Death, Taxes, and Cheap Sunglasses (A Tara Holloway Novel Book 8) (34 page)

He started the engine again and headed straight across the middle of the field to another gate on the far side. An oryx stood right in front of the gate, munching on grass.

Peele gave a quick tap on the horn.
Honk.

The oryx lifted its head, but continued chewing the grass, which hung out of both sides of his mouth.
Sheesh.
Between the high fences, the tall hunting vehicle, and the prey that was used to humans, this place was like preschool for hunters.

“Shoo!” hollered our guide, waving his arm. “Get out of the way!”

The oryx merely put his horned head back to the ground for another helping of grass.

Peele shoved the gear into park, jumped down from the truck, and stomped over to the oryx, slapping it on the ass with a resounding
whap!
I half expected him to pull a Jennifer Lawrence and holler, “Screw PETA!”

“Norman’s a little kinky, huh?” Eddie said under his breath as the oryx bounded away.

I had trouble finding anything funny in the situation. Even with the Vicodin dulling my pain, that slap on the ass hit too close to home.

Back on the truck now, Peele retrieved a second remote from a plastic bin at his feet, opened the gate, and drove through. He pushed the button again to close the gate behind us.

“Everybody keep on the lookout,” he said now, scanning the area. “We don’t want that savage lion sneaking up on us.”

He drove around the perimeter of the enclosure, which appeared to be about ten acres in size. When we didn’t spot the lion he circumnavigated the space again, this time in a tighter loop.

On our third go-round, my father spotted the lion. “Is that him at that trough over yonder?”

Sure enough, the lion was drinking from a large metal horse trough. Hardly what anyone could call savage. He looked no different than a housecat drinking from its water bowl, just on a larger scale.

“That’s him,” Peele said, stopping the truck. “Good eye, Gary.”

Good eye, nothing. The lion was out in the wide open.

I put my field glasses to my eyes.
Is this big cat the same lion I’d seen at Paradise Park?
There was no way to tell for certain, though he appeared to be the same size.

As we watched, the lion turned, spotted us, and began walking our way.

“Get your gun ready, Gary,” Peele said. “That cat may charge us.”

My dad raised his rifle. “I hope he does. I want to look that son of a bitch in the eye when I kill ’im.”

A shiver ran down my fractured spine. My father was playing a role here, but he was playing it far better than I’d expected. Hell, he’d sounded downright bloodthirsty. A moment later, though, I saw him cast a cutting look at Peele when the man bent down to retrieve his binoculars. Obviously, the anger in my father’s words, though directed at the lion, had been truly meant for our guide.

As we all watched, the lion walked toward us at an even pace. He didn’t crouch to ambush us and he didn’t run as if to attack. He was simply strolling over to see what was up, probably hoping we had a fresh leg of lamb to toss to him. It was no different than when my cats followed me into the kitchen, hoping for a treat.

The lion was fifty feet away when he sniffed the air, seemed to realize we had no fresh meat with us, and abandoned his plan to come check us out, distracted by a monarch butterfly fluttering past him. He leaped after the bug like a kitten going after a fly. He pounced, but missed. As long as he was down on the ground, he figured it was a good time to roll around in the grass and sunshine. He rolled over onto his back, his big paws in the air, and wriggled happily.

“How the Sam Hill am I supposed to shoot that thing?” my dad snapped, turning away from his scope to put his eyes on Peele. “It would be like killing Garfield.”

“You know, Gary,” the guide said in a placating tone, “even lions in the wild take some time to nap and play like this.”

My father huffed. “I doubt they do it when they’ve got a rifle aimed at ’em.” Dad put his gun down. “Sheez Louise. I don’t need a gun to take down that cat. All I need is a lasagna.”

The lion wriggled some more and swatted at another bug.

“Where’d you get this lion, anyway?” I asked Peele. “A zoo?”

Before the man could come up with a lie, the lion opened his mouth for a yawn. Sure enough, his lower left fang was missing. This lion was Simba, no doubt about it.

“Look.” Peele’s face grew red with rage. “What’s it matter where this lion came from? A lion’s a lion. You wanted your trophy.” He motioned to the cat lying on his back, licking its paw. “There he is. If you choose not to shoot him, that’s your own business. But I’m not going to give you a refund if you choose not to take a shot. I’ve kept up my end of the bargain.”

Push had come to shove.

“What do you say, Teddy?” I asked my partner. “Ready to do this thing?”

Eddie lifted his chin in agreement.

I pulled my badge out of my purse and displayed it to Norman Peele. Eddie pulled his from his pocket and did the same.

The guide drew back in confusion. “What the—”

“I’m Special Agent Tara Holloway with the IRS,” I said, adding an “ow” when a fresh jolt of pain raced up my spine.

“Senior Special Agent Eddie Bardin,” Eddie said, tipping his beer hat.

I pointed to Simba. “That cat came from Paradise Park, which purports to be a nonprofit animal rescue charity. Obviously, that is not the case.”

Norman sputtered. “You don’t know that.”

“He’s missing the same tooth as a cat we saw just days ago at Paradise Park.” I pulled out my phone and brought up the picture I’d taken on my screen. “See?”

“Could be coincidence,” Norman spat.

“Could be you’re a lying sack of scat,” I spat back. “And as long as we are on that subject, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can be held against you in a court of law. You—”

“What?” he cried, shaking his head as if the motion could somehow clear it of the words he’d just heard. “You’re going to arrest me?”

Eddie pulled out his cuffs. “Looks that way.”

“For what?”

“Aiding and abetting tax evasion,” I said. “Unless you can take me to your office right this minute and show me that you paid for that cat with a credit card or check or in some traceable manner other than cash, it seems pretty clear you were helping the Kuykendahl cousins cover their tracks. Their so-called sanctuary is nothing more than a way station for animals headed to one or another of these canned hunting places.”

Peele stared at me a moment, put his thumb to his mouth, and chewed it. “What if I was to help you? You know, turn state’s witness and testify against those two.”

I lifted a shoulder, noncommittal. “You have evidence that could help us?”

“I sure do! Those boys breed the deer and oryx. Hell, they provide stock for half the game ranches in Texas. The big cats and bears and stuff is just a side thing for them.”

“How do you know this?”

“Heard it from their own mouths.”

“You paid them cash for the animals?” I asked.

He nodded. “That’s all they’ll take. They claim it’s because it would be difficult to repossess the animals if a check bounces.”

That would probably be true. Still, it didn’t negate the fact that they were running a livestock operation, not a rescue operation.

“But they also told me they wanted cash so that they could hide it from the government,” he added. He probably didn’t realize it yet, but that little tidbit further implicated him in their scheme, made him a knowing participant in tax evasion. “They even laughed when they told me. They said they’d been doing this for years and nobody had caught up with them.”

Well, somebody had certainly caught up with them now. And her name was Sara Galloway. Oops, I mean Tara Holloway.

“How many animals have you bought from them, all told?” I asked.

He looked up in thought. “Six or seven bears. Couple of tigers. A panther. Probably a hundred or more each of the barasingha deer and the scimitar-horned oryx.”

“You don’t breed those yourself?”

“No,” he replied. “People see babies running around, they lose interest in the hunt. It’s bad for business.”

My father and I exchanged glances now. I could tell he was as disgusted with Peele as I was.

“Look,” I told the man. “I appreciate the information, and your continued cooperation will only be to your benefit. A plea deal might be possible. It’ll be up to our lawyers and yours to work it out. But I’ve still got to take you in and we still have to seize the animals as evidence.”

Though I was sure about the former, I wasn’t so sure about the latter. Nonetheless, if I could save Simba in any way, I would. He looked so cute over there, napping in the sun.

chapter thirty-three

S
wamped

An hour later, via a series of conference calls and private conversations, Norman Peele had contacted a criminal defense attorney who worked out a deal with Ross O’Donnell under which Peele would turn himself in voluntarily. Ross had advised that bail would likely be set at a small amount given that Peele wasn’t the primary target in the case and had only incidentally aided and abetted the Kuykendahls in their charity fraud and tax evasion scheme. The attorneys also agreed to a moratorium on hunting at the ranch until a judge could more fully consider the legal issues.

When we were done at Southern Safari, we met up with two federal marshals on the side of the road leading to Paradise Park.

“Wait here,” I told my father. “We’ll be back as soon as we get the kooky cousins rounded up.”

Disappointment flickered over my father’s face. “You mean to tell me that I drove all the way out here to help you, and you’re not even going to let me watch this bust?”

“Southern Safari was risky enough,” I said. “Norman Peele had no idea who we were, so we had the advantage of surprise. The Kuykendahl cousins will know exactly why we’re here, and they’ll be none too happy about it.” Especially since I’d let them think we’d reached an understanding earlier. “They both carry guns and hunting knives. It’s too dangerous.”

Dad snorted. “Too dangerous for
me
but not too dangerous for
you
?”

Ugh.
My father could be so stubborn sometimes. It was clear which parent I’d gotten that trait from. “I’ve got a Kevlar vest and I’m a trained federal agent.”

“And I taught you how to shoot a BB gun when you were three years old. You think you’d be where you are today if I hadn’t taught you how to handle a weapon?”

It was true. If I hadn’t grown up around guns I’d probably have never considered becoming a special agent.

“All right,” I said finally, giving in. “But you have to sit between me and Eddie. And if you get hurt, you’re the one who’s going to answer to Mom.”

“Your mother?” Dad said. “Now
that’s
scary.”

We left my father’s truck on the side of the road, climbed into the marshals’ cruiser, and proceeded into Paradise Park, our guns at the ready in case these crazies decided to go down in a blaze of glory. Or, in the Kuykendahls’ case, a blaze of crazy.

Today, Kevin’s pickup sat in front of the trailer, though the Hummer was nowhere to be seen. Was Kevin here and Quent out on the property? Were both men out on the property together? Had both men gone somewhere else? There was no telling for certain.

“That truck belongs to Kevin,” I told the marshals. “Quent drives a green Hummer.”

The marshal in the front passenger seat cast a glance back at me. “That might mean they’re separated right now. That could be a good thing. Might be easier to take ’em down one at a time.”

True. One of them would probably think twice before taking on four federal agents. But if they were only outnumbered two to one, these crazy-eyed rednecks might be foolish enough to give it a go.

“They communicate by walkie-talkies,” I said. “If we nab Kevin here, we better assume he’s let Quent know we’re on the property. We’ll have to watch our backs.”

Rather than take an unnecessary risk, the marshal who was driving circled the cruiser around to face the exit so we could make a fast getaway if necessary. He also parked the car far enough from the trailer that it would take a good shot to hit any of us. Of course if Kevin went for a shotgun rather than a rifle, he could spray us all in short order.

The marshal reached out to the dash and retrieved the microphone for the cruiser’s public address system. He squeezed the talk button. “Kevin and Quent Kuykendahl,” he said, his voice traveling and echoing across the space like an announcer at a football game. “We are federal agents here to take you in for questioning about your sanctuary. If you are in the trailer, leave all weapons inside and step outside with your hands in the air.”

He released the talk button and we all waited in anticipation, our eyes locked on the door.

When twenty seconds had passed with no movement, the marshal repeated the order.

Again we stared at the door.

Again, nothing.

The marshal returned the mic to the dash. “We’ll have to move in.”

He drove the car a few yards farther from the trailer and situated it sideways across the dirt road to block the exit. Of course if Quent and Kevin came barreling up in the Hummer they could just knock the cruiser out of the way. Those Hummers were like military tanks.

“Stay here,” I instructed my dad as we agents climbed out of the car. “Keep your head down.”

Dad did as he was told. Well, mostly. I turned back to see him peeking out the window.

“We’ll go that way,” the driver said, pointing left. “You two go the other way.”

Eddie and I darted into the brush on our right. Using the small stands of trees for cover, we ran from one to the next, closing in on the trailer.

One of the marshals ran up to the front door of the trailer, hunkered beside it, and reached for the knob, throwing the door open. When no gunfire erupted through the door, he ran inside, his partner coming in for backup.

Eddie and I circled around the back of the trailer. Though there were four dusty windows along the back, they were all closed. Nobody was climbing out of them to attempt an escape. We continued on around the other side, finding the marshals emerging from the trailer when we reached the front.