here, something permits did not cover.
It was more than just the plowing up of land she had last seen alive and covered with native grasses and cotton-woods-although that disturbed her on a deep level, the level that saw waste and pillage and wanted to strike out at the author of that wastage.
There were several things obviously wrong, beginning with the sort of thing anyone could see.
First was simply the area itself. She hadn't quite remembered what the site had looked like before she got here, for it had been too long since the last protest-now she was struck by the complete inappropriateness of the land for anything, much less a mall. There were no really major arteries coming anywhere near here, so traffic was going to be a bitch. But most of all, this was floodplain. Granted, the Army Corps had been doing a lot since the floods following the monster in 1984 on Memorial Day, but when it came right down to it, they were playing a game of catch-up. There was a lot more rainfall around here than there had ever been before, but that was not all. There were more recreational lakes and water-retention projects than ever before, and that meant that there would be a little more water in the local ecosystem with every passing year.
That meant more danger of flooding. The Army Corps only fixed something after the floods, not before. And if they had to order a water release further upstream, there would be nothing that would save this place from the rising waters.
I sure wouldn 't want to buy anything built here-not unless it was on a barge or came with a flotation collar.
And it was a lot closer to the eagle-nesting area than she remembered, too. True, eagles were even nesting on golf courses in Florida, but Florida golf courses supported a lively little ecosystem of their own, what with bunnies in the rough and fish in the water hazards. There was food on the golf courses; what would the eagles eat here? Big Macs?
Maybe I gave in too quickly. Maybe I should have used some of my out-of-state connections to put some pressure on the county boys. I know they had to be on the take-maybe I should have done a little legwork and found a way to prove it.
She had watched Rod Calligan handle the reporters, dive into his office, then drive away in his yuppiemobile, all without bothering to make contact. She hadn't left him alone just because he'd looked like he was in a hurry, either. There had been something really off-kilter about him, something that just plain didn't fit his public face.
It was as if he'd been wearing chrome-yellow socks and purple Nikes with that Armani suit of his, although it was something that did not show on the surface. Something that didn't match that yuppier-than-thou exterior. . . .
Abruptly, she realized what it was. Bad Medicine. It had been all over him, an aura perhaps only she could have detected.
She'd done a little checking with Karen Miles, a reporter friend of hers for Channel Three, who had interviewed him for the early news yesterday. Mr. Calligan had not made a good impression on Karen-'offensive,' 'arrogant,' and 'chauvinistic' were the kindest things that Karen had to say about him. That had been another reason to put off confronting him face-to-face; Jennifer had not felt up to dealing with a pain in the behind just yet. She might not have to meet with him at all; the job required investigating him, and it might be better if he didn't know she existed.
For a moment, she toyed with the idea that he might simply be putting her back up because his attitudes were so ingrained that they tainted everything around him. But she had to deal with offensive white males all the time; her obvious racial heritage and sex often counted against her in Oklahoma. In fact, there had been a time or two when patience and doing a damn fine job had turned a couple of those guys into allies.
No, this was all Bad Medicine, the real thing. The feeling of hate, of a grudge or even a curse. It was as if Rod Calligan had been tagged by something; something unseen, something malevolent. And it wasn't just because he had desecrated a burial ground, although that was part of it. That would bear looking into, as well. But the Bad Medicine that raised her hackles right now was something bigger, and it involved his cooperation. What was even odder, she hadn't noticed it until he'd come out of that office, as if something he had done in there had activated it.
She filed that away for future thought. And for a possible discussion with Grandfather. How could a whiter- than-white guy get involved with malevolent Medicine?
Well, she wasn't going to get any more answers standing around here-and if she lingered much longer, there might be a cop along to find out if she was just a morbid-accident groupie, a chick who was stupidly curious, or someone who might know something. The truism that criminals always returned to the scene was just that, and if she didn't want to become a suspect herself, she had better get out of here. Time to get moving with that list she got from Calligan's personnel girl. The best time to catch people was when they were home for supper.
Supper. Would there be time to get something? Well, maybe she'd better just grab an apple and some cheese from the fridge.
There was a derisive caw from above her head. She looked up.
Above her on the telephone pole was a huge raven, one with a worn beak and who listed a little to one side.
Still watching me, hmm?
She suppressed an urge to stick her tongue out at it.
Instead, she looked directly up at it and said, 'Don't you dare order a pizza while I'm gone! You know it's bad for your heart!'
The raven cawed again, this time a series of short croaks that sounded like someone laughing, and it flew off, wings pumping hard to get any kind of lift out of the hot, heavy air.
She looked around guiltily to see if there was anyone who might have heard her talking to a bird.
Yeah, and who might call the folks down at the Home to find out if they 'd had any escapees.
But there was no one in sight, and with a sigh of relief she started the truck and drove off.
Interviews. Not her favorite part of the job, although as a shaman she had a better-than-average chance at knowing when someone was lying to her. Home first, though, and grab something to hold until she could get a real meal; lunch had been an apple and some yogurt. Someone else might have called-or her father might have gotten back with some information that would help when she talked to the construction guys who quit. Every little bit of leverage was useful on a case like this one, where no one was going to want to talk to anyone else.
Sometimes it was useful to be going the opposite direction of everyone else. Rush hour around here began at
