Every Part of the Animal

by Duncan Ralston

  Bo opened the front door and peered out, blinking at the harsh sunlight.

  "Mornin. What can I do for you today… Darius, was it?"

  "Yes, ma'am." He squinted at her. "Rough night?"

  Bo swiped hair out of her face. "Out huntin early this morning."

  "Ah." Darius peered inside, the little dog shivering against his stomach. He saw Caleb and took a step in, raising a hand in greeting. "Hey, little man. How you doin?"

  "Hi, Mr. Dawson."

  "Call me Darius, everyone does."

  Bo smiled, hoping it didn't look as forced as it felt. "Caleb and I were playing a couple of hands of five-card stud. Care to join us for a hand?"

  "Afraid I don't have time for that," he said. "Reason I'm here is because Rainey Layne—the girl who accosted you in town the other day?—she went missing late last night."

  Bo did her best to feign shock. "Oh, that's terrible."

  "Thank you for saying so, ma'am, but you don't have to lie on my account. I know she offended you, and I don't expect you to care… but I'm paid to keep an eye on her, so maybe you understand the bind I'm in now that she's run off."

  "Run off?"

  "Drove off in the Escalade," he said with a nod. "Took my keys while I was sleeping—"

  "Oh, heck. You think she—?"

  Darius's brow creased. "What?"

  Having railroaded herself into the line of questioning, Bo pressed on. "I mean, do you think she got in an accident, or…?"

  Concern crossed his face. "That thought hadn't occurred to me, but now that you mention it…"

  "God forbid… but the roads are pretty windy out in these parts. Lot of accidents. Especially at night. Do you have any idea what time she left?"

  Darius glanced at his watch as if it contained the answer. "Musta been about eight or nine—"

  "That's a little early for bed."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You said you were sleeping…"

  Darius's mouth turned downward. He sighed heavily, his whole body seeming to deflate. "Nice detective work, Ms. Lowery." He raised the dog slightly in his arm. "Do you mind if I set her down? She always gets anxious when she's being held."

  "Oh. We were about to head out again, weren't we, Caleb?" The boy nodded happily, almost too enthusiastic. "I'm teaching him how to hunt."

  "I thought you were playing poker."

  "I'm also teach him how to play poker."

  "And how to bluff?" One eyebrow rose above the other. "You always play stud with a rifle at your side?" he asked, nodding toward the table.

  "That's how the outlaws used to play it in the Wild West."

  He grinned. "I hate to break it to you, ma'am, but this ain't the O.K Corral."

  "And I am not Calamity Jane." A sly smile.

  "Can I be Billy the Kid?" Caleb asked.

  "Little man, you can be anything you want to when you grow up, but Mamma, don't you let him grow up to be a cowboy," he said, and winked at Bo.

  "You a Willie Nelson fan?"

  "Big fan of Country and Western in general, ma'am. I'm a Texas boy. Truth be told, that Top 40 shit Rainey plays doesn't appeal to me." Catching Bo's look of disapproval, he added, "Pardon my French. And here I am blathering on when I've got a popstar to find."

  Struggling to reach for his back pocket, Hottie and Hotlanna or whatever its name was bared its teeth and growled softly as Darius moved around.

  Bo's gaze fell on the slash of blood streaking the yellow counter. She motioned with her eyebrows to Caleb. He scowled at her, then followed her look. His eyes widened for the briefest moment before he scooped the oversized sweater from the table and tossed it over the stain.

  Meanwhile, Bo kept her eyes on Darius and his wriggling, making sure he didn't see Caleb make his move. The suit jacket fell open, revealing the handle of a pistol—.9mm from the look. Certainly not a weapon to be trifled with. Finally, he managed to remove his large black leather wallet. Held it open in the hand cradling the dog, and pulled out a business card.

  Bo took it. DARIUS DAWSON, PRIVATE SECURITY. The number was an L.A. area code.

  "You'll let me know if you hear or see anything?"

  "Will do," Bo said, pocketing it. "Hope you find her."

  "So do I." Rather than go through the whole song and dance again, Darius tucked his wallet in a jacket pocket and made for the door. He paused there, turning back. "Listen, we're going to be on the road again—" He flashed a smile. "—for a little while at least. Got to inform the local authorities. I was wondering if I could ask a favor."

  "Shoot," Bo said.

  "If you wouldn't mind, the dog could use a bowl of water. He was panting a lot in the car, so I let him hang out the window… you know how it is."

  Bo couldn't think of a reasonable excuse not to allow it. Her first thought was to tell him Caleb was allergic, but since he was okay with hunting animals and he'd been petting the dog the other day… she was cornered.

  "Sure. Just let me get a dish."

  As she moved into the kitchen, every nerve crying out to her, she caught Darius bend from the corner of her eye. The collar jingled as it shook its head. The little dog's claws clattered on the floor.

  Clack clack clack clack.

  At the sink, Bo peered back over her shoulder.

  "Can I pet him?" Caleb said. The dog sniffing around his feet.

  Bo took down Roy's old oatmeal bowl and hand-pumped it full of water.

  "He likes when you scratch him on the butt," Darius said. When Caleb giggled, he added, "I know, it's funny." The dog kicked its back leg spasmodically as Caleb scratched him just above the tail.

  Bo brought the bowl back and set it on the floor away from the hatch. "Here you go," she said.

  "Thank you kindly," Darius said. "Hottie—water. Get your dish."

  The dog looked up at him obliviously and cocked its head. Then it started sniffing the edges of the hatch. Scratching at it.

  Darius narrowed his eyes at the door. "Got the scent of something."

  "We've got a bit of a rat problem," Bo said.

  The dog yapped.

  "That explains the .22. We used to have feral hogs where I grew up. Made a helluva mess of the yard. Tasty, though."

  Yark! Yark!

  "I bet."

  The loud thump and subsequent clatter of cans from below had them all looking toward the floor at Caleb's feet. He looked up at his mother, poker face forgotten.

  "Nuisance," she muttered, and snatched out for the oil lamp as Darius's right hand slipped into his jacket, his eyes going wide. The holster unsnapped and his fingers around the grip as Bo lifted the heavy lamp off the table. Drawing the .9mm in the same instant Bo began to swing the lamp toward his face.

  Caleb leapt back so fast the dog yelped, skittering out of his way, and the chair toppled, striking the hatch with a deep resonant thump.

  Darius raising the .9mm as he spread his legs into an Isosceles Stance, squinting as he prepared to take a bead on his assailant. The thick ceramic font hitting him square in the jaw, cheeks rippling with the impact. Clenching his eyes as the smoked glass chimney shattered against his forehead and the font cracked his front teeth.

  His fingers loosened. The pistol dropped, clattering along the floor.

  Blood pouring from a deep slash on his scalp, Darius's brow clouded and he threw himself at Bo—a football tackle. His shoulder slammed into her solar plexus, knocking the breath out of her, and the two of them snapped a chair like kindling before his weight drove her into the floor.

  His thick forearm pressed against her throat. Her heart throbbing in her temples, struggling under his girth, his tobacco pouch cologne choked every gasp of breath she managed. Cool kerosene oozed from the shattered lamp, dampening the legs of her jeans.

  In her peripheral, she saw Caleb leaned against the counter, knees drawn up to his chest. His sidearm too far for her to reach, but just inches from Caleb's feet. The dog between them, barking incessantly.

  Yark! Yark!
/>   The .22 had fallen under the table. If she could move her left leg, she might have been able to kick it over, but the leg was pinned. The right leg free, but useless.

  "Stop resisting, ma'am," Darius grunted, his breath hot and fast.

  Her own breath gone. Stolen.

  She thrust her right knee upward, hoping to feel it strike his groin, connecting instead with one large, surprisingly solid thigh.

  Yark yark yark!

  "Stop resisting!"

  "Leave my Momma alone!"

  Darius whipped his head toward the boy. Saw him bracing the .9mm with both hands, and his initial surprise became amusement. "Little man, put that thing down."

  "I mean it!"

  Darius shifted his weight. His forearm moved from her throat to her sternum. Bo sucked in a deep breath.

  "What you gonna do? Shoot me?" He chuckled through his teeth—tss sss sss. "Nah, you ain't gonna shoot me. Are you, boy?"

  The gun jittery in Caleb's grip. "You get off my Momma…" His voice weak. Cracking.

  "Go on, little man. Put the gun down." Darius raised a hand, palm out. Placating. "Put it down and we'll forget this ever happened when I talk to the police."

  Bo watched her boy squeeze his eyes shut.

  Pistol clattering in his feeble grip.

  Ready to drop it.

  She remembered the moose. Caleb shot the damn thing in the butt with the bow and arrow, and they'd run off into the woods.

  Breathe, Caleb. Remember the moose.

  She willed the thought toward him, her throat so sore she was unable to do anything but croak.

  Caleb's eyes sprung open.

  The blast tore through her eardrums.

  Gunpowder escaped the muzzle in a blue-gray cloud and the shell ejected, the recoil throwing Caleb back against the counter, toppling boxes of macaroni and sundry dry goods on the pantry shelves.

  Bo startled, not expecting him to shoot, only wanting him to keep it pointed at Darius until the man agreed to—temporarily—let them go.

  All she could hope for was that he missed anything vital.

  Such close range…

  Blood drip-drip-dripped on Bo's forehead like water torture as she blinked up into the dazed eyes of her assailant. His split lower lip hung open. The hollow point bullet had caught him an inch above his left eyebrow, and exited the back of his head in a fist-sized hole, splattering scalp, bone and brains on the underside of the table.

  Darius slumped over her, his chin tucking into the crook of her shoulder as if in an embrace. Torn flaps of sticky flesh and jags of bone pressed against her cheek.

  The unmistakable sound of a dog lapping water from a dish broke the silence.

  Caleb dropped the weapon and crawled over, crying, "Momma!"

  "Help get this big bastard off me," Bo groaned, throwing her weight against him. Caleb pushed against the large man's shoulder, and after considerable grunting and strain the two of them managed to roll him onto his side.

  Bo sat up, still struggling to breathe, her throat raw. Caleb threw his arms around her, and she hugged him to her chest.

  "I thought he was gonna kill you," he said, his words muffled by her flannel shirt. He was crying, his whole body quivering.

  "It's okay," she said, knowing it was far from okay. "You did good." She hugged him harder, rocking him gently. The way she did when he was pitching a fit. Calming him until his shivers subsided.

  When she let him go, he looked up at her with wet, red eyes filled with relief. She stood and helped him to his feet.

  In the root cellar, several objects thudded in the dirt. Glass shattered.

  The girl…

  A shotgun blast of rage exploded from her chest as Bo dropped to her knees on the hatch. "You just got your man killed! You happy? You stupid little bitch!"

  The racket down below stopped.

  Caleb watched her silently, pupils as big and black as bullet holes.

  "You can stay down there and rot for all I care," she spat. "Any illusions you might have had of me lettin you go—you just tossed them out the goddamn window. You're mine now. Mine. You understand?"

  Nothing.

  "Oh, now she's quiet."

  A muffled scream rose from below.

  Bo hocked on the floorboards.

  Caleb watched his mother, waiting for her face to soften. Then he asked, "What are we gonna do with him, Momma?"

  Bo considered the question. "I don't know," she said finally.

  But in the next moment, she did.

  6 – Burn

  BO PUSHED THE wheelbarrow over the threshold and toward the sedan, struggling to keep hold of the handles, the wheel wobbling under the dead man's weight as his corpulent frame shifted from side to side.

  Caleb followed a little ways behind her, wary of the dead man. He'd picked up a long swatch and swished it back and forth, making the sound of a whip. "Momma, this don't feel right."

  Bo lowered the wheelbarrow. High up in a nearby spruce, a woodpecker tapped out a warning. Peering up at it, mouth as dry as ash, Bo said, "This ain't been right since the get-go. The girl, she forced my hand. And then she forced yours. We're innocent in this. You see that, don't you?"

  Caleb started drawing in the dirt. She went to him, taking him by the shoulders.

  "Caleb, she threatened to have you taken away from me," she said. "Do you know how that feels? The thought of you… with someone else. I just couldn't bear it."

  Caleb gave a shrugging nod. "I don't want no other Momma," he said, looking at the square he'd drawn.

  "Well, good," Bo said, her lower lip beginning to quiver as she smiled. She hugged him fiercely. "You're a good boy, Caleb. What happened just now don't change that."

  "I know." He shuffled on his feet, like he was afraid to say something.

  "You got something on your mind?"

  "We just—we oughtta bury him, not burn him up. It ain't Christian," Caleb said, looking at the square.

  The boy's right. No guarantees this way'll work, either. Why not just drop him down the outhouse pit? Ash to ash.

  Bo fought back a chuckle.

  The bottom of the outhouse pit was a lumpy terrain of gray ash from the fireplace and wood oven. Roy had dug the pit all the way to the bedrock—a good seven to eight feet here—because Roy had been lazy in life but he'd had enough forethought to know if he dug it deep, he'd spare himself having to dig another pit five or ten years down the road, fill in the old pit, and move the whole damn thing over.

  Big enough to fit a body.

  Big enough to fit two? Bo thought, and dismissed the idea.

  "Nah, this is the way. We bury him, and they come lookin for these two with sniffer dogs, they'll find a grave. Ain't no way we can explain that."

  Caleb seemed unconvinced.

  She opened the passenger door, and rolled the wheelbarrow up so Darius's shoes hung over the footwell. "Help me raise him up," she said.

  Caleb dropped the stick and came over. He took one of the handles, and the two of them hoisted the wheelbarrow as high as they could manage, Caleb's wiry muscles quivering.

  At first Darius didn't move more than an inch, and for a long moment Bo worried he was stuck. Then his pants hitched, revealing bare legs above the socks, and his butt slid over the edge, and his head banged against the bottom of the barrow with a solid clang.

  Gravity dragged the rest of him down, and he slumped into the seat with a heavy thud. They lowered the wheelbarrow.

  Bo dropped the gun at his feet, wiped clean of prints. She leaned in and hauled Darius by his suit jacket, straightening him in the seat. As an afterthought, she smoothed the suit breasts down, unsure why she did it at first, likely just instinct, the way she used to smooth Roy's suit for church back before they laid down roots in Alaska.

  Taptaptaptaptap! went the woodpecker.

  When she turned, Caleb was looking at her curiously. "All right, you go back in the house," she said, feeling judgment in his look. "Anyone comes by, you tell em I'
m out huntin that damn possum."

  "We already ate the dang possum," he said, correcting her swear.

  "They don't need to know that." A strong urge to kiss him on the forehead came over her, and she did just that. Caleb looked up at her, amused and a bit puzzled. She couldn't remember the last time she'd been so affectionate. "Don't interact with her, you hear? I'll be back before you know it."

  Caleb nodded dutifully and headed back into the house.

  A flutter of wings shook the high spruce branches as the woodpecker took flight, a stark shadow against the bright summer sky. Bo watched it fly toward the wildfire smoke, then turned her gaze toward the sedan. A sticker on the back bumper proclaiming RENT-ME!

  Rental car. Just my luck.

  She checked his pockets for the rental receipt, found nothing but a pack of cigarettes—which she pocketed—a Zippo lighter, monogrammed D.D. in flowery script, and a bill for the Snowcrest Lodge Bar & Grill. He'd pounded down six Jack and Cokes, the time stamp twenty minutes after nine.

  No receipt for the rental. She checked the glovebox.

  Glory glory hallelujah! Bo thought, looking at the handwritten receipt from Fergus Redican's Wreck Rental, the only car rental outfit within fifty miles. Fergus had printed the time in blue pen, just about the only thing legible on the damn receipt.

  Woke him in the middle of the night, Bo thought. Old Fergie musta been plenty sore. But a buck's a buck.

  As she slipped the receipt into her pocket along with the smokes and bar tab, the screen door clapped shut behind her. She banged her head on the interior roof backing out like she'd been caught stealing. Caleb came running out, holding something out to her.

  "Whatcha got there?"

  "Cell phone," Caleb said. "It was on the floor."

  "Musta fell outta my pocket during the scuffle."

  "Musta. You should put it with him." He nodded toward Darius. "They can track these things."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I told you, I listen to the radio." He gave her a thin smile.

  "That's a good idea. It'll burn up in the fire." She smiled down at him until it made him uncomfortable.

  "What?"

  "Just wondering how you got so smart is all," Bo said. She took the phone from him and slipped it into Darius's lapel pocket. "Get back in the house."