“Your dad there?”
“Why?”
“This is important.”
“Then tell me. And I’ll decide if it’s important enough to get my dad.”
Frank resisted the urge to smash the phone against the wall. “I need to talk to your dad. Right now.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s out.”
Herschell or Olaf rang the buzzer again.
“Well listen. This is Frank. I need to talk to him right now.”
“He’s out.”
“Yeah.” Frank punched the wall. “Listen, doesn’t he have one of them cell phones or walkie-talkie things? Said so himself that this was serious work. Said these cats were the most important element in our business. I know you can reach him. Give me the number.”
“Don’t have it. So fuck you,” and the line went dead.
Frank slammed the phone down hard enough to pull the top of the base away from the wall. Baby spiders, stung by the sudden light, crawled sleepily out from under the base, setting out for the nooks and crannies of the vet hospital.
Frank knew he didn’t have a choice. He went back up front and opened the front door. He rubbed at his eyes and yawned with exaggerated gestures. “Morning.”
“Good…” Herschell checked his watch. “… afternoon, sir.”
Olaf Halford fixed his stare on Frank. “Wondering if we could come in and take a look around.”
Frank said, “Sure,” but didn’t move. “What are you officers looking for? Maybe I can help you out.”
“Some of the neighbors have expressed concern over the use of the facilities,” Olaf said.
“Neighbors? Didn’t realize I had any,” Frank said, eyeballing the empty, dead houses down the street.
Herschell’s smile was thin and forced. “This whole town is your neighbor, sir.”
“And these concerns…concerned…?”
“The illegal captivity and holding of non-licensed animals.”
“Well, this is a vet hospital. Didn’t realize that sick animals needing my help needed licenses to be treated.”
“We’d like to take a look around,” Herschell said. The “sir” attitude was gone. “We can come back with a search warrant, if you’d like.” Herschell’s tone suggested that this would be a bad idea.
Frank knew it was useless to pretend anymore. “Of course, just curious, that’s all. The animals are back here. Mr. Sturm had ’em brought in special.” There was a distant hope that by mentioning Sturm’s name, these deputies would understand he was simply following orders, same as them.
“Mr. Sturm is subject to the same laws regarding exotic animal captivity as anyone else,” Herschell said, stepping inside. “If these are actually indeed his animals.” Olaf followed, both removing their hats with their left hands. Their right never left the butt of the sidearm.
Frank said, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand,” stalling for time.
“We’ve got these reports. From concerned citizens,” Herschell said, standing solidly in the middle of the room while Olaf wandered around, looking nowhere and everywhere at once. Herschell held his hand up and snapped his fingers, a snapping, dry crack that stabbed Frank’s brain like a dull icepick. When he had Frank’s attention, he said, “I think you know why we’re here.”
Frank shrugged. “I don’t understand the nature of the complaints.”
Herschell brushed past Frank saying, “I think you do,” and followed Olaf through the door to the back of the office. He poked his head in the bathroom, the second examining room, and the back room filled with books. But this was a quick, cursory scan, making sure Frank didn’t have any company.
Frank wondered if Herschell or Olaf had been with Annie.
“Seems like there’s been a whole hell of a lot of different animals in and out of this place in the last few weeks, not to mention the shooting in town, we want to know just what the hell is going on. We got the safety of this town to think about.”
“Yeah. So you’re looking for…?”
“Besides the monkeys out in the barn? And that thing, whatever it is, some kind of retarded elephant?” Herschell opened the door to the cats. “And of course, these little darlins.” He motioned for Frank to follow. Herschell stopped halfway down the cages, triumphant now that the game was up, fishing in the back pocket of his uniform. The cats shrank to the back of their cages, tails flicking, eyes darting.
He held up a sheaf of official looking paper, skipped through a few parts with his index finger, and read out loud, “…here…’for exotic specimen, including, but not limited to, lions, lionesses. Both of ’em. In fact, both male and female for any other species named or unnamed, from henceforth within. Tigers. Cheetas. Any other kind of big cat. One big rhino. A barn full of monkeys.’”
As Herschell read on, Frank knew the cops had been through the hospital, had seen everything. They had already taken a good long look at all of the animals. They’d been in the back room. They’d been through his stuff. And just like that, Olaf brought Frank’s shotgun up from behind him, bringing it up to that peculiarly soft stretch of skin up behind his ear, between his neck muscles and the back of the jawbone. The sharp coldness of the barrel hit his skin back there, strangely gentle, as Olaf’s voice said, “And what the living fuck are you doing with a loaded firearm?”
Frank lifted his arms and spread his fingers wide. “Easy. Easy does it. I’m no criminal.”
“Where you from, Mr. Winchester?” Herschell asked. Olaf pulled the shotgun back. But he remained behind Frank.
“I was born in East Texas. My mom and me, we lived all over the Midwest, we—”
“Where you working now, dipshit,” Olaf said.
“Ohio. Cleveland.”
“Bullshit,” Herschell said. “You seem a little on the slow side, so let me help you understand just how deep the shit is that you have just found yourself in. One,” Herschell counted on his fingers, just to help Frank comprehend. “You got fugitive written all over you. Here you are, no identification, no nothing. You ain’t from Cleveland, I’d bet my badge on that. Two. You seem to be running this vet hospital, but I’ll be damned if I see any of your degrees or certificates or any other crap like that anywhere around. Even the head rat catcher over at the Dole sugar plant has got a certificate of somesuch. What do you got? Fuck all, that’s what. But for whatever reason, you seem to be living here. And treating patients, I might add. Of course, from what I can tell, you ain’t too good at your job. Last I heard, you killed a poor housecat. And that brings us to three and these animals here.” Herschell tapped the cages with the official documents. “This is California, not some jungle village in deepest, darkest Africa.” He shook his head. “You’re in some serious trouble here and you’re just too goddamn dumb to know it.”
Frank didn’t say anything. Herschell seemed disappointed.
“Fine. Fine. Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Herschell said. “We’re gonna take you down to the station, take a pretty picture. Then we’re gonna send that picture out all over the country and I’d be willing to bet somebody, somewhere has a big time hard-on for you.”
Olaf grabbed Frank’s arms and Frank heard the distinct clicking and muted jangling of handcuffs in the small of his back. Real ones this time, not the plastic ones the quiet gentlemen used. There would be no breaking these with a screwdriver.
As if sensing the sudden tension in Frank’s arm muscles, Olaf said, “Give me any trouble and them cats’ll be licking your brains off the floor.” The handcuffs locked into place like a pit bull’s jaws.
* * * * *
They’d gotten Frank out to the cruiser and were just about to lock him in the backseat when Sturm’s pickup bounced into the parking lot in a storm of dust. Herschell and Olaf exchanged glances.
Sturm ambled up like he was being social after church, bare-chested except for the wide swath of bandages strapped around his upper torso. The milky skin on his shoulders had started to glow
red in the relentless sun. He had his black cowboy hat squarely over his bald head and the Iron Mistress swung at his hip. “Howdy boys. No trouble with my employee, I hope.”
Herschell nodded. “I’m afraid so. This man has no ID, no license to practice veterinary medicine in California, no nothing. But we got all these animals, none of ’em native to this state, supposedly under his supposed care. Then there’s the animal that got loose. Tiger, I believe. Operation of a firearm on a public street is a violation of County Code 43 and is punishable by fine of not less than three hundred dollars and not more than six hundred dollars,” Herschell recited in a flat, dull voice. “We’ll have to take him down to Redding for this,” he added and nodded at Frank. “I’d hate to think he was taking advantage of us. For the safety of the community, we’re gonna take him in, see if we can’t find out who he really is.”
“Can’t be too careful in these uncertain times,” Olaf said.
“Oh hell no. Can’t be too careful whatsoever,” Sturm said. “And these are unfuckingcertain times, that’s for goddamned sure. This man is an extremely valuable employee. I need his help. I need his help right now, today, in fact. And I’d hate to be inconvenienced in any way. You boys take him down to Redding, it might take a while to clear his name. I don’t have that kind of time.” Sturm tapped his head.
“I can appreciate that, Mr. Sturm,” Herschell said. “But the fact is, we got ourselves plenty of violations happening here. We don’t have a choice in the matter.”
“Shit.” Sturm rapped his knuckles across the hood. “This doesn’t have anything to do with that permit I forgot to file, does it?”
“It might,” Herschell said.
Sturm pulled a roll of cash bundled in a thick rubber band from his Carhart overalls. “Knew I forgot something last week. This permit we’re talking about, I’ll need it for the meeting of a gun club. How much was it again?”
Herschell eyed the roll. “Normally, we’d be talking a couple hundred. But this, this is different. These conditions, the large number of animals…I’d say we’re looking at somewhere around four hundred, at least. Plus the fine of six hundred.”
Sturm’s fingers pinched off a thick stack of twenties. “Listen, I appreciate your willingness to take care of business out here. I’d hate to drag this downtown. Let’s just take care of all them damn fines, citations, levies, taxes, and whatever else shit you want to charge right here and now.”
Herschell took the cash and Olaf popped the handcuffs open. Frank rubbed his wrists and backed slowly towards the hospital. Somebody in the town, most likely the woman from the gas station, had sicced the cops on him.
Out in the petrified mud, past the back end of the vehicles, Herschell said quietly, “You sure about this, Mr. Sturm? I been in law enforcement going on thirty years now. I don’t need a goddamn neon sign to tell me someone is bad news. And this boy is bad news, I’m telling you.”
“He’ll be fine,” Sturm said. “I trust him.”
Herschell shrugged. “Because of your…situation. So be it. That permit you just filed, that’ll cover the next few weeks. You need anything, you let us know. Take care of yourself. You got our prayers.” Herschell and Olaf solemnly climbed into the cruiser and shut the doors. Sturm waved. The cruiser slowly lumbered off across the parking lot and down the street towards the center of town.
Sturm clapped his hands together and blew past Frank. “How’re my girls?”
DAY TWENTY-ONE
Sturm had Pine plant dynamite in a ditch tunnel under the highway for a roadblock. The thing that struck Frank was that there wasn’t really a need to do much of anything to the highway. There was no traffic. There was nobody. Just the fields, a few sheep, the sun, and the men running around like ants building some kind of awful trap for a fat, unsuspecting bug.
But Sturm had a plan, and he didn’t want any unexpected visitors during the hunts. He explained how it worked. If the town was expecting you, you were given a set of instructions. Instead of just taking the highway into town, you went back up the highway a ways until you came to a gate, secured with a heavy chain and combination lock. Beyond the gate was a road that looked like the parallel tracks of a dirt railroad through deep grass. It led around a swamp thick with cattails, up a little valley, and back down to the highway into town.
Sturm didn’t want to blow up the bridge over the ditch just yet. He wanted it to be an event, a celebration. They left the trigger under a five gallon bucket in case of rain, more of a distant hope than anything, and kept the dynamite waiting.
* * * * *
That night, Jack showed up at the vet hospital to pick up Frank. “Got a meeting,” Jack said, cracking a beer as they pulled out of the parking lot. The sun was drawing closer to the western mountains, but the temperature was still 104 degrees.
They drove through town, and Frank could see that nearly every window of every building had been covered with particle board and aluminum siding. It looked like the town of Whitewood was preparing for an especially destructive hurricane. Jack explained it was for the hunts. No point in leaving the windows exposed for stray bullets.
The taxidermist wasn’t taking any chances. He’d hung thick sheets of lead over his windows and front door. Instead of a hurricane, he appeared to be preparing for nuclear war.
A line of nearly forty pickups, all stuffed with what looked like junk at first, waited in town, starting at the park. Men stood in small groups, smoking and talking. They all looked up as Jack’s pickup circled the park. Jack pulled into a U-turn, tossing his beer can out the window. He honked his horn a few times. Men got back into their pickups, and engines started up and down the line.
Frank asked, “Who are all these people?”
Jack headed south, back down the highway towards the backhoe and dynamite. “Farmers, ranchers.” He shrugged. “Folks that live—used to live around here. Mr. Sturm went around and talked to ’em. Those that were just renting, he kicked ’em off. Those that owned their land, Sturm bought it off ’em. Hell, he gave ’em more cash that these people have ever seen in their life. Everybody’s clearing out, they’re heading for greener pastures.” The pickup rattled slowly through the empty town, windows blind with wood and aluminum.
The line of pickups followed, loaded with what looked like every possession the families could carry. The trucks beds were stuffed with mattresses, washing machines, rolltop desks, oak cabinets, swing sets, televisions, children’s bicycles, couches, sewing machines, water heaters, refrigerators, satellite dishes, and plenty of cardboard boxes. Often, the children themselves rode in the back, silent and sullen, wind whipping their hair. The back ends rode low, shocks compressed to their max, shuddering after every bounce, the kids automatically rolling with the stuttering progress of the truck. It looked like something out of The Grapes of Wrath.
“Why are they all leaving at night?” Frank asked.
“So the kids don’t fry in the sun.”
Frank nodded. It made sense. “I didn’t think there were this many people in the town.”
“Yeah, it’s most everybody,” Jack said, as if he knew most, if not all, of the people in the pickups.
Jack led the procession down the highway out of town. When they came upon the backhoe, lit in front by the headlights of all the pickups, backlit by the setting sun, Frank saw Sturm’s pickup. Sturm himself was leaning against his pickup, arms crossed, black hat low, cold gray eyes watching and noting each pickup and family that passed him.
Jack pulled off the highway and stopped behind Sturm’s truck. The procession passed, picking up speed once they had seen Sturm. Sturm never moved, never even nodded, never acknowledged any of the passing vehicles.
* * * * *
Jack and Frank watched for a while, then Jack headed back into town, passing pickup after pickup until finally there was nothing but the bare highway. He roared back into the empty town. “Goddamn. Look at it.”
“So?” Frank asked. “Didn’t Sturm own damn near everything a
nyways?”
“Well, sure. But the point is, they’re gone. Say you’re shooting at something.” The pickup slid to a stop under the only stoplight in town, the one on front of the park, the same one the cops had ran Frank’s first day. “Before, ’less you’re back in the hills, you always gotta be thinking about your backdrop. Now,” Jack belched, tossed his beer can out the window. It bounced and the hollow sound echoed throughout the streets. “Now, fuck it. You can shoot…without hesitation.” He pulled his rifle out of the gun rack in the back window. “You don’t have to worry about anything,” he said, settling the rifle in his lap, barrel out of the open window. “Nobody’s there.”
Frank didn’t think that anybody in this town believed in air conditioning.
Jack cracked open two new beers and handed one to Frank. Above them, the red light changed to green. Jack aimed his rifle down a dark street.
Frank took the beer, upended the one he had been holding. He finished it, squeezed the can and crumpled it on his knee. “One sec.” He opened the door, got out, put the fresh can on the roof, and unzipped his fly, pissing beer all over the green asphalt. His piss on the street turned golden, then the color of blood. Frank knew it was just the stoplight above him, but it still made him nauseous.
Jack fired, blowing a spiderweb of cracks through the windshield of a Ford pickup parked under a eucalyptus tree fifty yards away. Frank wasn’t expecting this; he flinched and damn near choked the piss off in mid-stream. He felt like he might vomit, sick from the heat. The sound of the rifle shot faded into the bare asphalt, thirsty trees, and dark buildings and houses. There were no shouts. No telephones. No car alarms. No dogs barking. Just a quiet sense of vast emptiness.
* * * * *
Sturm waited for everyone on the front porch. He sat in a large rocking chair, toes of his cowboy boots just barely touching the planks in the floor, just enough to rock back and forth an inch or so. He rolled his head with each transition in motion, from one end of the inch to the other, emphasizing the barely perceptible rocking. He looked like a child, with the top of the chair, all carved swirls and bows, over a foot above his hat. He was bare-chested again, save for the bandages. Blisters had formed on his shoulders, the color of embers left in the BBQ. His pocketknife was out, etching complex patterns into his wooden cane. Originally, it was an unblemished perfectly straight two and a half feet rolling up into a graceful half circle handle, but was now tattooed like a Maori warrior.
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