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  What People are Saying About Mary Anna Evans' Fiction

  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

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  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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  Wounded Earth

  A Novel by

  Mary Anna Evans

  Chapter 1

  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 yea
rs 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.”

  “It's usually safest to give people what they want,” Norma said, handing her a sheaf of pink message slips.

  “It's good for business,” Larabeth said, “but it does get old.” She rifled through the pink slips and sighed.

  The afternoon was half-gone when Larabeth reached the last message. She'd averted a half-dozen crises and initiated yet another round of telephone tag with the other callers. She patted herself on the back. It could have been worse.

  As she read the final slip, her self-congratulatory mood faded. Norma, ordinarily so cautious with her message-taking, had neither taken down the name of the caller nor recorded his number. The message said:

  Enjoyed your speech, Doc. It was informative, even if you did water down your topic for the comfort of the masses. By the way, you look great in orange. Stay close to the phone.

  Norma had added a note saying:

  (Larabeth—This man insisted that I take his message verbatim. He wouldn't leave his name, but he said he was a friend of yours. I thought he might be J.D. Hatten, since we're still waiting for his return call.)

  Larabeth read the note again. Enjoyed your speech, Doc. The crank caller had called her "Doc". An air conditioner breeze blew cold on her cheek. After a moment, the slip of paper fell from her fingers. She checked her fingernails with the practiced eye of a former medic and found the blue tinge of mild shock. She closed her eyes. It was important to think rationally.

  How could he know what color she was wearing? For that matter, how could he know that her message had been "watered down"? Her speech wouldn't be broadcast for hours. He could only know these things if he'd been there. She willed herself not to tremble. So what if someone drove out to Audubon Park and took his place under an oak tree? So what if that someone stood there and listened to her admittedly insipid speech? Hundreds of others had done the same thing.

  This was different. Larabeth's hand began trembling again. She couldn't stop her hand from shaking, but she could still use it to take action. She activated the intercom.

  “Norma, have we heard from J.D.?”

  “Not unless he was the one who left that weird message.”

  “No. In fact, he'll want to ask you about that. I'm certain it was the same nut. I refuse to panic for no reason, but I'll feel better when I get J.D.'s opinion. Would you hold my calls for the afternoon?”

  “You bet.”

  Larabeth switched off the intercom and sat quietly for a moment. She didn't know what to do and it was an odd feeling. She always knew what to do. If she were ever forced to describe herself in a single word, “competent” would be the word. If she were allowed a few more words for self-description, “businesslike”, “practical”, and “diligent” would come immediately to mind.

  She couldn't remember having time to waste. Not when there was a business to be built and nurtured. And not, before that, when there were classes to take, and research to do, and a doctorate to pursue. And certainly, before that, there had been no time to waste in Vietnam, when men might die for want of the medications in her hands.

  This feeling came upon her rarely, this paralyzed confusion. It struck her once a year, maybe twice, and she just sat at her desk and looked at her telephone, her computer, her to-do list. She was utterly incapable of deciding which task was the most urgent, so she swept her desk clean and did what she always did when life blindsided her one time too many.

  She took a sheet of personal stationery and began—actually, began again—a letter she had spent most of her life trying to write.

  More than twenty-five years had passed since she began framing the words in her mind. Larabeth was at ease speaking on television, to political figures, to the rich, to the influential. She had written dozens of articles for academic and popular presses. But she was left inarticulate by the thought of introducing herself to the daughter she had never seen.

  * * *

  Four sheets of stationery lay crumpled in Larabeth's wastebasket. There was still no graceful way to say, You don't know me, but I'm your mother. She had thought it would be easier, that someday she would have the maturity and perspective to finally introduce herself to the girl. No, she corrected herself, to introduce herself to Cynthia. She had a name, even if it wasn't the one Larabeth would have chosen for her.

  She put her pen away and retrieved a pair of jeans from her desk drawer. There was no more sure cure for a hard day than a long drive in a classic Mustang with the top down.

  She slung her jacket over one shoulder and bolted for the elevator, closing her mind to the piles of work on her desk. Norma was gone for the day and the hall was empty except for a slight, fiftyish maintenance man limping behind a garbage bin. Larabeth, well-bred Southerner that she was, smiled and nodd
ed as she passed him. He acknowledged her smile without quite catching her eye and continued his deliberate progress down the hall.

  * * *

  The man paused as Larabeth disappeared behind the elevator doors. He reached into his bin and gently drew out a length of discarded strapping tape. It wasn't a showy weapon but, wrapped properly and quickly around a neck, it would suffice. He had made do with less.

  Killing Larabeth on the spot would have been pleasurable, and it would have been easy. But it wasn't part of the plan, at least not now. Babykiller had patience and he had brains, and those two things alone had been enough to earn him a fortune and to keep him alive. He let the tape drop into the bin.

  He reached in his pocket and withdrew a pair of sheer rubber gloves and a key. He let himself into the door stenciled with the words: BioHeal—Fifteen Years of Service to Industry, Government, and the Earth. It had been a long time since he did his own legwork but, for Larabeth—well, nothing was too good for Larabeth.

  He perused the documents on Norma's desk, then moved into Larabeth's office. He ignored her computer. There was nothing there he couldn't access from the comfort of his own home. No, he was checking for hard-copy information, and Larabeth's wastebasket held the jackpot. He skimmed four crumpled pieces of stationery as he dumped the remaining trash into his bin.

  A daughter. Not only did he know Larabeth had a daughter, now he had her name and address. He threw the letters into his rolling bin and began rifling through Larabeth's files. As soon as he got to his car, he would call Gerald and have him tail the daughter, peer into her shadowy closets, chase her into a trap she couldn't even see. Then he would see whether Larabeth was made of sand or stone.