Bare Bones Read online

  “What about bears?” I asked.

  Cousins’s chin tilted up a fraction of an inch.

  “Don’t know much about bears.”

  “The Carolinas have large populations, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is poaching a problem?” Ryan asked.

  Silken shrug. “Wouldn’t think so.”

  “Has the service ever investigated that?” I asked.

  “Beats me.”

  Lija’s boyfriend joined us and posed a question about the merits of man-to-man versus zone defense. Cousins’s attention veered to that conversation.

  So much for bear poaching.

  On the way home I solicited Ryan’s reaction to Cousins’s comments.

  “Odd that a wildlife agent in the Carolinas would know nothing about bears.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “You don’t like the guy, do you?” Ryan asked.

  “I never said I didn’t like him.”

  No reply.

  “Is it that obvious?” I asked after a few moments.

  “I’m learning to read you.”

  “It isn’t that I don’t like him,” I said defensively. What then? “It’s that I don’t like not knowing if I don’t like him.”

  Ryan opted not to touch that.

  “He makes me uneasy,” I added.

  As we arrived at the annex, Ryan made another unsettling observation.

  “Maybe your uneasiness isn’t totally off base, Mom.”

  I shot Ryan a look that was wasted in the dark.

  “You told me Boyd made his big score during that cigar store picnic.”

  “Katy was thrilled.”

  “That’s where you first met Cousins.”

  “Yes.”

  “He saw Boyd’s find.”

  “Yes.”

  “That means at least one more person was at least partially privy to the situation at the Foote farm. No pun intended.”

  Again my heart went into free fall.

  “Palmer Cousins.”

  THE EASTERN HORIZON STARTS OOZING GRAY AROUND FIVE-thirty in August in Piedmont North Carolina. By six the sun is heading uphill.

  I awoke at first ooze, watched dawn define the objects on my dresser, nightstand, chair, and walls.

  Ryan was sprawled on his stomach beside me. Birdie lay curled in the crook of my knees.

  I lasted in bed until half past six.

  Birdie blinked when I slipped from under the covers. He stood and arched as I collected my panties from the lampshade. I heard paws thump carpet as I tiptoed from the room.

  The refrigerator hummed to me while I made coffee. Outside, birds exchanged the morning’s avian gossip.

  Moving as quietly as possible, I poured and drank a glass of orange juice, then collected Boyd’s leash and went to the study.

  The chow was stretched full length on the sofa, left foreleg upright against the seat back, right extended across his head.

  Boyd the Protector.

  “Boyd,” I whispered.

  The dog went from flat on his side to four on the floor without seeming to move through any intermediary stage.

  “Here, boy.”

  No eye contact.

  “Boyd.”

  The chow rolled his eyes up at me but didn’t budge.

  “Walk?”

  Boyd held steady, a picture of skepticism.

  I dangled the leash.

  No go.

  “I’m not upset about the couch.”

  Boyd dropped his head, looked up, and did a demi-twirl with each eyebrow.

  “Really.”

  Boyd’s ears pricked forward and his head canted.

  “Come on.” I uncoiled the leash.

  Realizing it was not a trap, and that a walk was actually afoot, Boyd raced around the sofa, ran back to me and jumped up with his forepaws on my chest, dropped, spun, jumped up again, and began lapping my cheek.

  “Don’t push it,” I said, clipping the leash to his collar.

  A fine mist floated among the trees and shrubs at Sharon Hall. Though I felt reassured by the presence of a seventy-pound chow, I was still filled with a formless apprehension as we moved about the grounds, kept watching for a flash, or the flicker of light on a camera lens.

  Four squirrels and twenty minutes later, Boyd and I were back at the annex. Ryan was at the kitchen table, full mug of coffee and unopened Observer in front of him. He smiled when we entered, but I saw something in his eyes, like the shadow of a cloud passing over waves.

  Boyd trotted to the table, placed his chin on Ryan’s knee, and looked up with the expectation of bacon. Ryan patted his head.

  I poured myself coffee and joined them.

  “Hey,” I said.

  Ryan leaned forward and kissed me on the mouth.

  “Hey.” Taking both my hands, he looked into my eyes. It was not a happy look.

  “What’s happened?” I asked, fear pricking my stomach.

  “My sister called.”

  I waited.

  “My niece has been hospitalized.”

  “I’m so sorry.” I squeezed his hands. “An accident?”

  “No.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bulged. “Danielle did it on purpose.”

  I could think of nothing to say.

  “My sister is pretty fragmented. Crises are not her forte.”

  Ryan’s Adam’s apple rose and fell.

  “Motherhood is not her forte.”

  Though curious to know what had happened, I didn’t push. Ryan would tell the story in his own way.

  “Danielle’s had problems with substance abuse in the past, but she’s never done anything like this.”

  Boyd licked Ryan’s pants leg. The refrigerator hummed on.

  “Why the hell—” Shaking his head, Ryan let the question die on the air.

  “Your niece may be crying out for attention.” The words sounded clichéd as I said them. Spoken solace is not my forte.

  “That poor kid doesn’t know what attention is.”

  Boyd nudged Ryan’s knee. Ryan did not respond.

  “When is your flight?” I asked.

  Ryan blew air through his lips and slumped back in his chair.

  “I’m not going anywhere while some brain-fried psycho’s got you in his viewfinder.”

  “You have to go.” I couldn’t bear the thought of his leaving, but wouldn’t let on.

  “No way.”

  “I’m a big girl.”

  “It wouldn’t feel right.”

  “Your niece and sister need you.”

  “And you don’t?”

  “I’ve outwitted the bad guys before.”

  “You’re saying you don’t need me around?”

  “No, handsome. I don’t need you around.” I reached out and stroked his cheek. His hand rose and made a strange, faltering movement. “I want you around. But that’s my problem. Right now your family needs you.”

  Ryan’s whole body radiated tension.

  I looked at my watch. Seven thirty-five.

  God, why now? As I picked up the phone to dial US Airways, I realized how very much I wanted him to stay.

  * * *

  Ryan’s flight departed at nine-twenty. Boyd looked deeply wounded as we left him at the annex.

  From the airport, I went directly to the MCME. No fax had arrived from Cagle. Settling in my office, I looked up the number, and phoned the FWS field office in Raleigh.

  A female voice informed me that the resident agent in charge was Hershey Zamzow.

  Zamzow came on after a brief hold.

  I explained who I was.

  “No need for introductions, Doc. I know who you are. Hot down there as it is up here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The temperature at nine had been eighty-two.

  “What can I do for you this fine summer morning?”

  I told him about the Spix’s feathers, and asked if there was any local black market trade in exotic birds.

  “A huge a
mount of wildlife flows through the Southeast from the Southern Hemisphere. Snakes, lizards, birds. You name it. If a species is rare, some pissant with mush for brains will want it. Hell, the Southeast is one big poachers’ paradise.”

  “How are live animals smuggled into the country?”

  “All sorts of clever ways. They’re drugged and stuffed into poster tubes. They’re hidden inside elasticized vests.” Zamzow didn’t try to conceal his disgust. “And the mortality rate is astronomical. Think about it. You taken a flight lately that ran on time? How clever do you think these cretins are at calculating the amount of oxygen in a concealed storage space?

  “But getting back to your feathers, birds are a popular sideline for South American cocaine smugglers. Guy scores a few parrots from the village poacher, runs them up to the States with his next shipment of blow. Birds live, he turns a nice profit. Birds die, he’s out beer money for the week.”

  “What about bears?” I asked.

  “Ursus americanus. No need for smuggling. Got black bears right here in the Carolinas. Handful of young bears are trapped each year for ‘bear baiting’—that’s bear fighting for the unenlightened. Genteel entertainment for the red of neck. Used to be a market for live bears, but with zoo populations skyrocketing, that’s pretty much dried up.”

  “Are there a lot of bears in North Carolina?”

  “Not as many as there ought to be.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Habitat destruction and poaching.”

  “There’s a season when bears are hunted legally?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Varies by county, but mostly in the fall and early winter. Some South Carolina counties distinguish between hunting stationary and hunting with dogs.”

  “Tell me about the poaching.”

  “My favorite topic.” His voice sounded bitter. “Illegal killing of black bears was made a misdemeanor by the Lacy Act in 1901, a felony in 1981. But that doesn’t stop the poachers. In season, hunters take the whole bear, use the meat and fur. Out of season, poachers take the parts they want and leave the carcasses to rot.”

  “Where does most bear poaching take place?”

  “Ten, twenty years ago it was pretty much restricted to the mountains. Nowadays coastal animals are getting hit just as hard. But it’s not just a Carolina problem. There are less than half a million bears left in North America. Every year hundreds of carcasses turn up intact except for the paws and gallbladders.”

  “Gallbladders?” I couldn’t mask my shock.

  “Hell of a black market. In traditional Asian medicine, bear gall ranks right up there with rhino horn, ginseng, and deer musk. Bear bile is thought to cure fever, convulsions, swelling, eye pain, heart disease, hangover, you name it. And the meat ain’t chopped liver, either. Some Asian cultures view bear paw soup as a real delicacy. A bowl can sell for as much as fifteen hundred bucks in certain restaurants. Off the menu, of course.”

  “What are the main markets for bear galls?”

  “South Korea ranks number one, since the native supply is nonexistent. Hong Kong, China, and Japan aren’t far behind.”

  I took a moment to digest all that.

  “And bear hunting is legal in season in North Carolina?”

  “As in many states, yes. But selling animal body parts, including gallbladders, heads, hides, claws, and teeth, is illegal. Few years back, Congress considered legislation aimed at halting the trade in bear organs. Didn’t pass.”

  Before I could comment, he went on.

  “Look at Virginia. State has about four thousand bears. Officials estimate six hundred to nine hundred are killed legally every year, but have no numbers as to how many are poached. Busted a ring up there not long ago, seized about three hundred gallbladders and arrested twenty-five people.”

  “How?” I was so repulsed I could hardly form questions.

  “Hunters tipped officials to poaching in and around Shenandoah National Park. Agents ultimately infiltrated the ring, posed as middlemen, accompanied poachers on hunts, that sort of thing. I worked a similar sting up in Graham County about ten years back.”

  “Not the Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest?”

  “The very same. The trees may be lovely, but the bears are profit.”

  The line hummed as Zamzow sorted through recollections.

  “One couple up there had been in business seventeen years. Jackie Jo and Bobby Ray Jackson. What pieces of work they were. Claimed to sell three hundred galls annually to customers up and down the eastern seaboard. Claimed they got their galls from hunt clubs, farmers, and by their own hunting and trapping.”

  Zamzow was on a roll.

  “Some of these poachers are as blatant as Seventh Avenue hookers. Leave a business card at a hunting lodge saying you want to buy bear gall, they’ll phone you right back.”

  Ricky Don Dorton. Wilderness Quest. Cocaine. Bears. Exotic birds. Random particles of thought were again seeking each other’s company in my head.

  “How do these rings operate?”

  “Nothing complex. Contact is made by a poacher via word of mouth or a phone call to a buyer. The buyer meets the poacher in a parking lot, maybe at an isolated location, and the transaction is made. Poacher gets thirty-five, maybe fifty bucks for each gall, middleman gets seventy-five to a hundred. Street value skyrockets in Asia.”

  “Where do the galls leave the country?”

  “A lot traffics through Maine, since that’s one of the few states where it’s legal to sell black bear galls to Asia. But, again, it’s illegal to sell bear parts killed in North Carolina in any state. Lately Atlanta’s become a big gateway.”

  “How are the galls preserved?”

  “Poacher freezes them intact ASAP outta the bear.”

  “And then?”

  “He turns them over to his Asian contact. Since freshness determines value, most galls are dried in the destination city. But not always. Some Asian contacts do their drying in the United States so they can transport larger quantities. A gall is about the size of a human fist and weighs less than a pound. Drying shrinks it to a third that size.”

  “How is it done?”

  “Nothing high-tech. The gall is tied with monofilament line and hung over a low heat. Slow drying is important. If a gall is dried too fast, the bile is ruined.”

  “How are they smuggled out?”

  “Again, no mind-bender. Most are transported in carry-on luggage. If the galls are spotted on a security scanner, the carrier claims he’s bringing dried fruit to his mama. Some grind the galls up and put them in whiskey.”

  “Less risky than smuggling drugs,” I said.

  “And very lucrative. A single preserved gall usually brings about five thousand dollars in Korea, but prize galls have sold for as much as ten thousand. That’s U.S greenbacks we’re talking.”

  I was stunned.

  “Ever hear of CITES?” Zamzow asked.

  “Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species.” That was the second reference in as many days.

  “Bear galls have been classified under Appendix Two.”

  “There are bears in Asia. Why come all the way to North America for gall?”

  “All five Asian bear species, the sun, sloth, Asiatic black, brown, and giant panda are threatened. Only fifty thousand bears are thought to be left in the wild in Asia, from India all the way across to China and down into Southeast Asia.”

  “Because of the demand for bile.”

  “With the exception of the giant panda, bears are the only mammals that produce significant amounts of ursodeoxycholic acid, or UCDA.”

  “That’s what people are paying thousands of dollars for?”

  “That’s it.” Zamzow snorted in disdain. “At least twenty-eight different forms of packaged medicines purporting to contain bear bile are legally available in China. Singapore has banned the sale of products extracted from bears, but shops still sell bear bile pills, powder, crystals, ointments, and whole dried galls. Crap like bear bile
wine, shampoo, and soap hit the market every day. You can find them in Chinatowns across the United States.”

  Disgust tightened my stomach.

  “Can’t bears be raised domestically?”

  “China began bear farming in the eighties. It’s almost worse. Animals are crammed into tiny cages and milked through holes cut into their abdomens. Their teeth and claws may be filed down. Sometimes their paws are even chopped off. Once the animals stop producing bile, they’re killed for their galls.”

  “Can’t UCDA be produced synthetically?”

  “Yes. And many botanic alternatives exist.”

  “But people want the real thing.”

  “You’ve got it. Popular thinking is that artificial UCDA isn’t as effective as the natural form. Which is ass backwards. The amount of natural UCDA in a bear gall can vary from zero to thirty-three percent, hardly a reliable source of the drug.”

  “Long-held cultural beliefs die hard.”

  “Phrased like an anthropologist. Speaking of which, why are you interested in Spix’s macaws and black bears?”

  I sorted through the events of the past week. What to share? What to hold back?

  Tamela Banks and Darryl Tyree?

  Possibly unrelated. Confidential.

  Ricky Don Dorton and the Cessna crash?

  Ditto.

  Yesterday’s cyber threats?

  Probably irrelevant.

  I told Zamzow about the findings at the Foote farm, excluding only the part about Tamela Banks’s license. I also told him about the Lancaster County skeleton.

  For a full thirty seconds I listened to nothing.

  “Are you still there?” I asked, thinking we’d been disconnected.

  “I’m here.”

  I heard him swallow.

  “You at the ME office?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll be working awhile?”

  “Yes.” Where the hell was this going?

  “I’ll be there in three hours.”

  ZAMZOW ARRIVED JUST PAST NOON. HE WAS A HEAVYSET MAN, probably in his forties, with thick, bristly hair cropped very short. His skin was pasty, his eyes the identical ginger of his hair and freckles, giving him a pale, monochromatic appearance, like someone who’d been born and lived his whole life in a cave.