by D J Mcintosh
“It’s Valentine’s Day. I have a prior engagement.”
Her lips now flirted with a pout. “Oh. It’s just. Claire Talbot told me you weren’t dating anyone at the moment.”
I cursed Claire under my breath. “There’s much about my life I don’t share with Claire.” I walked over to the closet in the vestibule. Her coat was still damp. “I’m afraid I’ve run out of time. I hope you’ve warmed up by now.” I saw out the window that the rain hadn’t let up. “You’re welcome to borrow an umbrella.”
She rose reluctantly, stepped into her shoes. I helped her on with her coat. She took the umbrella and, putting on a suitably humble expression, made another plea.
“Please at least consider it. Times are difficult for writers, you know. I haven’t had any real work in months and Strauss promised a generous fee. Are you sure you can’t help me out?”
“I’m sorry,” I said with a stony-faced shake of my head.
She had one more pitch in her repertoire. Her face lit up as if she’d just thought of the idea. “How about I arrange for you to meet Strauss?”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“Aren’t you even the least bit curious?”
“No. And now I’ll thank you for your time.” Her shoulders slumped. I handed her the briefcase, held the door open politely, and watched her walk down the corridor.
Once she’d gone, I poured myself another healthy measure of brandy, put on Coldplay, sank back in the armchair, and stared at nothing. Life had been good throughout the last year except in one important respect. The physical and emotional punishment I’d endured on my last visit to Iraq had left me weakened. I suffered from sleep paralysis and the episodes had grown longer and more frequent. I’d wake up and find myself unable to move a muscle, unable to speak. It terrified me and I’d begun to fear falling asleep. A specialist had reassured me it was a common enough experience and said my anxiety likely made the syndrome worse. I’d taken to drugging myself with sleeping pills. On top of that, the blood disorder I’d been diagnosed with last year, a genetic anomaly that medicine couldn’t put a name to, still worried me.
Until the accident that claimed Samuel’s life and nearly killed me, I’d taken my strength and endurance for granted, looking forward to the future. Lately, though, I’d grown afraid for my well-being.
The only remedy I’d found for those night terrors was to indulge in punishing physical exercise. Mostly that took the form of rock climbing and extreme trekking. If I pushed myself to the limit, the experience seemed to stabilize me. In January, with a client who’d become a friend, I’d tackled the Devil’s Path in the Catskills. Three days were recommended to cover the entire route, considered the riskiest and most challenging on the East Coast. We accomplished it in two, climbing the treacherous route up six mountain peaks, the highest almost four thousand feet. On our second night out a downpour turned into freezing rain, lashing our faces—and nothing focuses the mind like trying to gain a handhold in a rock crevice smaller than your baby finger when you can’t open your eyes to see. My more cerebral fears and worries fled in the face of such immediate physical danger.
But the relief was always temporary, typically lasting only a few weeks. And now I had another worry. Bennet’s peculiar proposition unnerved me. More than I’d let on.
Three
Despite the rain I was obliged to go out. I’d found a rare street-parking spot on East Twenty-first at Gramercy Park but needed to move my car before six P.M. I welcomed the brisk, fresh air and hoped a change of scene would dispel the gloom that had settled over me after my conversation with Bennet.
I reached my car with ten minutes to spare, a silver Porsche I was able to afford only because I got it for a steal off a bankrupt stock trader. I went to unlock my door when a sound caught my ear. A low whine came from somewhere near the trunk. I edged around to the rear of the car. The whine came again, more of a whimper this time. I stooped to check the undercarriage. Beneath the bumper, wedged in behind the right wheel, a black dog lay motionless on the pavement. Had it run out from the park into the street, been hit, and crawled to what it thought was a place of safety? I would have backed over it when I moved the car out.
I got an old towel from the trunk, spread it on the passenger seat, and gently picked up the dog. It was a little larger than a beagle and surprisingly light. Its head hung loosely, its mouth slack. Streaks of blood and white spittle mottled its pale tongue.
The dog didn’t stir from where I’d laid it on the seat. I pressed my hand against its side to comfort it and felt the ridges of its rib bones sticking out under the layer of skin. It had no collar.
It looked like some kind of cross, with a long tail and upright ears like a German shepherd, its black fur matted and unkempt. If it lived I’d have to figure out how to return it to the owner, if it had one, and who in any case didn’t deserve to get it back.
After checking on my phone, I found an emergency veterinary clinic wedged beside the Bentley Hotel on a bleak corner that saw a constant stampede of traffic heading for the FDR. When I walked in with the dog in my arms, the receptionist took one look and picked up the receiver, pointing me up the ramp to the second floor. Upstairs, a tall, thin, white-coated man came out and motioned for me to follow him into an examining room. As he snapped on latex gloves he asked me to place the dog on a waist-high stainless steel table. “I’m Dr. Jefferson,” he said. “Tell me what happened here.”
After I explained, he grunted something in response and began a preliminary examination, lifting the eyelids, listening for a heartbeat with a stethoscope, palpating the dog’s chest, checking its neck, limbs, and pelvis.
When he finished he leveled his gaze at me. “Did you hit the animal with your car, sir? It’s had a bad battering. The left hind leg is broken, and there are likely acute internal injuries.”
“No. As I said, I found it under my car. The dog must have crawled there after someone else hit it.”
“This is no dog,” Jefferson said in a grim voice.
“What?”
“It’s probably a coyote, or more likely a hybrid, a feral mix with a domestic canine. I won’t be able to tell without further examination.” He indicated the paws. “These are larger than you’d see on most dogs.” He lifted an eyelid. “And the irises are yellowish—wolflike.”
“A coyote? Are you serious? Wow. How could it get into the city?”
“Where exactly did you find it?”
“Right outside Gramercy Park.”
Jefferson fiddled with the stethoscope around his neck. “Probably came straight across the Williamsburg Bridge at night. They’ll hide during the day and hunt nocturnally. Pigeons, rats, garbage, pet food that people leave out for stray cats—it’s a gourmet feast out there. They caught one in Central Park a couple of years ago.”
I touched its back. “I didn’t think coyotes had black fur.”
“That’s one reason I believe it’s a cross with a domestic dog.” He studied me. “Are you all right yourself? You seem upset. Not your fault if it darted into traffic. Just a simple accident, that’s all.”
Just a simple accident. For an instant the picture of my brother crumpled in the wreckage of my car flashed in front of me. If only that sin of mine could be absolved as graciously.
“The animal was already in very poor condition before it was hit,” Jefferson continued. “I doubt it will make it through the night. Even if it does survive, the leg break won’t heal properly. And if it’s a dog–coyote hybrid as I assume, wildlife centers won’t take it. The kindest course of action would be to euthanize it.”
“Hell.” I looked down at the broken coyote, its breath shallow and ragged. Pain pulsed behind my eye. The lights were so bright in here. With injuries that severe, I couldn’t argue with the vet. Still, I felt torn about the thought of putting it down.
As if it understood, the dog emitted something between a whimper and a moan. It tried to open its eyes but could only raise the lids hal
fway when they drooped again. Jefferson’s tone remained solemn. “You see how much effort that took. It can’t even open its eyes. It will just go to sleep. The procedure is absolutely painless.”
It took a few more moments for me to come to my senses. There was no point wasting any more time. “Go ahead then. You can send me an invoice for whatever it costs.”
The vet’s expression softened. “There’s no need for that. You’ve made the humane decision.”
The dog let out a tortured breath as I left the examination room. I tried to shut the sound out of my brain, embarrassed I even cared.
Four
I sat in the car with the key in the ignition, staring blindly through the windshield as if some invisible hand had locked on to me, forcing me to keep vigil for the injured creature. Why did I feel so bad? I hadn’t done anything but offer it help and yet it seemed as if I’d shirked some duty. After a few minutes I rushed back to the clinic. The reception room was deserted. My stomach lurched. Had Jefferson ended its life in this short time?
When I barged through the door of the treatment room, the vet jerked his head up in surprise. He’d shaved a square of fur off the front leg. Beside it on the table lay two large syringes, one containing a blue liquid and the other a toxic-looking pink.
My heart pounded. “Have you done it yet?”
“No.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Don’t, please.”
“Why not?”
I looked from his eyes to the dog on the table. “I just want it to live.”
Jefferson shook his head. “It has very little chance of surviving, Mr. Madison. Do you know anything about wild animals?”
“Not really.”
“Nine times out of ten they’ll die out of fright, even with milder injuries. Merely the shock of being confined can kill them. I can treat this little one if that’s what you want, but I’ll have to charge you for its care. It’ll be quite expensive and you’d be spending your money for nothing.”
“That’s okay. I’ll pay for him. Whatever it takes.”
“And you’re prepared to take full responsibility for it?” I nodded. I had friends with country property; maybe they could be persuaded to look after it.
He waited a minute or so to see how resolute I was, then gave in with a shake of his head. “All right. It’s quiet so far tonight. I’m on duty till seven A.M. I’ll do what I can, but if an emergency comes through the door it takes precedence. Understood?”
I nodded, feeling a strange sense of elation. He promised to call me before he finished his shift.
“Oh, and one other thing,” he said as I turned to go.
“What’s that?”
“It’s not a him.”
“Pardon me?”
He pointed to the animal. “She is female.”
When I arrived back home and checked my email, I found a message from Bennet.
Her high, exuberant tones echoed in every word. “Great news! I spoke with Lucas Strauss and he’s agreed to meet you. The appointment’s for eight tomorrow night. I’ll stop by your place at seven-thirty to pick you up. Looking forward to seeing you again!”
She’d completely ignored my brush-off. What was her deal? Tenacious or just oblivious? Probably the former, given her desire to secure the job. Her pushiness bothered me all over again and I got set to tap out a rapid reply telling her to forget it. Then I had second thoughts. I should at least figure out who I was dealing with.
I Googled her profile and found she’d indeed been telling the truth, about her work at least. She’d ghosted a couple of memoirs posing as autobiographies; one of them had even hit the New York Times bestseller list. That probably had more to do with the publicity-seeking celebrity she was writing about than the quality of her prose, but still. I also found a smattering of magazine articles, mostly star-struck interviews under her byline. Glossy, frivolous pieces. Certainly not hard-hitting investigative journalism. She was pretty active on Facebook. I started to relax a little. Her bio was brief. She’d grown up in Connecticut, her father a banker, her mother a homemaker. She’d been educated at Bryn Mawr, on Daddy’s money I assumed. The picture of a classic New England colonial complete with floppy-eared dog on the portico appeared in my mind’s eye. No mention of siblings. Only child, then? Probably spoiled, her tenacity presumably a raging case of entitlement. I was likely the first person who’d ever said no to her. Her age was the only surprise. Thirty-one. I’d guessed younger.
Despite my misgivings about the whole thing, I emailed her to say I’d accept her invitation. I wanted to size up Strauss, to learn more about the man. His interest did not sit well with me.
February 15, 2005
Dr. Jefferson called the next morning to say the dog had pulled through and her injuries weren’t as bad as he’d first thought. If she continued to improve at this rate, I could pick her up the following day.
I spent the next hours on my computer tracking down an item for a client, a 1536 volume of nineteen sermons about the peril of untruthful teachers, authored by the fiery Savonarola. The history behind the piece was fascinating but I had to fight to keep my attention on the job. I was keyed up and restless. I gave up mid-afternoon, made some coffee, and called the friends who had a large acreage near Kingston. I explained the situation with the coyote hybrid. Startled to hear that a wild animal that big could end up in Manhattan, they sympathized with her condition but said their two mastiffs would likely maul her. They suggested I call a relative of theirs with a farm upstate; he declined as well. He didn’t give a reason and his gruff tone suggested he wasn’t interested in prolonging the conversation. I gave up, got a quick steak and salad at a nearby restaurant, and then picked up some dog food, a leash, and bowls at a Gristedes. Would a coyote walk on a leash? I’d soon find out.
I showered, clipped my beard, and dried my hair. I chose a smart shirt, a Rick Owens leather jacket, and black trousers for my appointment with Strauss.
Bennet’s call came at seven-fifteen. “I’m ten minutes away.”
A yellow cab was idling by the curb by the time I made it downstairs. Bennet looked less disheveled than the day before, her red hair smoothed and held back on one side with a black barrette. She wore the same trench but had added a silk scarf and put diamond studs in her ears. Fake, no doubt, but they looked attractive.
“You look nice,” I said when I slid in beside her.
“Thanks. You too.”
“Where are we headed?”
“A townhouse in Carroll Gardens. It should be an interesting evening.” She smiled at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Why do you say that?”
“You’ll see soon enough.” She turned her head and gazed out the window at the buildings lining the street as if to dissuade any further questions. “I love that church,” she said, indicating a Romanesque Revival structure of gray stone. “When I used to come to Manhattan during school breaks as a teenager, it felt so free being here. My friend’s parents were always traveling, so I’d stay at her place—it was just a couple of blocks away. The two of us had the apartment to ourselves. We’d often pass by this church when we went out.”
I glanced out the window. “The Swedish Lutheran. I love the bright red doors. It’s an elegant building.”
“Yes. Not gaudy at all.”
I realized I had no idea where she lived. “Did you move here eventually?”
“Oh yeah. I have a nice place on the eight hundred block, Fifth Avenue.”
“Overlooking the park?”
She nodded. “Great location, close to the shops.”
Close to the shops. As in Saks, Bergdorf’s, Bulgari. “Ghostwriting must be lucrative.”
“Oh, it is. The advance for my last memoir just about covered my car insurance. I was kidding. I couldn’t afford to rent a closet on Canal Street let alone a Fifth Avenue apartment. Sure wish it were otherwise. How about you?”
“Grew up here and feel the same way you do. Best place on earth.”
“Room and board only?”
“Deal.” Bennet laughed, but I had the sudden sense that she might be half serious. She kept up a running chatter as we drove, remarking on everything but the subject of our meeting tonight. I tried to pry the information out of her, with no success. If you ignored her in-your-face style she could actually be quite witty. Despite my frustration, I found myself enjoying her company.
Five
The cab pulled up in front of a stately townhouse set well back from the street. It was one of those places with a large front garden that the district was famous for. Bennet hopped out when we came to a stop, leaving me to fork over the tab.
“I’ll need a ten from you to share the bill,” I said when I got out.
“Of course.” She rooted around in her leather purse. “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to go to the bank and I’m low on change. Pay you back later?” Ignoring my frown, she grinned and reached for my hand as we went down the front walk. Bennet tapped the old-fashioned knocker on the imposing front door.
A tall woman with dusty blond hair opened the door. Her eyes were puffy and swollen and had the distant, strained look of bereavement. Bennet introduced us.
The woman, Gina, said, “Welcome. Mr. Strauss said to expect you.” She showed us where to stow our coats and then led us into a luxuriously appointed salon. Three damask couches had been placed around a gleaming mahogany coffee table. I was surprised to find three other people already seated when we entered the room. “Isn’t this Lucas Strauss’s house?” I whispered to Bennet. “I thought it was supposed to be a private meeting.”
“Shush.” Bennet put her finger to her lips. “He isn’t here yet. And no, it’s Gina’s house.” She smiled brightly at the other guests, one young man and a couple around my age. The young guy resembled Gina so much I figured he must be her son. He didn’t bother to hide the bored expression on his face, clearly wishing he wasn’t here. I sympathized. After we took a seat on the vacant couch, Gina made the introductions. The younger man was indeed her son, the other two her daughter and son-in-law. She offered each of us a glass of claret from a silver tray. I swirled the wine in my glass, gave Bennet a dark look, then lowered my voice. “Tell me what the hell’s going on or I’m leaving.”
