Canned Hunt: A Nick Tanner Crime Thriller

By Kerry K. Cox

U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Special Agent Nick Tanner goes undercover to follow up on another agent's investigation-one that may have led to her murder. From the stark canyons and soaring rock walls of Book Cliffs to the gritty back streets of Las Vegas; from the swift-flowing Green River rapids to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Mar 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9781685120764

Kerry K. Cox

Kerry K. Cox was born in Hollywood, California. After four years at Oregon State University, he declared himself graduated and returned to Southern California, where he taught swimming, karate, and pre-school to finance a sputtering launch to what eventually became a lifelong writing career. In the Nick Tanner environmental crime thriller series, Kerry hopes to raise awareness of the worldwide scourge of wildlife trafficking. When he's not writing, he serves as a wildlife and marine mammal rescue volunteer. He lives on California's Central Coast, along with his wife and too many cats.

Book preview

Chapter One

Lake Houston Wilderness Park, Texas

U.S. Fish and Wildlife Special Agent Nick Tanner was near the top of the tree when he stopped for a break.

He worked the daisy rope around the circumference of the big trunk, locked it off on the bridge clip, and rested in the climbing saddle to catch his breath and enjoy the view.

Why you stopping? You tired already?

He activated the switch on his headset. Why you’re having babies on a GS-9 paycheck when you could be making millions as a comedian…

Not babies, just one, Special Agent Maria Martinez’s voice crackled in the headset. And not even a bump yet.

So far. One isn’t even a warm-up for a nice Catholic girl like you.

That’s harassment. Sexual, religious, racist, and highly inappropriate white male harassment. I’m gonna sue you and the department and retire with millions.

Do that, and I’ll marry you.

"You’re too damn white, and mi padre would make you cut that ponytail," Martinez said.

Tanner leaned back and looked up, swaying in the slight breeze. I think about twenty more feet.

We saw the male a couple minutes ago. He came close, but didn’t go to the nest.

Which had become the norm, and the reason Tanner was now suspended from the branches of a towering Shumard oak. Two days earlier a female bald eagle corpse was found by a hiker near the base of this tree. The raptor had two small bullet wounds; a .22, or possibly an air rifle shooting lead pellets.

The hiker reported it to Texas Game Warden Jan Meyers. Meyers scouted the area, spotted the nest, and since she was recovering from elbow surgery, called her office for assistance. It so happened USFWS Resident Agent-in-Charge Lowell Hightower was visiting the state office when the call came in. He knew Martinez and Tanner were only a couple hours from the site, monitoring some migratory species census counts at the Anahuac National Wildlife Refuge, so he dialed up Tanner.

Warden says she’s seen Daddy circling the nest, but hasn’t seen him bring food, Hightower had said. Thinks there’s at least one eaglet up there who might be starving. You and Martinez about done?

We can be, Tanner said.

Not heartbroken about leaving the census, the two motored north in their separate vehicles. Martinez in a road-weary Dodge pick-up; Tanner in his blue Ford Expedition, towing an 18-foot Coachmen Clipper Ultra-Lite trailer. They made a quick stop for a can of sardines and a pillowcase, then gunned it up to Lake Houston.

Upon arrival, they’d been greeted by warden Meyers, along with a volunteer from a local wildlife rescue group, a grey-haired woman named Kay. There was also a local arborist named Wesley, who was apparently there to supply the climbing gear. Given Meyers’ elbow and Martinez’s brand new pregnancy, Tanner was given the honors of making the climb.

He sipped some water and looked down. Martinez waved, and said into her comm, I’ve seen Daddy do a couple fly-bys. Better get to it.

Roger that, he said.

There wasn’t much to the climbing, from a technical standpoint. Once he’d suited up in the harness and saddle, it was fairly straightforward: Toss the throw bag over a good branch, tie off, pull on the main rope, slide the Blake’s hitch up, adjust the foot loop, pull on the rope again. Go slowly, deliberately, double-check everything. And be sure you’re not tossing your throw bag over any dead branches that might give under your weight.

Simple enough. If you overlook the part about a mistake in the wrong place being almost certainly fatal.

Dangling in the saddle, Tanner said into the headset, How high you think I am?

He heard Martinez ask Wesley.

Wesley thinks about eighty feet, she said.

Looks a lot higher from up here, Tanner said.

If you’re scared, come down and get a blankie. I bet Wesley will do it, Martinez said. He seems very brave and strong.

Tanner smiled. Of the two hundred or so USFWS Special Agents in the nation, you could count the number of Latinas on one hand, and still have enough fingers left to throw a decent fastball. And count the agents of any ethnicity who were as smart and capable as Maria Martinez. He had personally seen her take down a six-foot-three gator poacher with a textbook wristlock and foot-sweep. She was eleven years Tanner’s junior at twenty-eight, a curvy yet solid five-foot-six of muscle and grit.

Tanner located a sturdy-looking branch about ten feet overhead and tossed the throw bag. He got it on the second try, the bag dropping below him. He switched that rope into a weight-bearing D-ring, locked it off, unhooked his haul line, and used both hands to pull himself up another three feet. He slid the Blake’s hitch up to tighten the knot, moved his foot loop up about twelve inches, and hauled again. Slow and steady.

* * *

The eaglet was five, maybe six weeks old, alone in its nest nearly a hundred feet off the ground. As Tanner’s head rose into view the baby squealed with excitement and hunger. It sounded like a dentist’s drill grinding metal.

Oh, man, Tanner said. That’s loud.

I hear screaming, Martinez said, her voice crackling in the earpiece. That’s not you, is it?

There’s just one, Tanner said.

Daddy’s overhead.

What?

Daddy’s circling.

Tanner looked up at the huge bird overhead. "Now you’re gonna be paternal?"

With a seven-foot wingspan and razor talons capable of a grip ten times more powerful than a man’s, a pissed-off bald eagle was not something Tanner wanted to mess with. Not while hanging like a drunken spider over a hundred-foot drop.

The eaglet was about the size of a crow. It perched eight feet away on the far edge of the circular nest, screeching like a cheerleader in a slasher film. Overhead, there was an answering screeee from Daddy. Tanner dug into his jacket pocket for the can of sardines, struggled with gloved hands to pry it open, then dumped the contents into the nest, well within arm’s reach.

Here you go. Catch of the day, delivered fresh to your door.

While he waited for the bird’s hunger to overcome its natural caution, Tanner pulled a folded pillowcase from his other pocket, all while shooting occasional glances skyward. Daddy was still up there yelling. Nothing more—so far.

After several minutes and false starts, the eaglet finally hopped over to the sardines. It stopped squalling long enough to snatch one, and swallow. It was like flicking a switch. The bird’s hunger took over, any hint of caution surrendered to frenzied gobbling.

Tanner let it feed a few moments. Then, inches at a time, he moved his hand along the edge of the nest, until it was positioned behind the bird. He waited until the eaglet dropped its head for another sardine, and in one smooth movement snatched its legs and slipped it headfirst into the pillowcase.

Got him, Tanner said into his mic. He knotted the pillowcase and rested it on his lap. Inside the darkness, the eaglet went instantly quiet.

Okay, I’m starting down. He took a moment to remind himself of the process; basically, the reverse of how he’d ascended. He squeezed the Blake’s hitch and began to lower himself when Martinez’s voice blasted in his ear.

Nick! Here comes Daddy!

* * *

The eagle’s first pass was a solid shot to Tanner’s helmet and a raking laceration along the exposed back of his neck as he ducked his head.

Ahh, shit!

You okay? Martinez said.

He rang my bell a little, Tanner said. And I’m cut.

Is it bad?

You really do care.

I don’t want you to get all panicky and hurt that baby.

I won’t hurt him. Goddammit, here he comes again.

Tanner timed a squeeze on the Blake’s hitch and dropped a fast ten feet as the big bird sailed harmlessly overhead.

Nice move, Martinez said. Is the baby okay?

Baby’s fine.

Tanner was in a more thickly branched part of the tree, so the eagle was forced to circle, waiting for an opening.

After tying off on another branch, Tanner waited until the bird was on the far side of the tree and high overhead, then resumed a fast descent.

Daddy’s coming again, Martinez said. Tanner could swear she was laughing.

Shit! The bird hit him again, this time grabbing a hunk of jacket. Talons nearly two inches long curled into the fabric. As the eagle tried to lift away its powerful wings whacked him in the face—once, twice, a third time—and he heard the jacket rip.

Okay, enough, he said. He reached across and punched the bird just under a wing, knocking it clear and sending it momentarily sideways, before it recovered and shot skyward.

Did you just sock that poor bird in the belly? Martinez asked.

A textbook example of reasonable force, Tanner said. As your former training agent, I hope you’re taking careful notes.

He lowered himself another twenty feet. Besides, Daddy barely feeds this little guy, now all of the sudden he’s going for Father of the Year? He deserved a little smackdown.

Wait, I’ve got PETA on the other line.

Tanner was still twelve feet from the ground when a flat gunshot crack sent him crashing down. He landed hard on his back, unmoving.

Martinez ran to him. Nick, Nick, you okay?

He couldn’t answer. He gasped and struggled for air, mouth working like a fish on a rock.

Last branch he tied off on gave out, Wesley said, looking up. Damn lucky he wasn’t very high.

Tanner rolled sideways and looked at the tree trimmer. He couldn’t get enough air to work up a reply. Which was probably a good thing.

Martinez said, Damn it, Nick. You better not have hurt that baby.

* * *

Unlike Tanner, the eaglet survived the fall intact. Martinez turned it over to the rescue volunteer, then went to her truck for a first-aid kit.

She found a compress for Tanner to hold on his bloodied neck. He stretched to his full six-foot height, rotated his hips to check for pain, and said to her, You seemed a lot more concerned about that bird than me.

We all were.

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the screen. It’s Hightower. He touched the Answer icon. Lowell.

He listened for a moment, then responded. We’re done. One eaglet rescued, five or six weeks old, relinquished hungry but in good health to a local rescue. A pause. No, I did the climbing. Turns out Martinez is deathly afraid of heights.

She socked him on the arm. Oww! he said. She’s also given to outbursts of random violence.

That’s good, coming from you, Martinez said.

Tanner listened a moment, then said, She just said the same thing. You two should be an act. More listening.

Uh huh. Okay, both of us? Tanner looked at Martinez.

Martinez mouthed, Where?

Tanner spoke into his phone. I don’t know, she says she was hoping to go back and count ducks. He winced, catching another punch on his shoulder. Yes, I agree it’s important work. I’m not disparaging it in any way. Let me ask. He turned back to her. Want to go bust a butterfly poacher in Vegas?

Martinez showed him her middle finger.

Tanner spoke into the phone. She’s good to go. We’ll head out today, but it’ll take us a couple driving days to get there. He listened, then said, I’ve got Ray, I’ll drive. He looked at Martinez. You want to fly out ahead of me?

Martinez nodded like a Dodgers bobblehead.

Yeah, she’ll do that, Tanner said. We’ll hang out around Houston tonight. She can catch a flight in the morning, and I’ll hit the road early. Shoot me the file.

He hung up, stuck the phone in his pocket, and pressed the compress to his neck. That big boy really nailed me.

Let’s get some Betadine on it, Martinez said.

Chapter Two

Book Cliffs, Utah

Utah Fish and Game Warden Danni Burnette steered her department issue ATV up a rocky outcropping—a redundancy in this part of the Book Cliffs, it was all rocks—and topped a ridge overlooking Tusher Canyon. Had this been a hundred million years earlier, she’d have enjoyed a sweeping view of the Western Interior Seaway. Half a mile deep, six hundred miles wide, and over two thousand miles long, its surging waters neatly bifurcated the landmass that would eventually be called North America.

Today, the view was a lot different. As she’d once told her mother, Describing the Book Cliffs as dry and rugged is like calling the ocean kinda wet.

A thousand feet below, a patchwork of narrow dirt roads and sketchy foot trails weaved through the scrub oak, saltbush, shadscale, and other gritty vegetation that somehow flourished amid sand and stone. Straight ahead, and looming several thousand feet above her, was the highest plateau in sight, a thick, flattened capstone perched atop layer upon layer of sedimentary tiers rising over seven thousand feet from the canyon.

She twisted open her canteen and took a swig of water. Overhead, a few wisps of clouds tried vainly to coalesce into something meaningful. Average rainfall this time of year was half an inch per month. Same for the rest of the year, more or less.

As desolate as much of it looked, the Cliffs teemed with life. Mule deer, Rocky Mountain elk, antelope, mountain lions, bobcats, and black bears shared its four-hundred and fifty-thousand-acre expanse, from high-altitude aspen forests to barren desert washes. Golden eagles soared, wild horses roamed, and at the highest elevations, Rocky Mountain bighorn sheep traversed the faces of impossibly sheer cliffs.

Or, if you happened to be where Danni was at that moment, you’d see an impressive squadron of soaring turkey vultures.

More than two dozen of them, circling, diving. Death’s Happy Dance, she liked to call it.

Corporeal remnants of death didn’t last long in Book Cliffs. Die out here and your carcass quickly became Special of the Day. No time squandered, no part wasted. Turkey vultures and coyotes materialized to devour the organs and flesh. Crows picked the leftovers. Beetles and maggots polished the bones.

Something big down there, Danni said out loud. She glassed the area, spotted a handful of vultures already on the ground. A few clustered around a body’s head and extremities, fighting over the only exposed flesh. Others worked on the mid-section, excavating through clothing to get at the belly.

Shit, she said and keyed her radio.

* * *

The vultures were persistent.

They barely flinched when Danni rode up on her ATV. She waved her arms and they scattered and hopped around a bit, but remained reluctant to give up such a sumptuous meal. Danni shouted, threw a few stones, and finally fired a couple rounds into the air. That sent them skyward, where they joined the others, gliding, circling, waiting.

Danni stayed a prudent distance from the body, under the assumption the county Sheriff would be sending a detective and a tech to work the scene. The body was female—easy enough to tell from the shape, plus the longish hair the buzzards had pulled loose from a braid. Fully clothed, although a few buttons had been worked loose on the blouse. The jeans were belted and fastened, and fit tight around husky legs. Timberland hiking boots. The exposed skin of the face was where the scavengers had done their best work. Much of the facial tissue had been stripped to the bone, and they’d gone into the mouth for the tongue.

There were no vehicle tracks that Danni could see. The only other trail in was at least half a mile of rocks and sage, more of a tunnel than a trail, really, with sheer canyon walls rising thousands of feet on each side. That trail was an offshoot from Tusher Canyon Road, itself a pocked, dusty backbreaker that connected the highway to the canyon.

Had this woman come down the same way Danni had? Or taken the trail? Either one was a long way from the more established hiking and ATV routes. But, plenty of people wandered off-trail in the Cliffs. They’d go too far into the stony maze, eventually becoming bewildered and aimless. A few each year succumbed to dehydration, hunger, or a fall. Could be something like that.

Foul play? Danni could see no signs of a struggle or disturbance.

A half-hour later, Danni waited on her ATV, having motored to where the foot trail met Tusher Canyon Road. The sun had nearly tucked behind the western canyon wall when two Emery County Sheriff SUVs slewed to a stop in front of her. Both were filthy, their colors masked by a layer of adhesive grit.

The lead vehicle stopped ten yards short of Danni. The other pulled closer, and the driver stuck his head out the window.

Hey Danni, Stu said. Stu Finkel, the county’s only crime scene tech, flashed his trademark smile. He was, to Danni’s eye, a doughy and decidedly unattractive man, but there was no denying the smile. The kind that made you smile in return, whether you felt like it or not.

Hey Stu, she said. She looked at the other vehicle. That Vernon?

Yeah, Stu said with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm. He climbed out of the SUV, went around the back, and popped the hatch.

Danni didn’t like Vernon Rice. Which put her in good company. As far as she was concerned, Sheriff Rice was a lumbering six-and-a-half-foot package of good ol’ boy misogyny, augmented by a mean streak he masked poorly with phony jocularity.

Well, as I live and breathe heavily, if it ain’t my favorite forest ranger, he said as he unfolded from his vehicle. He’d been in Utah for nearly twenty years, but his West Virginia upbringing still stubbornly twanged his vowels. Makes this long, dusty drive worthwhile.

Danni forced a smile. Didn’t know you’d be coming out personally, Vernon. You got Al coming?

Ain’t like dead bodies happen every day way out here, seems I oughta show up when we get one, Vernon said, not answering the question. Let’s us go have a look-see.

He turned to Stu, who was loading up his site processing gear. Me and the warden are gonna stroll on over to have a look at our DB. You hustle along, we’re burnin’ daylight.

Chapter Three

Houston, Texas

Gee, I wonder why you picked this place, Martinez said. A blackboard tent sign next to the steakhouse entrance said, Karaoke Night! in bright yellow chalk.

Because in Houston, you gotta have a steak, Tanner said.

Uh huh. They walked in, asked for a table for two. While they waited, Martinez said, I’m not singing, so don’t ask.

Sure you are.

No, I’m not.

It’ll be fun, Tanner said. We’ll pick a good song, we’ll rock this joint.

You’ve said that before. At no point have we rocked any joint.

We just haven’t found the right song yet.

Drinks arrived soon after they were seated. A soft drink for Martinez, Lone Star for Tanner. After scanning the menu, Martinez asked the waiter if they had veggie burgers. This is Houston, not Austin, the waiter said with a smile. But the salads are very good.

Martinez ordered a salad. Tanner ordered two steaks. One medium rare, and one raw.

Raw? the waiter asked.

Yeah. Uncooked, Tanner said.

Sir, I can’t do that.

It’s okay, I’ll pay full price.

It’s not legal, sir. I can’t sell you a raw steak. The waiter looked around, probably wondering where the hidden camera was.

All right, never mind, Tanner said. Just make the second steak really, really rare.

Very rare.

Right. Pull its horns, wipe its ass, run it through the kitchen.

The waiter laughed. Okay, two steaks, one medium rare, one very rare.

Perfect.

Martinez shook her head as the waiter left. You are such a pain. Doesn’t Ray mostly eat cat food?

Bobcats want meat. Granted, they don’t go around eating cows, but I couldn’t find bunnies on the menu.

The drinks arrived, and Tanner motioned to her soft drink. Being good, I see. How’s the family handling the news? I mean… He trailed off.

It was my decision, she said.

Sure, absolutely, Tanner said, because what else could he say?

The food arrived, and they dug in. Neither had eaten since they’d left for the eaglet rescue that morning, so for a while food took priority over conversation.

Feeling better with half a steak and a baked potato devoured, Tanner asked, You planning to do the whole baptism thing?

Martinez nodded. Of course.

Church every Sunday, catechism classes, confession, wine and wafer, the whole nine yards?

The whole nine yards.

Huh.

She looked at him. What’s that supposed to mean?

What?

You said, ‘huh.’ Like you disapprove.

Hey, it’s your kid. He forked in a bite of steak. I guess you have to start the brainwashing early for it to take, right?

She shook her head. Knock it off, Nick.

Seriously, he said. You’ve got to hard-wire in that guilt and shame while they’re young.

It’s not about that, and you know it.

So, what’s it about?

It’s about right and wrong. Doing the right thing, treating people the right way, being thankful for what you’ve got. C’mon, stop trying to push my button here.

No, no. That’s all good stuff, but you don’t need religion for it. I know plenty of people who are good people, but don’t follow any religion. Don’t even believe in God, but believe in doing the right thing.

She set down her fork. Look, it’s a cultural thing, okay? My parents, all my relatives, even… She held up a hand. No, don’t ask. I’m not telling you yet.

What’s with the big secret?

Never mind. She took a sip of soda. "Look, it’s something I have to do. Even if I didn’t want to, which I do, I’d have to."

You’re aware that Catholicism was literally inflicted on your people, right?

Over five centuries ago, Nick. Got nothing to do with today. It’s part of our culture now. It’s who we are.

Which is what I was saying. You’re all brainwashed.

Ah, go screw yourself, Nick.

He looked up at the informal stage at one end of the restaurant. Better idea. Looks like the karaoke is about to start.

Screw yourself twice, Nick. I’m not singing.

"Cuando caliente el sol, aquí en la playa, Nick warbled, smiling at her, arms spread. Siento tu cuerpo vibrar, cerca de mí…"

"Dios mio, Martinez said. I wish I could drink."

* * *

Having been through this before, Martinez knew that Tanner wasn’t going to easily give up on a karaoke duet. Fortunately, his phone lit up.

It’s Hightower, he said and picked up.

As he listened, Martinez watched his expression darken. The mischievous, teasing big brother glint left his eyes, replaced by something she recognized, something she’d seen a few times before, but couldn’t name.

Once, working a case in Montana, she’d helped local rangers live-trap a wolf for relocation. As they loaded the canine onto the transport vehicle, she and the wolf made eye contact. The beast held her gaze, its amber eyes unblinking, atavistic, remorseless. A chill ran through her, stirring something deep. Not fear; not as simple as that. It was primordial.

Right then, Tanner’s eyes looked like that.

He hung up the phone. His side of the conversation had mostly been grunts and monosyllabic questions.

What was that? she asked.

You’re handling the butterfly poacher on your own. Hightower already emailed you the details.

Where are you going?

Book Cliffs, Utah.

That’s BLM land, isn’t it?

Mostly. But one of ours was there on a case.

This time, the chill down her back was not only recognizable; it was familiar. "Was?" she said.

Shannon McBride.

Martinez covered her mouth. Shannon? Is she…

She’s dead. She was shot.

Oh my god. Is there a suspect? Do they have anyone?

No. She was found in some remote canyon. Nothing around.

What was she doing? What was she working on?

Hightower says some illegal outfitting, some Lacey Act stuff, shipping hides and trophy heads over state lines.

Martinez looked stunned. Who kills someone for that?

Hightower’s sending me her reports.

Call Lowell back. Tell him I’m coming with you.

Tanner shook his head. No. Handle the poacher case. Stay in touch, let me know if you need a hand. I’ll do the same. He bent to his phone, fingers flying. He brought the phone to his ear.

What are you doing? Martinez asked.

Booking a hunt.

Chapter Four

Lobo, Utah

The eggs were overcooked, the waffles slightly blackened, but Howard Nash wasn’t going to say a word. He shot a warning look at Howard Jr., who they all called Butchie. The boy took the hint.

After all, how often did the girls pull themselves out of the rack before ten on Saturday mornings, much less fire up a full-on breakfast of eggs, waffles, bacon, English muffins, even fruit cups? Short answer: pretty much never.

Dig in, Howard told Butchie. He raised his volume. You know what they say about breakfast. From the kitchen, the girls chimed in with his wife Ruth, harmonizing nicely, Breakfast is the most important meal of the day-y-y.

Butchie scowled the way only a twelve-year-old boy saddled with two older sisters can, and stuck a fork into the pile of scrambled eggs on his plate. He took a bite, then dramatically washed it down with convulsive gulps of milk.

Ruth took a seat and nibbled on some cantaloupe. This is really a nice treat, thank you, girls, she said. Sandi, the oldest at twenty-two, carried in a plate and sat next to her brother.

Thanks, mom, Sandi said. Eggs got a little overdone I think.

"Taste fine to