Chapter 19
KANE
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Nolene’s eyes widen in disbelief. “Her Royal Highness asked for a TV!”
“She asked for one,” I say, stirring the penne pasta in a pot of boiling water. “I didn’t give it to her.”
“You gave her books to read.”
“I gave her a stack of AFD’s reading material,” I explain. “She’s so bored she might actually read some of it.”
“Bored!” Nolene punctuates her outrage by throwing her arms in the air. “You should’ve told her how bored lab animals are, how some of them self-mutilate in order to escape the insane monotony of their lives.”
My lips tighten. “You don’t have to remind me of their conditions.”
“It seems I do.”
We’re in the kitchen preparing Amy’s dinner. Nolene’s movements are jerky as she slams cupboard doors and savagely chops up tomatoes and cucumbers. “Why are you indulging her?”
“Why are you so hard on her?” I counter.
Her breath hisses through her teeth. “Because I want her to pay for what’s happening in her father’s lab, for what she’s choosing to ignore right under her nose.”
“We can throw any number of physical hardships Amy’s way, but if we want to reach her we have to stir her conscience. And that’ll happen when she reads what I’ve given her.”
“If she has a conscience to stir.”
“If not, at least it’ll take her mind off rearranging the furniture. Or trying to escape.”
“I suppose,” Nolene concedes grudgingly, scraping the chopped veggies into a bowl.
I move to stand close behind her. “We’re justifying a lot of little evils here because of a greater one,” I say softly into her ear. “Don’t add to the list.”
A shiver runs the length of her and she leans back against my chest. Part of me despises how I use Nolene’s attraction to me to temper her more subversive side, but I crossed the legal line ages ago so I try not to let it bother me when I occasionally overstep the moral one.
Although Nolene’s militancy makes me uncomfortable, I know it spills over from her past. Through scattered conversations, I learned Nolene grew up on an animal farm.
It should have been an idyllic lifestyle—a wilderness playground, hard work, two protective older brothers, stay-at-home parents—but when she was fifteen, Nolene discovered the reason behind her parents’ wealth—thousands of dollars for your pick of an exotic animal.
And it wasn’t, as she’d been led to believe, zoos and wildlife parks paying those prices, it was big game trophy hunters. Their animal farm was a hunting farm.
Shock kept her in bed for three days. While her mother fussed at her bedside, Nolene resolved to find out as much information as she could concerning her father’s business. Her sudden interest in a traditionally male domain delighted her father and generated much ribbing from her brothers.
Nolene told me how her inclusion into their world quickly chiseled away at her wall of ignorance.
Although the phrase canned hunting was never mentioned in the family, she soon discovered this was exactly what was practiced.
She learned to watch in mute rage as, days before a scheduled hunt, the target animal was denied food and water.
On the big day, hungry and thirsty, it was finally released from its cage, where it would head straight for a waterhole or a freshly placed carcass tied to a tree.
There a hunter waited with a high-powered rifle and a story dancing on his tongue, the tale of how he fearlessly and single-handedly shot a charging predator.
Nolene confessed to me that as the years passed all vestiges of love for her family slowly shriveled up. She could no longer tolerate or excuse her father’s choice of occupation, the enthusiastic grooming of her brothers to take over the business, and her mother’s placid acceptance of it all.
While Nolene was fairly vocal concerning her past, she remained strangely reticent concerning her father’s death.
Intrigued, I did some investigating. I found out Nolene’s father died under mysterious circumstances.
No one could explain how a man, who worked with dangerous animals all his adult life, could have entered a lion enclosure alone and unarmed.
There was no body to autopsy, only a skull and spine licked clean.
A terrible suspicion haunts me, but I can’t ask Nolene. Not when I dread hearing her answer.
#
Standing behind Nolene in the kitchen, my thumbs work the pressure points in her shoulders.
“I need a workout,” she mumbles, her chin dropping to her chest.
“Amy getting to you that much?”
“Yep.”
“Go for it,” I urge, digging deep into a knot. “I’ll finish up here and take Amy her dinner.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Thanks.”
“While you’re out, drop the recording off at Hutchinson’s house. Take the usual precautions.”
“No problem.”
“Any particular reason for that...outfit Amy has on?” I ask casually, feeling her stiffen beneath my fingers.
“She asked for a change of clothes.”
“And that’s all you could find?”
“I’m not a fashion service!”
I turn her around. She faces me defiantly. “Are we into humiliation now, Nolene?”
“I’m into whatever’s necessary.”
“And this was necessary?”
“Yes. You got a problem with it?”
“Only if it’s personal.”
In a whisper, she says, “Everything is personal with me, Kane. You, of all people, should know that.”
Her words trigger something inside me. She misreads my silence and moves closer.
“I miss you. I miss what we had.” She places a hand on my chest, appealing to our history which has no place here, but which she’s trying to map into the moment.
“Forget about her dinner and I’ll forget about my workout. ”
I take a step back. Her hand falls in the gulf that yawns between us. “You better get going,” I say evenly, watching the struggle play across her face. Humiliation is an ugly garment when you are forced to wear it.
Without another word, she swivels on her heel and leaves the kitchen with straight-backed dignity. Five minutes later, I hear the RAV start up and reverse out of the driveway, the tires squealing to compensate for all the choked-back comments.
I mix a tomato basil sauce into the pasta and wonder when I’ll marshal the courage to call it quits with Nolene, both personally and professionally.
Her ideology is becoming more and more extremist. A couple of days ago, I discovered in her possession a step-by-step arson manual.
She also makes no secret of her admiration for the tactics of hardline animal rights splinter groups, tactics that include firebombing research labs and mailing envelopes rigged with poisoned razor blades to medical researchers.
With a sense of regret, I acknowledge that after this job I’ll have to cut all ties with Nolene. It won’t be easy. Severing a limb is painful, and she’s my right hand.
After loading Amy’s pasta onto a tray, along with a small side salad, I reluctantly tug on my ski mask and knock on her door before opening it.
At the scene confronting me, I stop abruptly, almost tipping over her dinner. A swell of rage surges through me. If Nolene walked into this... A nerve jumps in my cheek. I prefer not to think how she might have reacted.
From the look on Amy’s face—a combination of satisfaction and fear—I realize I’m being tested. My chest tightens. There’s no way I can let her get away with this.
I set the tray outside the door. The forfeiting of her dinner is the least of Amy’s worries. My hands are shaking as I step into the room and shut the door behind me.