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Extra resources for Anna Pigeon 08 Deep South
As she and Taco walked across the apron of well-worn grass to the asphalt road, a small utility vehicle, a sort of glorified golf cart with the forest-green stripe of the National Park Service on its side, puttered around the bend. "Frank, meet your new boss," Ian McIntire hollered, and trotted down the gentle incline to wave the machine and its pilot over. Normalcy had returned, The Civil War re-enactors were again at case. Anna didn't know if they'd quickly acclimatized to the appalling phenomenon of a female district ranger or, and this grated on her overtaxed nerves, decided a lady cop was bound to be sufficiently inept that whatever bad struck them dumb at the mention of her avocation was considered safe once again.
A foul surface to try and pull an overloaded trailer off of-or out of, as the case might be. Using the door, she pulled herself upright. Slipping and grabbing in a parody of a vintage Jerry Lewis routine, she made it around the Rambler's hood and onto the asphalt. By the glare of the headlights she saw she was covered from the elbows down in caramel-colored liquid. Taco padded up next to her, grinning in idiotic doggle bliss. "We're not in the desert anymore, Taco," she said, paraphrasing Dorothy's observation as she wrenched open the passenger door to fumble under the seat for a towel and a flashlight.
In this fertile bit of the world, vegetation was one of the sturdiest and most easily regenerated of the natural resources. There were two possible occupants of the parked car: Randy Tbigpen or Bartholomew Dinkin, Anna's two field rangers. The men with Nvborn she would spend her days, whom she would rely on for assistance and, in a pinch, trust with her life. Thigpen had already made a successful attempt to lead her astray with bogus directions. Neither Tbigpen nor Dinkin had garnered rave reviews from Frank, the Rocky Springs maintenance man, and both had failed to respond to their radios when dispatch needed an alligator wrangler.