now. Leland—his company—would be paid royalties based on production, sure. But this land would be returned to the way it was a hundred years ago. That’s what I meant when I said he cares.”
In my mind, I was weighing the enormity of such a project against the likelihood of results beyond a cosmetic cover-up.
I was dubious. Owen sensed it, so he suggested we visit an area under restoration by the phosphate megacompany Mosaic Mining. “Thing is, Leland needs to make up his mind. The adjoining tracts south of here are owned by two other parties, and Mosaic, or the other company, want the whole parcel. The industry has to move south or die.”
I asked, “Are you and the other owners competing for the same contract?”
“No, the companies want all three or none—that’s the way they’re playing it now. One section is owned by Harris’s family—not the entire acreage but the mining rights, which comes down to the same thing. The other owner . . . I probably shouldn’t say this, but he’s a lunatic. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Monty Mondurant?”
I said, “I would’ve remembered a name like that.”
“Vandar is his actual first name, but he goes by Monty. He’s from Morocco. You’ve really never heard of the guy?”
The way Owen said it gave me the impression he was eager to discredit the man. “Tell me about him,” I said.
“Monty is a walking freak show. When he lived in Beverly Hills, he was in the entertainment news a lot. Claims he’s related to the royal family, and he dated a famous singer, plus a bunch of actresses. Huge family money, but Monty can’t stay out of trouble. He had to leave California, then they ran him out of Palm Beach, too, he’s so . . . well, offensive. I’ll put it that way.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Yeah, and twice was enough. In Palm Beach, the night his mansion burned down, his neighbors were actually chanting ‘Burn, Monty, burn.’ Can you imagine?”
“You’re saying they torched the guy’s house?”
“No . . . no one would believe that. Burglars did it, supposedly. But that’s what his neighbors were chanting. There’re about a hundred videos on YouTube.” He gave an odd look. “You don’t have the Internet?”
“Friends tell me I need to get out more,” I said. “Is Mondurant’s property as big as this one?”
“No. The mining companies don’t bother with anything less than two square miles, which is twice what we have. Harris’s family has rights to about four hundred acres, and Monty—or his family,more likely—he owns a little over two hundred.” Owen pointed to a corridor of trees. “The property lines join along what used to be a creek that runs to a pond on the south edge of our property. The old Albright family ranch is there—or what’s left of it.”
“Vandar Mondurant,” I said, making a mental note. “What’s Harris’s last name?”
“Sanford, but don’t worry about him. The Albrights and the Sanfords go way back. I’ll explain more on the way to the reclamation project. I think you’ll be impressed.”
I followed Owen down the ridge, the ground beneath my feet oddly resonate. That’s what drew my attention. The sound. Indian shell mounds have a similar resonance. Finally, my eyes began to pay attention. I noticed what was beneath my feet.
• • •
MIDWAY DOWN THE HILL, I stopped and knelt. Imbedded in marl was a giant shark tooth similar to those stolen from the late Finn Tovar.
“Keep it,” Owen said, unconcerned, but then turned. “Wait . . . let me have a look. Those things are everywhere but the quality varies.”
I handed it over and, for the first time, really focused on what I had believed to be sand and rubble. Rubble took shape and revealed that the ridge was composed of bone fragments. I saw another tooth, and a round white rock that turned out to be a whale vertebra. It weighed a couple of pounds when I hefted the thing. Under my foot was a delicate jaw with
In my mind, I was weighing the enormity of such a project against the likelihood of results beyond a cosmetic cover-up.
I was dubious. Owen sensed it, so he suggested we visit an area under restoration by the phosphate megacompany Mosaic Mining. “Thing is, Leland needs to make up his mind. The adjoining tracts south of here are owned by two other parties, and Mosaic, or the other company, want the whole parcel. The industry has to move south or die.”
I asked, “Are you and the other owners competing for the same contract?”
“No, the companies want all three or none—that’s the way they’re playing it now. One section is owned by Harris’s family—not the entire acreage but the mining rights, which comes down to the same thing. The other owner . . . I probably shouldn’t say this, but he’s a lunatic. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Monty Mondurant?”
I said, “I would’ve remembered a name like that.”
“Vandar is his actual first name, but he goes by Monty. He’s from Morocco. You’ve really never heard of the guy?”
The way Owen said it gave me the impression he was eager to discredit the man. “Tell me about him,” I said.
“Monty is a walking freak show. When he lived in Beverly Hills, he was in the entertainment news a lot. Claims he’s related to the royal family, and he dated a famous singer, plus a bunch of actresses. Huge family money, but Monty can’t stay out of trouble. He had to leave California, then they ran him out of Palm Beach, too, he’s so . . . well, offensive. I’ll put it that way.”
“You’ve met him?”
“Yeah, and twice was enough. In Palm Beach, the night his mansion burned down, his neighbors were actually chanting ‘Burn, Monty, burn.’ Can you imagine?”
“You’re saying they torched the guy’s house?”
“No . . . no one would believe that. Burglars did it, supposedly. But that’s what his neighbors were chanting. There’re about a hundred videos on YouTube.” He gave an odd look. “You don’t have the Internet?”
“Friends tell me I need to get out more,” I said. “Is Mondurant’s property as big as this one?”
“No. The mining companies don’t bother with anything less than two square miles, which is twice what we have. Harris’s family has rights to about four hundred acres, and Monty—or his family,more likely—he owns a little over two hundred.” Owen pointed to a corridor of trees. “The property lines join along what used to be a creek that runs to a pond on the south edge of our property. The old Albright family ranch is there—or what’s left of it.”
“Vandar Mondurant,” I said, making a mental note. “What’s Harris’s last name?”
“Sanford, but don’t worry about him. The Albrights and the Sanfords go way back. I’ll explain more on the way to the reclamation project. I think you’ll be impressed.”
I followed Owen down the ridge, the ground beneath my feet oddly resonate. That’s what drew my attention. The sound. Indian shell mounds have a similar resonance. Finally, my eyes began to pay attention. I noticed what was beneath my feet.
• • •
MIDWAY DOWN THE HILL, I stopped and knelt. Imbedded in marl was a giant shark tooth similar to those stolen from the late Finn Tovar.
“Keep it,” Owen said, unconcerned, but then turned. “Wait . . . let me have a look. Those things are everywhere but the quality varies.”
I handed it over and, for the first time, really focused on what I had believed to be sand and rubble. Rubble took shape and revealed that the ridge was composed of bone fragments. I saw another tooth, and a round white rock that turned out to be a whale vertebra. It weighed a couple of pounds when I hefted the thing. Under my foot was a delicate jaw with
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