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Frank headed back to his cart. Anna turned the other way, choosing the short side of the loop for the walk back to her quarters. " Every park Anna bad worked in had the same radio call number system. One hundred was the superintendent. Rangers were in the five hundreds. The numbers went by position, not personality. But after spending a surreal hour in the nineteenth century, she'd felt the need to check lest Mississippi did things differently from the rest of the world. Fifteen minutes' digging through cartons freed up her uniform if not her bat.
Not just old and cluttered, but dirty, as if maintenance had gone on strike. Or given up. The rangers' desks were elbow deep in flotsam: coffee cups, evidence, candy wrappers, phone messages. Two bulletin boards were completely covered with notes and notices, some yellowed and curling with age. Anna pinched up the corner of a notification of an electrical shutdown at the Mount Locust Historical Site. It was seven years old. "We were going to get around to organizing those boards," Bartholomew told her as he set her coffee down on Thigpen's desk.
Mine? Oh, I don't know " "Aw, come on, help a Yankee girl out," she cajoled. She could see the gears grinding behind his high, unlined brow. "The best way's you find a dead chicken. They like chicken. " "You do that? " Thigpen nodded. "Now, that I'd like to see," Anna said honestly. Adding a few banalities lest he realize she'd been leading him down the garden path, she took her leave. Time would tell whether or not Randy Thigpen was going to be a supervisor's nightmare. He clearly wasn't a dream come true.