Midnight Magic, page 108
“Close the park? As in, literally shut down a national park. Do you have any idea what’s involved in that?”
“Alright, don’t. When a family having a picnic gets eaten, I will make sure everyone knows that you refused to do the responsible thing.”
I could sense his jaw tightening. “Alright, I will deal with this through the appropriate channels. You say nothing. Who was with you?”
“Teo.”
“Only him?”
“Yes, the others went off to get a tree off the road.”
“That’s good. We don't want panic.”
“So, what are the appropriate channels? I did a quick Google search. No zoos have reported any tigers missing, but there are underground breeders.”
“You let me worry about that. You have my word that I will get it taken care of.”
I was still wary, and my silence must have shown that.
“I don't like to bring this up, because you are a damn fine vet, but Clem, not everyone thought I should hire you.”
“Well, fuck them. I was top of my class, interned at San Diego Zoo and Denali.”
“No one is questioning your bona fides. But you have to know how the media will respond to Zebadiah Jasper’s daughter starting a scare by insisting there’s a tiger is in Salt River National Park.”
He had me. I did know. “But you will get to the bottom of this?” I pressed him.
“I absolutely will. This storm is getting serious. Are you heading straight home?”
“Well, if we might have Prion, I need a quick shower. Teo is taking me to the west observatory to get my car. I’ll drop my tools off there and then get out of here.”
“Alright. Listen, put the claw you think you found in a specimen tube, and…”
I cut him short. “I do not think I found a claw. It’s in my damn pocket.”
“Fine, fine,” he muttered. “Put it in a specimen tube and leave it in the lock drawer at the observatory. I’ll be up there tomorrow to get it.”
THE SWEETWATER BOYS IN BLUE
Teo told me to make sure to hurry and get out of the park. I thanked him for everything and dashed into the observatory, torrential rain pummeling me the while I fiddled with the wet doorknob. The observatory has a small vet’s station on the ground floor. I dropped the bundled-up tarp on the exam table. This violates every sanitary protocol. Dirty instruments, especially bacteria-exposed, pointy ones, shouldn’t ever be left lying around. I should have taken them to one of the medical facilities, rinsed them off immediately, put them in the autoclave, and then bleached the rinsing sink. But it was after dark on a Friday night, and who was going to know? It’s not like Jim was going to put in the effort of a surprise inspection.
The vet station is a sort of an office/locker room. There’s a radio for when cell phone reception is crappy, which is most of the time. There’s a cot in the corner, a small fridge where we keep sodas, a moldy jar of salsa, and some temperature-sensitive antibiotics. We say that there’s a shower, but it’s essentially a showerhead hanging in a tiled corner with a bedraggled curtain that can be pulled across it. No one is ever in there but us, so privacy isn’t a big issue, even though there is a large window.
I got a specimen tube out of the drawer. Lightning streaked across the sky, and I stood in front of the window, watching the trees dance in the storm. I pulled the claw out of my pocket and turned it over and over in my hand. A tiger claw is much bigger than even a lion’s claw. This one filled my palm. It was close to five inches long, with the distinctive fishhook curve at the tip. There are a few subspecies of tiger, but a claw of this size couldn’t belong to anything but a Siberian. I dropped it into a specimen jar but couldn’t bring myself to put it into the safe. More lightning lit up the whole sky. There was only one expert I could ask about this, and I would rather have to remove boils from the ass of every animal in the park, including Jim. I was going to have to call my dad.
Still mesmerized by the lightning, I dropped the specimen vial into my backpack. I would talk to my dad and get the claw back up here before Jim made it in tomorrow. I gave a quick burst of laughter, imagining Jim standing in this dingy little shed, in his golf clothes, picking up a tiger claw after 18 holes.
I stripped off my work clothes, which stank of bison and infection. I tossed them over my backpack. I didn’t want to stuff them in there; I would carry them out to my car and stash them in the trunk. I had zero love life but figured that a jeep that carried the stench of death in it could only be a hindrance.
I briefly considered just pulling on some clean clothes and getting out of there, but that’s not best practice. I might hate bureaucratic nonsense, but I am a damned good vet. I started the shower. It takes forever for the water to get hot. Wishing I hadn't stripped naked quite yet, I hopped around, pulling a long-sleeved T-shirt and jeans out of my locker, and hanging them on the hook on the wall.
I always liked the feeling that I was alone in the park. I am not someone who would normally wander around nude in front of a window, but I laughed at the notion that I might be giving the mule deer a show.
Although it had no water pressure and smelled like a sulfurous well, the hot water felt great. My shoulders were tense, and I rocked back and forth to let the tiny stream of water hit both sides. I was rinsing my hair when the power cut out.
“Dammit,” I muttered. Annoyingly, that wasn’t unusual. A generator powered the building, and there are 50 million things that can go wrong with a generator. Really, when you sit your boards to be a wildlife vet, there should be a mandatory section on the care and management of generators.
I gave my hair a furtive squeeze. I didn’t want to get soap in my eyes when I went outside to deal with the power issues. My laugh was bitter when I realized that it was raining hard enough to rinse my hair for me.
I slung the curtain open. Before my brain could process what was happening, I heard myself scream like the idiot girl who leaves the group in a horror movie.
There was someone in the room. Someone tall had taken a few soundless steps into the small building. I could see the lightning flashing in the open door behind him. His shape made his gender clear. He was unusually tall. Very aware that I was stark naked, I was thankful for the utter darkness that enveloped me as I inched closer to the worktable and scrabbled about within the wadded-up tarp.
He hesitated, seemingly unsure if he should just run out the open door or come at me. I was sincerely hoping that he would run away. He didn’t. Whatever he was holding, he dropped it with a soft thud.
Crossing the room in two ridiculously long strides, he grabbed my arm with stunning force. I was astonished at his speed, his power, and his honing skills. I couldn’t see a thing, but he had found me easily. “You will come with me,” he said with a heavy accent that I couldn’t place.
I was terrified, but the scalpel in my hand gave me a little more confidence. I slashed it frantically at him, and with a wild shriek, he let me go. As he bounded out of the door, I ran after him, still flailing the scalpel. This time I locked the door and wedged a chair under it. I didn’t bother to go out and fix the fuse. I pulled one of the heavy-duty flashlights off its charger, and before I even looked around, I put some clothes on.
I was shaking hard. Buttoning up my jeans took a few tries. Using the flashlight, I examined the crime scene. There was a trail of blood outside the door.
My backpack lay open on the ground, my work jeans spilling out. He had been after my stinky work clothes?
Knowing it was hopeless, I tried to use my phone. No signal. I had no way to reach anyone. And even if I did, it would take at least an hour for anyone outside of the park to get in, sirens notwithstanding. That meant an hour, and the only thing standing between me and a bleeding attacker, who had already tried to abduct me, was a chair wedged underneath a doorknob. I’ve heard that some people have a stronger “fight impulse” than others. Apparently, I am more inclined to “flight.” I was going to have to get myself out of here. Reminding myself that I had a humane killer locked in my jeep made getting to the vehicle a priority.
I put my backpack on with shaking hands. I had the scalpel in my right hand and the flashlight in my left.
I inched the door open and saw no one. I awkwardly sprinted to my car and had to sort of tuck the flashlight into my elbow so I could unlock it. My heart was pounding. I was sure that, every clumsy second, I was setting myself up to be murdered by the intruder. After making sure no one was in the backseat, I dove into the car, locked it up, and started it. I didn’t even bother to take off my backpack, just slumped awkwardly forward while I drove.
Once you get out of the deepest forest, you can get a cell signal. They added a tower a few years back because visitors complained so much. Perhaps the storm was affecting the signal, though, because I couldn’t get anything. Trees were blown until they were nearly horizontal in the fierce wind, and although I knew driving in such a storm wasn’t safe, I didn’t think I had much of a choice.
Still driving, I reached into my bag and withdrew my humane killer. It’s essentially an air-powered, long-barreled pistol, and I usually carry enough ammo to put down a grizzly. I lay it on my lap so that I could use both hands to drive. The roads were treacherous. Hail bounced off my windshield, but I only slowed down when I neared the staff gate. I rolled my window down barely enough to slither my arm out and type in my code. I rolled it back up and sped out.
The nearest town to Salt River Valley National Park is Sweetwater. It was named by relieved pioneers who were grateful that they could drink from the Sweetwater River.
I veered down the main strip of the barebones town towards the police station, nestled between the post office and the lone store where unprepared hikers could buy ridiculously overpriced supplies.
No one was out in the storm, so I parked right by the door and sprinted out of the car. I yanked the door open with such force that it slammed against the brick wall, ricocheting back at me. I had the immediate attention of the two men sitting at a small table, probably because I was still holding the gun. In my panic I still clutched it tightly.
The older, chubbier man walked towards me. “Miss? How can we help you?”
I handed him the gun. He took it and removed the bullets. The younger, leaner guy walked to the door and looked cautiously up and down the sidewalk. I caught my breath all at once. I was helped to a chair and blurted out, “A man grabbed me.”
“Did you shoot him?” they asked in unison.
I shook my head. “It’s a humane killer and it was locked in my jeep.”
This made a lot more sense to me than it did to the two officers. The cops looked at each other. “I’m Gordon,” the older guy said, moving a chair in front of me. “This is my partner Al. You are totally safe here, we promise.”
Al joined us. “I’ve locked the door. Were you attacked in town?”
I explained that I had been attacked in the park. I was trying to remember all the details and then, to my horror, I began to cry and sputtered out that I thought I had cut my assailant badly.
“With a knife?” asked Gordon.
“No, the scalpel. And it was filthy. He’s definitely going to get sepsis.” That made sense to me, but clearly baffled both of the policemen.
“Let’s slow down,” said Al.
“Are you hurt?”
I shook my head. “Only my arm.”
Gordon gently said, “May I?” and rolled up my sleeve. My entire upper arm was already turning all sorts of colors. It was going to be a terrible bruise. It's a miracle the bone wasn’t broken. Deep black in the center, the hematoma feathered out in shades of plum. Gordon gave a long low whistle.
“He did this with his hand? It looks like you got hit with a bat.”
“He just grabbed it.”
“He must have been huge,” Al said.
“I am not sure. It was pitch black.”
A thought was formulating. I should have let it finish being processed before I blurted out, “He had no trouble moving around the room. He should have walked right into the table. There wasn’t that much lightning.”
“What does lightning have to do with it?”
“It’s how I could see him,” I explained. “But there wasn’t any lightning when he grabbed me.”
So, he was familiar with the room?” Al asked.
“Or he could see in the dark,” I said.
Gordon peered closely at me. “Is it possible that you hit your head? I wonder if we should get you to the ER.”
“I did not hit my head. He wanted the tiger’s claw.” I was getting pissed.
“Is that slang for something?” Gordon asked Al.
“I am not a drug dealer, “I yelled angrily. Water was dripping from my hair and forming a puddle on the floor.
Al was quick to reassure me, “We know that Miss…”
“Jasper, Clementine Jasper.”
“So, it’s Dr., then,” said Al. “She’s a vet,” he explained to his partner.
I had no idea I had such a reputation. First Nate and now this guy seemed to know who I was.
“I had a Siberian tiger claw in my jeans’ pocket,” I said firmly.
Gordon asked, “Are they valuable?” He was looking not at me, but at Al, who was apparently an expert in such things.
Annoyed at being talked over, I answered, “On the black market, yes, but this one wasn’t for sale. I retrieved it from an abscessed bison.”
“OK,” he said slowly, as if I was a child or didn’t speak English. “An unknown assailant wearing night vision goggles made his way into the vet’s work room during a record-breaking storm and attacked you to get a claw from a…” his voice slowed down even more, “…tiger. A tiger claw that you took out of a buffalo.”
Al interjected, “Well, we can’t get up there tonight. We will go look at the crime scene tomorrow.” He stood up and reached for his jacket. “I will make sure Dr. Jasper gets safely home.”
I was seething, but before I could say anything else, he had me hustled out of the door and into my car. He gestured for me to roll the window down. “You live in Boris’s apartment, right?”
“Yes, I have the top floor. How do you know Boris?”
My landlord was a quiet, burly Russian mechanic who sometimes got sad and drunkenly sang along to slow haunting songs in Russian. Not the type to play poker with the local constabulary.
“That’s not your concern. I’ll make sure he’s watching for you. You go straight home.”
I was too tired to put this pompous asshole in his place. “I will,” I said
Al leaned into the open window.
“Listen to me, Dr. Jasper. Do not tell anyone else about the tiger claw. No one will believe you, and you will become infamous as a crank.” His voice was taut.
He had no idea just how true I knew that to be. Before I could respond, he was gone.
THE SEPARATION REVERBERATION
I haven’t lived with my dad since I was nine. Nevertheless, we have been in nearly constant contact. Since his career ended in a fireball of humiliation, he has lived in a little house on the edge of the national forest that some benefactor gave him. I think he didn’t want me to see his reduced circumstances, so he has always met me in town. When I was in college, we pored over my studies together. I’m pretty sure I would never have gotten an A in equine anatomy had it not been for his never-ending help. For all his quirks, he has been the lodestar of my life.
Although it was nearly daybreak, I hit him on the speed dial. As always, he answered me on the first ring.
“Hiya, Filly!” He chirped, using my old nickname.
“Dad, I need to talk to you.”
I had just begun the story when he interjected, “Oh, my God, are you hurt? Did you go to the police?”
“I did, but they don’t believe me.”
“What do you mean they don’t believe you?” His outrage was palpable.
As soon as I mentioned the claw that I had removed from Tatanka, his voice changed.
“Filly, we are going to talk about this in person. Do you remember Mabel’s Cafe?”
Of course, I did. I had met him there for breakfast hundreds of times. He loved that it carried Schulman’s Raspberry Cream Soda, his one true vice. The food was nothing to write home about. Long before the keto craze overtook the world, Mabel’s served steak ‘n eggs, bun less burgers piled up with chili poured over them, and a variety of smelly, weird sausages. I would eat scrambled eggs and bacon and wish that Dad would take me to a place that had waffles, but Mabel would always wave away the check. “Now you put that away, your money’s no good here,” she’d insist, poking her pen back up into the underside of her beehive. She must be one of the people who felt bad about the way my dad’s life had ended up. I figured that’s why he always took me there.
“Are you home?” he asked.
When I said that yes, I was at home, he was clearly relieved. “Thank God. No one can get to you at Boris’s place.”
Boris had been friends with my dad for at least twenty years. They seemed to have nothing in common except for their social isolation. Although the big Russian seemed very easygoing to me, he had apparently never been able to find a tenant he liked, and when I was offered the job at Salt River, he had suggested the spacious apartment to me.
Boris was a somber fellow who bordered on the nocturnal. I really hadn’t wanted to move in. I had, due to a wholly unexpected full ride to vet school, finished my degree with no student debt. My mom had always made it clear that she would pay for my college, but since I hated her husband with the fire of a thousand suns, I wanted to do everything in my power to avoid that. As a high school senior, I had been poring over loan forms and despairing of ever being able to come close to making a living when the letter from Seismic Shift Scholarships arrived. I would need to keep a B average, agree to specialize as a wildlife vet and, oddly, continue to live at home with my parents, and they would pay my tuition.
