AHMM, Sep 2005

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Living alone on the edge of the Grand Sable Forest, Heck wasn't a fearful man. But for the rest of the afternoon, he watched for snakes every time he picked up a log.

  By nightfall, the snake was forgotten, lost in the easy rhythms of his life. Holly, his black Labrador bitch, had whelped a few days before, and he gave her a break, playing with her blind, squirming pups in the glow of the kerosene lamp while Holly stretched her legs and did her business outside.

  After feeding Holly and himself, he downed a Labatt's listening to a hockey game on his battery-powered radio, turned in about ten.

  And dreamed about snakes.

  Edgy damn dreams. Stacking wood, hearing the rattler, snapping bolt upright in the darkness, sweating, listening intently.

  No snake, of course. The only sounds were the wind rustling in the treetops, Holly's pups suckling or whimpering in their puppy dreams. No hisses, no rattles. Nothing out of place. Yet Heck had a tough time falling back to sleep. Uneasy. Had a nagging feeling something was wrong but couldn't think what.

  Woke at first light, ragged and raw, like he hadn't slept at all. Tossed some kindling in the woodstove to get a fire going for coffee, glanced at Holly—

  Sweet Jesus! The Lab's head had blown up to the size of a basketball, eyes swollen shut, ears askew. Down. Not moving.

  Kneeling, Heck quickly slid his hand under her armpit, found her pulse. Barely there, faint and feathery. Breathing in shallow gasps. Two bloody pinpricks on the side of her muzzle. Dammit, dammit, dammit! She'd tangled with the timber rattler last night.

  No chance to suck out the poison, too far along. She needed a vet. Brushing her mewling pups aside, Heck rushed Holly out to his pickup, dumping her on the passenger seat like a sack of potatoes. Firing up his old Ford, he matted the gas, rocketing out of the dirt track road out to the highway, wrestling the wheel one handed, holding Holly on the seat with the other.

  Fifteen miles to McTeague, pedal to the metal all the way. Five miles out, the tappets started rattling. The pickup's engine was heating up. Knew he should slow down, let it cool a few minutes. Kept it floored instead, weaving through the morning traffic, radiator boiling over now, oily smoke filling the cab as the temp gauge edged into deep red, warning lights flashing.

  Didn't make it. Half a mile outside McTeague, rods started banging, ready to blow. No choice now. Pulling off onto the shoulder, he scrambled out, grabbed up Holly, and headed for town. Tried to run but couldn't keep it up. Holly weighed nearly a hundred pounds, dead weight. Heck slowed to a trot, then an unsteady walk. By the time he hit the veterinarian's office, he was reeling like a wino in a windstorm.

  Bulling through the line at the counter, he shouldered a blue-haired granny aside.

  The receptionist started to object but one look at Heck's eyes and Holly's swollen head changed her mind.

  "Dr. Zauel? Room one, please! Stat!” Leading Heck back to a cubicle, she helped him ease Holly down on the stainless steel table. The vet hurried in a moment later, sandy haired, wearing a lab coat over faded jeans, looking much too young.

  "Hi, I'm Dr. Zauel, you're ... Hector Baptiste, right?” He quickly checked Holly's eyes, listening to her heart as he spoke. “What happened to your dog?"

  "Snake-bit. Timber rattler, I think."

  "Might well be. Fang marks on her muzzle, massive edema. Did she whelp recently?"

  "Couple days ago. Six pups. You got that anti-venom stuff?"

  "Antivenin, yes, but—"

  "Well get the hell to it, then! What's the holdup? I can pay, if that's what's botherin’ you."

  Dr. Zauel was staring at him. “Mr. Baptiste, your dog is dead."

  "What? No she ain't, dammit, she's—” But it was true. Holly's eyes were open, staring at nothing. He'd felt a flood of warmth at his waist as her bowels let go a ways back. Thought she'd fainted. Damn. Heck turned away, his eyes stinging. “Isn't there nothing you can do for her?"

  "I'm afraid not, Mr. Baptiste. Having the pups depleted her electrolytes. She apparently had a massive allergic reaction to the venom. Four times out of five, a healthy animal her size would survive a massasauga bite. Not this time. I'm very sorry."

  "Yah, me too. She was a good dog, this one. Even if the last thing she did was crap all over me. Damn her black heart anyway. How much I owe you, Doc?"

  "No charge."

  "I don't need no charity. I pay my way."

  "I know that. I'm only sorry I couldn't help."

  "Okay, but I need a favor. My truck quit on me drivin’ in, might have to hitchhike home. Can you keep Holly here for me?"

  "We can dispose of the remains if you want."

  "Nah, I want to bury her on my place, but I gotta get my truck runnin’ first."

  "We'll hold her for you then. You said her pups are only a few days old?"

  "Yeah,” Heck said grimly. “Still blind. With no bitch they won't make it, will they? Man, this day just keeps gettin’ better and better. Got any ether you can sell me?"

  "Tell you what, I'll give you the ether, but I want a favor back. You're a trapper, right?"

  "I do some, yeah. Why?"

  "Don't kill the snake."

  "What? You gotta be kiddin'."

  "I know you're angry, but the snake was just defending itself. Your dog had bad luck, that's all. There aren't many timber rattlers left, they're an endangered species."

  "I know one sumbitch snake that's in danger, I can tell ya."

  "They're protected, Mr. Baptiste. Killing it's against the law."

  "Only if the cops know I done it. You gonna rat me out to the DNR, Doc?"

  "No, of course not. I'm just asking a favor. Don't kill the snake. Please."

  Baptiste glared at the younger man, their eyes locked. A dangerous moment. Heck Baptiste was a roughneck brawler, hard as an axe handle with a serious temper. And right now he really wanted to hit somebody. Anybody. But the storm passed.

  "Okay,” he said grudgingly. “I don't make no forever promise, but I don't do the snake unless I have to."

  "Thank you."

  "I wouldn't thank me, I was you. Maybe I bag up the sumbitch snake, drop her off here."

  "Fair enough,” the young vet smiled. “Just tie the bag tight, okay?"

  * * * *

  Outside Zauel's office, Heck rubbed his stubble, tried to figure what to do. Truck might start, might not. If she didn't he'd have to get her towed home, put her back together and quick. While the days were still warm.

  But first he'd have to put down Holly's blind pups. Damn.

  For a job like that, a man needed a drink. Maybe two.

  McTeague wasn't much of a town, sleepy little Yooper village coiled around a Lake Superior cove east of Grand Marais. Copper mines once, mostly a tourist trap now. Gas stations at either end, supermarket in the middle. City hall that housed the cop shop and DNR offices. Ace Hardware, four, five antique-junque shops.

  Two bars. One under new management, flatlander from down below. All pimped up with ferns and furniture polish.

  The other was still called the Sailor's Rest, though no ore boats had docked at McTeague for sixty years or more. Barmaid was a busty, corn-fed bottle blonde from Munising. Mona. She wasn't happy to see Heck knocking back whiskey before noon. Asked him why he smelled so bad.

  "My dog pissed on me. Right before she died."

  Mona didn't ask anything else. Two hardcore rummies edged away from the bar to a table near the fireplace. Giving Baptiste drinking room.

  A few hours later a couple of buzzed-up bow hunters from Detroit swaggered in, wearing bloodstained camo hunting clothes and ten-inch Bowie knives, all pumped up from whacking out an eighty-pound button buck.

  Too loaded to recognize Heck's mood, they bought him a round. To Mona's surprise, Heck didn't kick their asses up to Manitoba. Drank with them awhile instead, letting them brag up their kill. Even told them about his dog and the damn timber snake. The endangered species.

  One flatlander said he should whack out the snak
e, law or no law.

  His pal said not so fast. Might be bounty money. The DNR pays farmers for sheep killed by wolves, right? So if it's against their damn rules to kill a damn snake, then by God the DNR owes Heck fair value for his dog. Fair is fair, by God. Fair is fair.

  Finished his speech by vomiting his lunch on the bar, splattering Heck and his pal. Mona threw them all out. Fair is fair.

  Heck thought about busting the two flatlanders up just for bein’ dumber than a box o’ rocks. Decided to head home instead, get the business with Holly's pups over with.

  The sky had gone gunmetal gray while he was drinking, the mist turning into an icy rain before he'd walked a block. Ducked into the nearest building to get out of it. City hall, as it happened.

  Fate.

  It housed the local cop shop. And a Michigan Department of Natural Resources field office. And fair is fair.

  Heck pushed through the double doors of the DNR office, wobbled up to the counter, half blasted, stinking of dog piss and vomit. Slapped the counter hard, like he was ordering another shot. “Hey! How ‘bout some service?"

  "Can I help you?” Old guy, silver hair, seamed face, looked shrunken in his tan DNR uniform. Heck had seen him around, couldn't think of his name.

  "Timber snake killed my dog,” Heck said. “Now I want some conversation."

  "I'm sorry, I don't—"

  "Money, you know? Com—persation?” Heck smothered a belch.

  "Your dog was killed by a snake?"

  "Timber rattler, right. Doc Zauel said the snake's got some kinda protection."

  "The massasauga's on our list of endangered species, but I'm not aware of any compensation program. Their bite isn't usually fatal."

  "Tell that to my bitch."

  "I beg your pardon? I'll take this, Officer Cobb.” Younger woman stepped to the counter. Tall, fairhaired. A real looker. No uniform, this one. Business suit.

  "Sir, I understand that you're upset, but we can't allow abusive language on these premises. You'll have to leave."

  "What language you talkin’ about?"

  "You know perfectly well—"

  "You mean bitch? Hey, I wasn't talkin’ about you people, I mean my dog. Holly. Female dog. Dead female dog. That better?"

  "Have you been drinking, sir?"

  "You bet. Like I said my bitch is dead. So I'm drinkin'. Any law against that?"

  "No, but—"

  "Didn't think so. Like I told old Cobb there, snake killed my dog. Your snake."

  "Even if that's true, and frankly I have my doubts, Officer Cobb is right, the department doesn't pay compensation for rattlesnakes."

  "You pay for wolf kills."

  "Yes, but the massasauga—"

  "Ain't fatal, right. My dog's over at the vet's, head like a basketball, dead as a beaver hat. Visit her if you want. I'd skip lunch though."

  The woman eyed him, not bothering to conceal her distaste. “Be that as it may, Mr...?"

  "Baptiste. Hector Baptiste. Heck."

  "Mr. Baptiste, the timber snake is not generally considered dangerous, and it is, in fact, protected. If you're in fear of it, I can call animal control in Munising to have it relocated. If you wish to file a compensation claim, Officer Cobb can take down the information and forward it to Lansing. We'll need a current dog license and a notarized bill of sale to establish value. Was your dog pedigreed?"

  "Pedi—? Nah, she was Old Joe Gesh's dog. I got her along with his cabin when the ol’ man died."

  "I see. Then what value would you care to put on the dog?"

  "Value?” Heck blinked. His buzz was fading, temples starting to throb. Needed to be outside, in the wind.

  "Was she worth fifty dollars? Or perhaps nothing, since that's what you actually paid for her."

  "She was worth a lot to me."

  "But under DNR rules—"

  "Hey, suppose my old grandmother comes visit from Ontario? She's eighty-one. Snake bites her, she dies. How much you pay then?"

  "No need to be sarcastic, sir. I know rules can be frustrating, but we all have to follow them—"

  "Merde,” Heck muttered. “Just forget it."

  "If you have any more questions, I'll try to answer them. More slowly if you like."

  Heck was turning to go, but stopped, stung by the contempt in her tone. “No, lady, I think I got it okay. DNR pays for wolf kills, but not snake kills. Way you people figure it, a wolf's worth more than a sheep, and a damn timber snake is worth more than my dog. Or even my grandmother."

  "That's not what I meant at all."

  "No? Dumb ass me, lemme try again. Fuck your Boy Scout rules, lady. And stick your snotty attitude where the sun don't shine. You understand that?” He wobbled out without waiting for her answer.

  "Come back here! Officer Cobb! Get that man back in here."

  Cobb kept typing, didn't look up.

  "Did you hear me?"

  "I'm pretending I didn't. Look, Miss Bergstrom—"

  "It's Agent Bergstrom!"

  "Yes ma'am, Agent. Anyway, you'd best let him go. The man's dog died. He's Metis, half in the bag, and a handful even when he ain't drunk. Leave him be. Please."

  She glared at Cobb, flushed, still furious. “We'll discuss this later,” she snapped. Then disappeared into her office, slamming the door so hard the glass rattled. The glass read SONDRA BERGSTROM. DNR. AGENT-IN-CHARGE.

  Outside, the rain had eased up some. Heck started hoofing it back to his truck. But kept thinking about the tall blonde in the business suit. The way she looked at him. Talked down to him. Like he was nothing.

  So he turned back. Mona read trouble in his eyes when he stalked into the Sailor's Rest. Here we go, she thought, picking up her cell phone, ready to dial 911. But Baptiste wasn't looking for a fight. Or even a drink. He asked Mona for a paper bag. And a pencil. Then he went out the bar's back door. To the woodpile.

  * * * *

  "What's a Metis?” Sondra Bergstrom asked. They were in a McTeague County prowl car, Sheriff Bobby Lutes driving. They made a handsome couple, Bobby thought. Sondra tall, ice blond, blue eyes, tailored DNR uniform. Wore her hair short as a man's. Nobody'd mistake her for one, though.

  Bobby Lutes was a star quarterback at Munising High back in the day. Best time of his life. Joined the McTeague force as a constable after junior college. Elected sheriff six years later. Top of the hick-town heap at thirty-three.

  Tall, towheaded, wore a sandy mustache that made him look like Alan Jackson. Wore cowboy boots with his uniform.

  "Metis are half-breeds, sort of. Part French, part Cree or Ojibwa, mostly Heinz 57. Claim to be descendants of the original French voyageurs. No-account assholes, most of ‘em."

  "Like this Baptiste?"

  "Hector's not so bad. Mean when he's drinking, but he works and he doesn't run smokes or dope down from Canada like a lot of Metis. We've hauled him in drunk and disorderly a few times. Nothing serious."

  "Until now,” Sondra said grimly as Bobby wheeled the prowlie onto the dirt track that led back to Baptiste's place.

  Heck was splitting wood when the prowlie pulled up. Axe ringing as he put his back into every swing, working off the poison of the day before. Stripped to the waist, army fatigue pants tucked into high-top logging boots, shaggy mane of dark hair loose around his shoulders. Looked wild and surly and hard. Felt worse.

  Kept cutting as they climbed out. Sondra looking around, taking in the clearing, the ramshackle cabin. Unimpressed. Rightly so. Shack wasn't exactly House Beautiful.

  "Bobby, how you doin'?” Heck nodded, lowering the axe. “Hello, miss."

  "I'm doing better than you, Hector. We have a problem."

  "Ah, this is about that damn paper bag, right?"

  "This one, you mean?” Sheriff Lutes held up a crumpled paper sack. “The one you left outside the DNR office? ‘Dear DNR, took your advice and moved the snake. Don't worry, its bite ain't fatal.’ You write that, Heck?"

  "Yeah, like a dumb ass. Look, I was half drunk, h
avin’ a bad day. Sorry about that. You guys want a beer?"

  "This isn't a social call, Mr. Baptiste,” Sondra said. “And ‘sorry’ doesn't cut it. Making a terrorist threat is a felony."

  "Terrorist ... whoa up, lady. Look, it was a joke, okay? You can't take a joke?"

  "Nobody's laughing, Heck,” Bobby said.

  "Hey, I didn't say it was a good joke, but it wasn't no terrorist threat neither. You're supposed to know about snakes, lady. The skin in that bag wasn't no timber rattler, it's from a puff adder. Found it in the woodpile behind the Sailor's. Adders ain't dangerous even when they wearin’ their skin. That timber snake ain't around your office, she's still in my woodpile someplace. Dig her out, take her home if you want."

  "Sheriff Lutes, I want this man arrested."

  Both men stared at her, surprised.

  "Now hold up a minute,” Heck said evenly. “Before we get all crazy here, let's clear up a few things. I give you my word that bag was a joke, bad joke maybe, but I was havin’ a bad day. And if Bobby arrests me, Judge Harwell's gonna toss it cause he hates chickenshit cases. Probably fine us all for wastin’ his time."

  "We'll see about that,” Sondra snapped.

  "Nothin’ to see. You were rude to me yesterday, lady. I admit I was hammered, had dog piss all over me, so maybe you figure I had it comin'. But puttin’ a man in jail over a paper bag? That's a whole different thing. I lost me a damn good dog yesterday, had to kill her pups, and missed a day's work to boot. I ain't wastin’ no more time on this. We're done."

  "I think not."

  "Then think again. Maybe Bobby can arrest me by himself, maybe not. Me, I figure he'll need help. I never been to jail sober and I ain't in the mood today. You wanna try me, Bobby, best call an ambulance up front. One of us gonna need it."

  "You don't think I can arrest you, Heck?"

  "Don't wanna find out. I'm hung over and I got work to do, Bobby. How about you take your snotty girlfriend, get the hell off my place?"

  No one spoke for a moment, all three eyeing each other.