Parts Unknown

by Rex Burns

  “ ‘Caper’?”

  “That’s detective talk. All the literate-type detectives talk about capers.”

  Another sign for Fairbaugh pointed us up a two-rut road that led between tall pines and a scattering of shorter aspen. “You literary types really impress me. I’d no idea how much I was missing from my life.”

  “Admitting ignorance is the first step to wisdom, Bunch. Even on a journey as long as yours. Is that the place?”

  The track twisted among the pale, smooth trunks of aspen. Just beyond the grove, at the edge of a meadow, stood a dark A-frame. Its porches and eaves were trimmed with freshly painted flowers and scrollwork like something from Switzerland. A large retriever heaved to its feet and watched our approach, tail wagging hesitantly. A woman came onto the porch to wait for us. She wore jeans and a plaid shirt against the chill of the mountain evening, and her hair was pulled back into a long ponytail. Bunch turned off the engine, and we sat a second or two enjoying the almost total silence of the mountains.

  “Come on in—the coffee’s on.”

  “Hi, Anita. This is Devlin Kirk—Anita Fairbaugh.” She shook hands with a strong grip and a wide, white smile that lightened a pair of pale blue eyes all the more surprising against her dark and tanned skin. We followed her into the A-frame’s small but tidy living room, where a standing metal fireplace fit under the steep slope of roof. A long wall of bookshelves jammed with titles divided that room from the rest of the cabin. Bunch had told me a little about the woman on the way up: She had been married to a Denver cop killed during a routine traffic stop. Now she lived alone at the edge of Roosevelt National Forest and apparently liked it. She also trained dogs, and that’s why we were here.

  “Is Matilda ready to do her thing?” Bunch handed a cup of coffee to me and dumped some milk into his.

  “She’s ready to go. She’s in the run out back.”

  “This could be a tricky operation tonight,” said Bunch.

  “You’ve already told me. I’m still going.”

  Bunch shook his head. “It’s not a good idea. Tell her, Dev.”

  “You shouldn’t—”

  “Matilda’s not going alone, Mr. Kirk. She’s in heat—she’ll be nervous enough as it is, and with a new handler, she might not work at all. Besides, if I’m not around, she could run, and I have no intention of losing a good dog.”

  “If something happens,” I said, “we’re all going to run. We’d be damn fools not to, and this is no place—”

  “For a woman? Is that what you were about to say?” This time the smile did not reach her eyes.

  “For anyone who doesn’t know what they’re getting into. And especially for someone who doesn’t have to be there. If there were another way to do this, believe me, I wouldn’t be going.”

  “Come on, Anita. I told you they shot at us already. These are bad dudes—they came close to killing Dev, here. Would have, too, if he wasn’t as lucky as he is dumb.”

  “I know what you told me. And I know what my dog is like.” She drained her cup and said in a reasonable tone, “It’s either both of us or neither of us. Which do you want?”

  We rode down the canyon in silence, the dog carriers in the rear of the Bronco and Anita in the backseat. In the distance, glimpsed between the shifting walls of rock, we could see the lights of Denver glowing against the dark of the prairies, and above them, in long, silent glides, running lights of airplanes stacked up in the holding pattern over Stapleton Airport. Ahead of us lay the flatlands, and in vague darkness to the north, the Wilcox farm. It took about forty minutes to reach Erie, and by the time we got there, night had fully arrived. Bunch drove slowly down the now-familiar county lane, and we pulled off in the shadow of a ridge and turned off the headlights to let our eyes adjust.

  “Is it far from here?” Anita had let Matilda out of the carrier and was stroking the dog’s ears.

  “Half a mile, a little more. The farm’s just over that rise.” Bunch and I zipped up the dark nylon windbreakers that we called our ninja outfits. We had on dark trousers, too, but boots rather than the tennis shoes we usually wore. The prairie was full of cactus and yucca spears that canvas wouldn’t daunt. “You stay close to us, Anita. Like I say, these guys don’t mess around—they’ll start shooting.”

  “I understand.”

  She tried not to show her nervousness, but it was in her voice and I didn’t blame her. I was nervous too: I’d been here before. We got out of the truck and stepped carefully between the strands of barbed wire and started up the slope. Behind me, Matilda’s panting made a steady rhythm as I followed Bunch’s shadow and, occasionally, looked back to see if Anita was still with us. This time, instead of camera and night scope, I lugged a dog carrier whose plastic sides scraped loudly against the weeds. It was empty now. If things went the way they were supposed to, it would be full coming back.

  “There it is.”

  Bunch’s whisper was more felt than heard through the dark, and Anita and I edged forward to look down the slope at the farm, with its steel-blue yard light and its low windows glowing.

  The breeze rose upslope, floating the sound of heavy steel guitars twanging and wavering discordantly.

  “Sounds like a party going on,” said Bunch. “We’ll go down this way and come up behind the barn where the shadows are.”

  Matilda whined once, but Anita’s sharp whisper hushed the dog and we crouched and eased our way downslope. The faint glow from the yard light seemed to pick us out as if we were on stage, and I welcomed the heavier shadows of the cotton-woods that waited at the foot of the hill. We paused there to study the farmyard. The smell of gasoline and oil came strong from the crowd of motorcycles lumped together in the darkness. The guitars screamed to a long, high note that stretched and repeated maniacally and then cut off to a startling silence. The faint cry of a child came across the yard and died out a few minutes later.

  “Better let Matilda do her thing so we can get out of here,” I muttered to Bunch.

  “Yeah. Anita?”

  She whispered to the dog, “Matilda—round ‘em up, girl, round ‘em up.”

  The dog whined once and then padded out into the light and began sniffing in wide circles as she drifted toward the open space in front of the barn.

  A sudden deep bark erupted from under the porch and the German shepherd lunged toward Matilda, who cowered and rolled over, tail tucked between her legs and wagging eagerly. A figure came to the front door and flicked on the porch light. Its strong glare stabbed into the darkness around us, and we hid in the fragments of black cast by the motorcycles.

  “Is that the one?” whispered Anita.

  “The dog? Naw. It was a pit bull.” Bunch gestured her into silence.

  The man on the porch stared through the glow of the yard light, and another silhouette joined him.

  “What’s the matter?” The voice carried across the farmyard clearly.

  “Lothar was barking at something.”

  “See anything?”

  “Another dog, it looks like. Stray.”

  “Want to shoot it?”

  I felt Anita stir and gripped her arm.

  “Naw. Lothar can take care of it.” They went back inside. The screen door slapped.

  Anita made a chirping noise with her lips and Matilda, followed closely by the German shepherd’s nose, trotted toward us. Bunch waited until they were within ten feet, the prancing German shepherd too interested in Matilda’s strut to notice us. The soft thump of the air pistol said Bunch had fired the tranquilizer dart. The shepherd yelped once and bit at his hip and then slowly turned in a circle and, with a puzzled whine, flopped over. The porch light flicked on again.

  “Lothar? Hey, Lothar!” The bearded man whistled shrilly. “Lothar—here, boy!”

  “Matilda—round ‘em up, girl, round ‘em up.”

  Matilda trotted back into the yard and wagged her tail at the man.

  “What’s the matter, John?” The voice came from the living roo
m.

  “I thought I heard Lothar yelp.”

  “He’s probably after some coon.”

  The man on the porch didn’t answer. Instead, he crouched down and tried to call Matilda forward. The dog sat and watched him, panting happily. He came slowly down the steps toward her. “Here, dog. Nice dog. What’s your name, fella?”

  Matilda backed toward us, tail wagging. The man followed a few steps and then looked around and whistled for Lothar again.

  “I thought she only rounded up other dogs,” I whispered.

  “With that guy, she can’t tell the difference,” mumbled Bunch. We crouched, ready to jump the man when he came close.

  “Lothar! Here, boy—here, Lothar!”

  We watched him stand and listen to the night, head cocked to hear the German shepherd’s bark somewhere. Finally he said, “Shit,” and went back to the house, walking more quickly. The screen door slammed but the porch light didn’t go out. Instead, the man came out with another dog on a leash and unsnapped it. “Go, Sid—go find Lothar.”

  The pit bull trotted down the steps, its heavy-jawed head out of proportion to the rest of its stubby body.

  “Matilda—round ‘em up, girl.”

  She whined and pranced back out. The pit bull growled and ran hard toward her and, as Matilda rolled over, began to sniff an interesting scent. Crouching, Matilda walked our way, looking over her shoulder at the pit bull and the man watching from the porch. “Sid—go find Lothar, boy. Go find Lothar!”

  Matilda whined, and Sid had things other than Lothar on his mind.

  “Sid! Sid Vicious—come back here, Sid!”

  Bunch aimed, the barrel of the air pistol following the stiff-legged walk of the pit bull.

  “Goddamn dumb dog!” The man came forward to reach for the bull’s collar, close enough for us to smell his fragrance of sweat and tobacco. The pistol popped and the man said, “What the fuck.” He slapped a hand at his neck and swayed for a long moment before falling heavily in the dust. The pit bull, ears up, stared at him in surprise, then at us, and then snarled. Matilda was forsaken.

  “Shoot him, Bunch—get him.”

  “I’m loading the damn thing!”

  With a growl the dog charged, a dim white shape streaking through broken shadows toward us. I shoved Anita onto a tree limb and swung up myself as Bunch kicked out to keep the dog away. But it snapped onto his leg and began to twist sideways, trying to gouge out a mouthful of Bunch’s flesh. He shoved the dart gun against the dog’s chest and fired, and we swung out of the tree and pulled back into the shadows as another man came out onto the porch, drawn by the bull’s snarls.

  “John? What the hell’s going on? Johnny?”

  “Come on, Anita. Time to go.”

  “What about Bunch?”

  “He’s coming. Let’s go.”

  We kept to the shadow of the barn, moving as quickly as silence would allow toward the ridge. Behind us, I heard Bunch whisper curses as he tried to pry the limp and dragging dog from his leg. “Wait up, Dev, goddamn it—wait a minute!”

  “Use the pistol barrel—pry his jaw off with the pistol barrel!”

  He wrestled with the clamped mouth.

  “Goddamn dog!”

  “Is it the same leg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Count your blessings.”

  “Matilda—come, girl. Come!”

  I dumped the unconscious pit bull into the carrier and crouched as I followed Anita and Matilda to the edge of the barn’s long shadow. Behind it, on the other side of the tall building, we heard the same voice calling John and moving closer.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” muttered Bunch.

  We managed to crest the high ground before John was found. A voice shouted for people in the house to come out, and the four of us ran as hard as we could down to the Bronco. I drove this time, letting Bunch swab at his latest dog bite with the hydrogen peroxide we’d brought just in case.

  “Look at that stuff bubble up, Bunch—it’s rabies, for sure.”

  “Just drive!” He shone the flashlight up and down his wet calf. “It’s not as bad as the first time.” Two pairs of heavy, knee-length wool socks contributed to that. “He bruised the hell out of it, but he didn’t break the skin.”

  In the backseat, Anita patted Matilda and fed her bits of dog biscuit. “Do you people do this often?”

  “More than we need to. All Bunch had to do was take a few little shots—but no, he had to choose the hard way.” I lurched the Bronco onto the paved road and we sped up I-25 and took a roundabout loop back to Anita’s cabin.

  It was after midnight when we reached Denver again. I asked Bunch how his leg felt, and he said fine. “I’ve had worse scratches in the sack with a broad.” Then he added, “I think we should make one more stop, Dev, while we’re dressed for the occasion.”

  “You want to go by Matheney’s clinic. That it?”

  “Hey, the night is young and we’re so beautiful. Besides, like I told you, it’ll be a walk-through.”

  It might have been except for the banks of glaring lights that surrounded the building and left no shadow for an avenue of approach to its doors and windows.

  “Well, he didn’t have the damn things on during the day, did he?”

  “Bunch, anybody looking out a window from one of these apartments will see us. The place looks like a goddamn car lot.”

  “Guy’s electric bill must be a bitch. Why you think he spends that much on lights?”

  “Because he doesn’t want people like you and me breaking in.”

  Medical offices were favorite targets for dopeheads; many doctors were careless with drug storage. They found safes to be too cumbersome for the day’s business and relied on building security to protect their medicines and samples.

  “Let’s try the alley. There’s bound to be a way.”

  We cruised down the crowded, narrow lane that ran behind the office and neighboring apartments. A high board fence blocked off the rear of Matheney’s building from access, but a latched door led from the trash bin through the fence. Bunch coasted out the other end of the alley and turned onto a side street and parked. “We go in the back door.”

  “There’s an apartment with two hundred windows looking right down on it.”

  “It’s the only way. Besides, I got a gimmick.”

  I followed him down the shadowy side of the alley and he opened the gate. We stepped through, pressing ourselves against the half-lit boards of the fence. In front of us, a pool of glaring light spotted the rear door like center stage on opening night. Bunch pulled the dart pistol from his shirt and aimed carefully aloft.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhhh.”

  The long barrel made its soft, muffled pop. A metallic clatter bounced from the hood protecting the bulb.

  “See how quiet that is? Nothing to worry about.”

  “I’d be less worried if you were a better shot.”

  He aimed again, and the pop was followed by a louder pop and the tinkle of sprayed glass, first against the metal hood and then on the asphalt below. The bright circle of light on the back door faded to gray.

  “Let’s give it a couple minutes,” said Bunch.

  We listened for footsteps coming to investigate. The only sounds were traffic passing on surrounding streets and the distant, fading wail of an emergency vehicle headed for Warner Memorial. Bunch told me to wait, and he strolled toward the dimness and paused a moment at the corner where the telephone line dropped from a pole and snaked down the wall into the building. Then he bent over the brass lock in the door, both hands busy. I scanned the alley and the windows of the tall apartment building behind the clinic. Finally Bunch whispered, “Okay,” and stepped inside.

  Beyond the small delivery and storage area, the hallway led past a series of doors, most of which were open. The light reflecting through uncurtained windows was enough so we didn’t have to use the penlights; Bunch opened one of the shut doors and hisse
d for me.

  It was a treatment room, complete with operating table, lights, anesthesia tanks, equipment trays, monitors. A small compressor in the corner of the room ran with a steady, muffled shudder.

  “Matheney’s a surgeon,” I said. “Maybe he does the small stuff here.”

  “Looks like a MASH unit to me.”

  “Come on, Bunch—his office is down this way.”

  The color-coded hallway led around a couple bends to Matheney’s dark waiting room. The pale ghosts of my hands, gloved in latex, pressed open the office door. I closed the blinds across the outside window. Bunch began rifling through the filing cabinets beside the nurse’s desk. I started on the drawers of Matheney’s desk.

  They held what desks should hold: papers and forms of various kinds, clips and rubber bands and stickers, notepads, memo pads, stamps, the usual paraphernalia of offices everywhere. In the side drawers I found a few thin folders with his personal correspondence and flipped through the typed sheets: letters about professional meetings, unanswered inquiries from young doctors wanting positions, copies of letters from Matheney to other physicians about patients. A second, thinner file held correspondence with Cryogenic Biological Laboratories and dealt with technical descriptions of blood and tissue types and the physical environment necessary to transport them. The third file simply said “Personal” and held letters to friends.

  Using the small Nikon Tele-Touch, I photographed any files that seemed even remotely promising, then turned to the remaining drawers. They held drug samples and fliers from pharmaceutical companies touting their wares and—in much smaller print—outlining risk factors. The pictures showed smiling doctors administering dosages to even happier patients—usually young and pretty women, or blue-eyed children who smacked their lips over the latest wonder drug. In prints of striking color, stern sentences warned against substituting cheaper generic drugs. Patients, the reader was assured, appreciated the best of care and the best of pharmacology. In one drawer was a ready supply of tongue depressors, cotton, pads, and tape. The bottom drawer held a lint brush, a shoeshine rag, and a wad of dust.