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“Here it is. I’ve got a few on here, you can just scroll left and right.” She passes the vet her phone, then tells me, “Pictures of those blue stickers I told you about.”
“Have you ever seen anything like them before?” I ask the vet.
“No, but I’ve heard of something similar. Markers. A few years ago, I worked on a documentary about the black-market trade in exotics. The film never made it to full production because the government stepped in and shut it down. The USDA agents told us we were spilling too much classified info on pending cases still in litigation. I saw right through it, and so did the producer.”
I fold my arms. “Why?”
“Because this kind of criminal bullcrap runs deep. They don’t want the general public to know,” Walton says, enlarging a picture, his busy brows furrowed. “Like who’s behind where the money comes from and where it ends up. When it’s a few bumbling clowns running a tiger sanctuary in the sticks, yeah, they’re happy to come down like a ton of bricks. But when the Feds or state officials are getting their cut? Nope. They’re happy to knock out their competition and take illegal kickbacks while pretending to enforce the laws.”
His tone sours as he pauses, shaking his head.
“You’re saying shady insiders are the norm with this shit? Figures,” I grind out.
“Show me a snake and I’ll find the politician keeping him fed,” Walton snaps, angry and whimsical.
I have no doubt about that.
Then the doc glances from me to Willow. “That documentary’s the reason I’m a vet in Topeka these days instead of L.A.”
The seriousness of his tone and gaze isn’t lost on me.
“I have a family,” he says. “I trust Ridge, just like I trusted his mama when she brought her Savannah cat in for checkups years ago, and that’s why I’m here.”
I nod, fully understanding his own plight more.
He hands the phone back to Willow.
“That’s a chip sticker if I’m not mistaken. The numbers on it correlate with the tag inside the animal. Every exotic is supposed to get chipped in the US of A and that tag’s proof when a chip has been deactivated.”
“What? Why would a chip ever need to be deactivated?” I ask, fearing I won’t like the answer.
“Two reasons. Theft, for one. Or to make sure no part of the animal can be identified or traced back to the owner,” Walton says coldly.
Sick.
Willow flashes me a sad look. I shift my weight, fighting back the bile in my gut, loathing the fact that I have to share a planet with people who part out tigers.
I’ve officially arrived in a dark jungle I never knew existed.
“I’m sure you’re aware a large percentage of domestic pet owners have their animals chipped mainly in case they’re stolen. Exotics must be chipped by law. The chips are the size of a grain of rice. Once inserted, they can move around inside the body sometimes and they’re goddamned impossible to remove.”
“But, Doctor—” Willow holds a finger up as the doctor’s eyes flash.
“Right. I shouldn’t say impossible,” he cuts in. “A skilled surgeon could remove one, but it would be quite time-consuming and costly if it’s shifted to a vulnerable place. An exotic animal’s carcass can still be identified by an active chip. Once Bruce is fully sedated, I know what I’ll find on his paw. A tattoo that matches the numbers and symbols on that blue sticker.”
Willow gasps. I reach out, gingerly clasping her shoulder. Call it a bad reflex, but I’m not sorry I try to comfort her.
“I’m trying to follow. What’s that mean if the tattoo’s there?” I ask slowly.
“It’s proof for whoever he was meant to be sold to that his chip is deactivated. That means they’re free to use up every last body part without any fear it’ll blow back to the authorities.”
Shit.
I look at Willow, meet her gaze, and see the unshed tears in her eyes. She’s shaking. My hand clasps her shoulder and squeezes, this time tighter.
“So you mean...those other blue stickers I saw were because the animals were sold on the black market and...and sold for parts?” Willow’s voice breaks.
Walton nods. “Deactivation devices are all over the black market, too, and that blue sticker is proof they have a good one. It won’t print a sticker unless the scanner can’t pick up the chip.”
“Holy crap.” Willow wobbles slightly and I shift closer, helping hold her up. “It’s a farm, isn’t it? The whole freaking Exotic Plains Rescue is a black-market farm.”
I take a mental note in my head since it’s the first time I’ve heard her name the place.
If I have my way, then soon the only reason it’ll be named by anyone is for history. A place that was stormed and shut the fuck down after every last animal got safely extracted.
