Yeti Unleashed Page 8

  “Mines were being found and then lost again long before the Gold Rush started. In 1827, horse trader Thomas Smith took a short cut and became lost west of Yuma, Arizona. He climbed a small hill and found its top covered with pebbles colored a dull bronze. Smith put a few handfuls of the strange pebbles into his saddlebags and forgets about the hill where he had found them. Years later in Yerba Buena, the future San Francisco, Smith hauled out the rocks amid the frenzy of northern California’s Gold Rush. The strange rocks assayed two thousand dollars to the ton--nearly solid gold. Smith had lost a leg in the intervening years, picking up the name Peg Leg. Try as he might to find his way back to that fabulous strike, the Lost Peg Leg Smith Mine took its place in western legend. Smith died of drink in San Francisco in 1866.”

  “Fascinating stories,” Yarak said, bending over the desk for a closer look at the map.

  “That’s it in a nutshell, Nash. We can start the initial planning over the weekend.”

  Chapter 8

  The sheriff’s office of Elko County, Nevada, was located, not surprisingly, in the small town of Elko, population of fifteen thousand people. Sheriff Buck Calder had his office inside the Elko County Law Enforcement Center that also housed the county jail. The brick-and-plaster building with its ribbed-metal roof was located where Highway 535 made an abrupt ninety-degree turn to the southeast before crossing the Humboldt River and heading out of town.

  Founded as a railroad-promoted town site and railhead for the White Pine mines in 1869, Elko served for generations and now reigned as the provincial capital of an enormous cattle ranching empire--embracing parts of four states. Lowell Thomas once described Elko as “the last real cow town in the American West,” and, until recently, that was still a good thumbnail description. But sophisticated new mining technologies permitted the harvesting of microscopic particles of the precious metal from mountains of rock and dirt hauled two hundred tons at a time to the crusher.

  Half a dozen large mining operations now produced millions of ounces of gold a year in the region, and even though mining was now on the wane, their impact transformed the old cow town into a prosperous young city.

  In 1870, town site lot prices had multiplied three and four times, the population had risen to two thousand, and the place began to assume its character as the leading settlement of Nevada’s great northeastern cattle country.

  By 1873, Elko was in such a soaring and optimistic municipal mood, largely on account of the success of the mining discoveries in the districts to the north and south, that it bid for, and won, the state university. The university opened with seven students in 1874, and closed ten years later with fifteen, to be moved unceremoniously to Reno. As a freighting center, Elko fell into decline after the mining towns it served and population fell to less than a thousand souls.

  Despite the steady growth and importance of the livestock business in the high-desert valleys around Elko, the town’s affairs did not brighten considerably until after 1900. In those early years of the new century, not only did the Western Pacific Railroad reach Elko, but mining revived. The price of beef and wool prices quadrupled. In 1911, Elko’s population pushed three thousand. Prosperity continued until the devastating one-two failure of a large banking chain and the national depression, which followed. Caught in the machinery activated to sort out the bank failure and bled by the decline in livestock prices, many of the ranches around Elko were foreclosed. In the years after the beef and wool economies fell into chaos, gambling was legalized by the state legislature. Elko, like towns everywhere in Nevada, had a new industry. Like the fabled phoenix rising from ashes, the town reinvented itself.

  This morning the sun was high in the sky and the temperature was climbing, predicted to hit 105 by noon. Calder was in the jail anteroom, helping Undersheriff Andy Hardin book a vagrant whose identity was unknown. Calder filed the necessary paperwork while Hardin fingerprinted the man. The man was drunk, had no identification on his person, and kept singing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and doing it off key. He wouldn’t or couldn’t answer questions like who are you and what are you doing in Elko? so they had no choice but let him sober up in jail while they ran his prints. When Hardin took the man to his cell, Calder sauntered to the administrative wing of the building and his office.

  He was a burly man with a tanned complexion, a striking resemblance to a stereotyped image of a small-town Nevada sheriff. His khaki shirtsleeves were rolled up to just above his elbows and his badge reflected brightly over his left breast pocket. Calder liked being a sheriff, had won the election six years earlier, and had a popular following, thereby managing to get re-elected every two years. His favorite clothing apparel was a straw cowboy hat and he wore it consistently when out of the office. His nose was crooked, the result of too many altercations while attending Elko’s high school.

  He dropped into his chair, picked up the phone, and dialed home. When Helen picked up he gave her a kiss.

  “Hello, gorgeous,” he said after smacking the receiver. “How’s my girl this morning?”

  He listened as his wife gave him the particulars.

  “Well you can tell those boys I’ll fix the bike when I get home. I should be home for lunch at the usual time. Andy and I just booked a vagrant.”

  “A vagrant? You know who he is?”

  “No, don’t know who he is. Caught him wandering around down by the river, drunk as a skunk.”

  Andy Hardin sauntered into the office and took a chair opposite Calder.

  “Okay, honey, I’ll see you in a bit,” he said and hung up the phone.

  “Got him bedded down, Buck. I think he passed out as soon as he lay down on the bunk.”

  Both men laughed. Hardin fixed two cups of coffee and handed one to the sheriff.

  “Did you manage to get his fingerprint scan sent off to IAFIS?” Calder asked.

  Hardin nodded. “Roger, Buck. We should know something here in a few minutes. Usually within half an hour.”

  “Well, I’m going home for lunch. Helen’s cooking some chops. Don’t ask me why but ever since she started watching that cooking show I’ve been eating like a king.”

  “You know I’m envious,” Hardin said, chuckling over his coffee.

  “You need to find you a squaw, Andy. An old Paiute like yourself could stand a better diet. And do your laundry more than once every couple of weeks.”

  Calder sprang to his feet and dove out the door in time to dodge the empty Styrofoam cup Hardin threw at him.

  ***

  Harry was at home when his brother Max called to say that their father had died earlier in the day. Harry slumped in a chair and swallowed hard.

  “How did it happen, Max?” Harry said.

  Max was in New York. Their parents lived in Chicago.

  “Heart attack, I guess,” Max said. “When I talked to Mom--”

  “You talked to Mom?”

  “Yes. She called me. She said she was going to call you but I told her I would do it.”

  “How is she doing?” Harry said.

  “Pretty well, I guess. It was a shock. Her neighbor, Mrs. Peabody, is with her. I chatted with her for a few minutes. A few friends are bringing in some food, later.” Max’s voice sounded clipped, curt.

  “He had a heart attack, you say, Max?”

  “I guess so. But you know Dad. He was a heavy drinker for years. For all I know his liver could have given out. He’s at the funeral home now. Mom wants him cremated.”

  Serves the bastard right, Harry thought, then immediately felt guilty.

  “There going to be a funeral or something?” he said.

  “The urn will go into the ground this Friday. There’s to be a small service at the gravesite, just family and a few friends. Can you make it?”

  “Sure. Dixie and I will be there, of course. You holding up, Max?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’ve already booked a flight into O’Hare for tomorrow. We can stay at the house so don’t worry about that.”

 
“I’ll call Mom as soon as I hang up. See you when I get there, brother.”

  After hanging up, Harry called his mother and the two talked for a long time. In a way, he thought, she sounds almost relieved. The man had been an alcoholic and was verbally abusive to her, a fact that caused Harry to contemplate the man’s demise many times over. But his mom seemed content to put up with the bastard, so Harry just left home and never returned except for holidays. This would be the first trip home since he and Dixie were married. Mom had never met his wife.

  ***

  It was a raw, blustery afternoon and the mourners, seated under a dark green canopy, were shielded from the bitter north wind by a copse of hickory trees. Earlier, a late spring arctic storm pushed into the Great Lakes region, sending temperatures plummeting. Rising out of the same wilderness as Chicago itself, Oak Woods Cemetery was located at the apex of a triangle formed by the train tracks and South Chicago Avenue to the southwest of Jackson Park. One of a few cemeteries to be organized and operated by virtue of a special legislative act, its charter guaranteed a permanent resting place for all those who would find peace for evermore among its wooded, lake-studded acres.

  Harry and Dixie sat on the front row of a line of folding chairs between Harry’s mother and Max. They had arrived the day before and spent the evening at the family home, reliving old memories. Harry’s mother was infatuated with Dixie and chatted a long while, marveling that she had a doctorate like Harry.

  There were a few other people, whom Harry didn’t know, except for Mrs. Peabody who had come by the house the night before with several dishes of food. When the service was concluded, Dixie escorted her mother-in-law to the car, leaving Harry and Max alone next to the grave.

  “I can’t say I’m sad, Max. I hope the man got his just reward for all the misery he caused. He made Mom miserable. And me, as well.”

  “He wasn’t all that bad, Harry. I remember--”

  “No, Max, he treated you differently than he treated me. I was the kid who would never amount to anything. I remember him saying that time and time again. To you, he was a different father. To me he was just an asshole. Sorry.”

  “Don’t let Mom hear you say those things. It’ll hurt her.”

  “Maybe it’s time to let the cat out of the bag, brother. So we can all deal with it. Might do Mom some good.”

  “Please, Harry, I beg you. Maybe another time. Just not now, all right?”

  They strolled back to the car. Harry thought Max had aged considerably since their last visit, and it surprised him. Maybe all that Wall Street stress was taking a toll.

  “All right, Max. We’ll play it your way. We’ll have a quiet family dinner tonight and tomorrow Dixie and I will return to Frisco. Now, let’s get out of this wind.

  Later that evening and alone in their bedroom, Dixie quizzed Harry about his meeting with Pauling.

  “I told him everything at the facility ran according to Federal standards,” Harry said. “It was the truth, our inspection didn’t reveal any problems. He seemed relieved.”

  “I imagine he did,” Dixie said, lounging in the bed. “It’s beautiful up there, honey. I envy Miles. I just don’t want you to upset yourself where your brother is concerned. I worry about you.”

  “Max and I have never seen things the same, Dixie, never. He went his way and I went mine. We live in two different worlds, but I’m the lucky one--I have you.”

  When Dixie smiled, her eyes sparkled. “Your Mother is the important one, honey. Don’t antagonize her by causing grief with your brother. Let it rest. Now, come to bed.”

  ***

  The morning started cloudy with fog rolling in over the bay area from the Pacific but, as the morning progressed, the sky cleared and blue peeked through large holes in the clouds. Harry liked watching the weather change from his office window as it afforded him a rest break now and then from his work.

  Walking in from the parking lot earlier, he noticed the group of animal rights protesters were still parading with their signs. Some chanted, others sang. One lone man on the street corner shouted, arms raised, as if preaching a Sunday sermon.

  “FAAR demands justice!

  Justice for animals!

  End the cruelty!”

  FAAR--Federation Against Animal Research, Harry surmised. Can’t these people get more creative with their names? Did they expect the scientific community to just stop with animal research? Did they not realize the many scientific and medical advances given the world came by using experimental animals?

  He spent his morning going over the progress of the graduate students in the department. Their respective major professors filed a report on them, and he scanned them with varying degrees of interest. It appeared that he was going to have to counsel one of them for near-failing marks in two of his classes, a task he never relished. Then there was the ever-present request from Dr. Wickingham for a lab of his own. Nothing Harry said reverberated with the man. He needed to sit the new faculty member down and read him the facts of life--publish first.

  All of a sudden, his secretary rushed into the office, sporting a terrified look, while the three lines on his phone began blinking at once. He could hear them ringing in the outer room. Dixie followed the secretary into the office, a stunned look etched on her face.

  “Good grief,” Harry said. “What’s going on here? Emily, what’s the matter?”

  “President Pauling is on line one and he is in a panic. Something terrible has happened.”

  As he picked up the phone, Harry caught a glimpse of Dixie plopping into a chair, tears streaming down her face. Good grief, he thought, has someone died? He usually didn’t get a phone call from the university president.

  “Yes, sir?” Harry said into the phone.

  “Harry,” Pauling shouted in a near-panicked voice on the other end. “There’s been a catastrophe. At the Primate Research Facility. You need to get up there as fast as possible.”

  “Please try and calm yourself, sir. What exactly has happened?”

  “How the hell should I know, Olson?” Pauling demanded becoming irate. “Just get up there quick. The report is that someone’s been killed, and something terrible has happened with the Yeti. Get going, son.”

  Harry’s heart pounded in his throat, his head throbbed. He tried to look past the president’s tone, which sounded out of control. Harry had never heard the man speak like this. “Sir, please. With whom did you speak up there? What did they say happened?”

  “One of the graduate assistants, I believe. A woman, I think.”

  “And what did she tell you?”

  “I don’t remember, exactly,” Pauling said, sounding at the end of his rope. “Something bad has happened to the Yeti and a person is dead. That’s all I can remember right now. Jessums, Harry, please!”

  “All right, sir, Dixie and I will head up there right away. Maybe I can charter a helicopter to take us right to the facility. Please don’t say anything to the press until I have had a chance to find out what has happened. We’ll pack a quick bag, and if someone in your office can find us a flight of some kind it would save some time.”

  “Will do, Harry. And call me as soon as you get up there. Understand?”

  The president now sounded calmer, more in control. Harry didn’t know if he could count on the man’s silence where the press was concerned but he hoped so. Harry hung up, and Dixie rushed to his side.

  “It’s a disaster, honey,” she said.

  “What do you know about it?”

  “Wickingham tracked me down. He was in Administration and he overheard the commotion. Someone has been killed at the facility, and something has happened with the Yeti.”

  “Yeah, what?” Harry said, impatient with the vague reports.

  “I don’t know. Wickingham didn’t know or say. He was his usual arrogant self.”

  “I guess we should run by the house and get a few things and, hopefully, by then Pauling will have found us a flight or charter. Too bad our home is suc
h a ways down the peninsula.”

  He stood, crammed papers into a soft briefcase, and led Dixie down to their car parked in the faculty lot. He screeched out onto the freeway and sped south, weaving through traffic, honking his horn at the slower cars in front of him. As he neared the airport, the traffic got a lot heavier. Harry lost his patience and began honking at everyone he passed.

  “Slow down, Harry,” Dixie said, “don’t go and get us killed because you’re in a hurry.”

  When he shot past a double trailer semi rig, he let off the accelerator. “You’re right. It’s just that I can’t figure what could have gone wrong up there. Someone dead? It’s unbelievable.”

  As Harry zoomed past San Francisco International Airport, the traffic thinned, and he was able to drive faster. He kept looking in his rearview mirror, expecting at any moment to see flashing red lights gaining on him. As he closed in on San Mateo, his cell phone rang.

  “Dr. Olson, this is Jason Buchwald, President Pauling’s administrative assistant.”

  “Yes, Jason. What’s up?”

  “Doctor, there is an air national guard helicopter waiting for you at the air guard hanger at International. They will fly you direct to the research facility. Their hanger is at the southern end of the airport. Understand?”

  “Yes, Jason, thank you. My wife and I will be there within the hour so can you relay that information? They will have two passengers.”

  “Will do, Dr. Olson. And good luck.”

  ***

  Harry threw several pairs of pants, shirts, shaving gear, a handheld GPS receiver, and boonie hat into a bag. Dixie did likewise and, within thirty minutes, they were back on the road, speeding toward the airport. Dixie had hurriedly made sandwiches so the couple ate on the way, sipping bottled water between bites. The sun was high overhead so Harry hoped they would be at the compound well before dark.