* * * *
Half an hour later, I was in the school gym, helping with my sons’ peewee basketball practice. It was a hoot: short-legged little grubbers charging about like puppies in a pen, lofting impossible shots, blundering out of bounds, fouling one another with glee, having a grand time as suburban dads like myself tried to teach them a few basics along the way.
I've never missed a practice or a game, struggling to keep things as normal as humanly possible for the twins as their mother fades out of our lives. But today I was especially eager to be here. The assistant coaches are all part-timers. And one of them, Jerry Landry, is an Algoma County deputy sheriff.
He was at a corner basket, teaching the rudiments of rebounding to a half-dozen half pints, tossing a ball against the backboard so they could scramble for it on the way down, grinning as they knocked each other sprawling.
"Can I talk to you a second, Jerry?"
"Sure. What's up, Doc? Or should I call you Professor?” He lobbed up another ball, letting it drop into the scrim. A tall, rawboned man, thinning reddish-blond hair, western sideburns, a torn Algoma High sweatshirt, striped uniform slacks, and soiled sneakers. A single dad, divorced. A club I'll be joining soon enough.
"What are the penalties for killing a dog?"
"Depends on where the dog was and what it was doing. And who did the killing."
"The dog was on my property—"
"Let me guess, you live in that new Birchcrest subdivision?"
"That's right. So?"
"So don't feel like the Lone Ranger, Professor. We've had beaucoup complaints about dogs and cats being killed in that neighborhood."
"What are you doing about it?"
"Not a lot. We're the sheriff's department, not the pet patrol—Hey! Settle down out there! This is basketball, not Saturday Night Smackdown!"
"You're telling me some loony's killing pets and you're not even trying to find him?"
"No need to,” Landry said evenly. “We know who he is, or think we do. That's the problem."
"I don't understand."
"That's because you're not from here. You moved up here to teach at the college, bought a nice house, probably joke about the local rednecks in the teachers’ lounge, right? But now your dog's dead. Well, welcome to my world, pal."
"What are you saying?"
"Probably more than I should. Can we go off the record a minute? Not a citizen beefing to a cop, just two guys talking in a gym?"
"Of course."
"Okay, here's the deal. We're fairly sure the guy killing the animals is Chandler Sinclair. That name mean anything to you?"
"You mean—?"
"Right. Sinclair Paper Mill, Sinclair Timber, the Sinclair Library at the U. The folks who employ about four hundred people in this town. That Sinclair family."
"And? Because they've got bucks they're above the law?"
"Nope, not for a second. If Chan runs a stoplight or shoots the mayor, I'll bust him like any other perp. But since his fat campaign contributions helped get my boss elected, our little force has better things to do than worry about pets disappearing in Chan's neighborhood."
"It's not his neighborhood, it's mine."
"It used to be his. All of it. At one time, his family owned most of this town."
"So what am I supposed to do?"
"Anything you want, Professor. Just don't expect us to do it for you. Truth is, Chan Sinclair's not wrapped too tight. All he gives a rip about is taking game with high-tech weapons that probably cost more than my car. When his dad was alive he could control him, more or less, but the old man died last year and now Chan's off the leash. He's only got a sister left and he treats her like hired help. You can file a complaint and I'll have a talk with Sinclair. But even if you could prove he killed your dog, Chan would only pay a fine and it might bring retaliation from Chan or his lawyers. The law's a little different up here for strangers like you and a local guy like Chan. He may be a crazy sumbitch, but he's our crazy sumbitch."
"And his plants employ a lot of local men, I understand that. But that doesn't give him the right to kill people's pets."
"Nobody said it did. I'm not telling you to let this go, Professor. If he'd killed my dog, I'd damn sure do something about it. Don't know a man who wouldn't. I'm just saying you'd best keep it off the books, if you get my drift. Hey, Jake! Don't hold the ball like that, they'll tie you up every time. Swing your elbows, boy, clear yourself some room!"
"That's a little rough, isn't it? For grade school?"
"We ain't just teaching basketball, Prof, we teach life here. And it's good advice. If you mess with Chan Sinclair, you'd best come down swingin’ your elbows. High and wide."
* * * *
Interesting advice. Especially from a cop. After basketball practice, I took the boys out for grease-burgers at McDonald's. Chose it deliberately, because it has a playroom. The twins had a great time scrambling through the tunnels. And I had time to think.
And what I thought was: This was no time to swing my elbows at Chandler Sinclair or anyone else.
With Janie ill, I had to stay focused and keep things together. I don't have tenure at Hancock State, my contract runs year to year. The administration has been very understanding about Janie's illness, but the fact is, our income has been cut in half. I need my job to keep food on the table and to maintain our health insurance. And the Hancock administration is ever so proud of its new Sinclair Library wing.
So I decided to do the prudent thing. The adult thing. I would let it pass. And I did.
Until the next day. When all hell broke loose.
After morning classes, I stopped by the hospice to sit with Janie awhile. She was getting her rubdown, listening without comment while I rattled on about school. I was afraid her silence might indicate pain. And it did. But not the way I thought.
Halfway through the rubdown Janie gave Norma a look, and the woman excused herself. Janie sat up slowly, and turned to face me, squinting against the pain the effort caused her. I reached out to help but she shook her head.
"I had a visitor earlier,” she said coldly. “Yvonne Westbrook, the veterinarian's wife? She brought me flowers. Thought I might be depressed because of Sparky."
Damn. “She had no right to tell you."
"It's not her fault, Arnie. It probably never occurred to her you'd lie to me about something so serious. I'm not gone yet, you know. I'm still a part of this family. And I'm entitled to the damned truth! From what Yvonne said, I gather someone deliberately killed our dog. Is that true?"
I hesitated, then caved. “Yes."
"What happened?"
"Sparky got out the back gate and went exploring in the woods behind the subdivision. He was apparently shot by a hunter."
"Where was he?"
"Maybe ... forty or fifty yards into the woods. A bow hunter had a shooting blind there."
"But ... we own that land, don't we?"
"I think so, yes."
"A bow and arrow,” she said flatly. “My God. Do you think the children might be in danger?"
"No, of course not. I know it's difficult to accept, but Sparky was only a dog."
"And you're positive that a psycho who could shoot a helpless animal and leave it to die might not do the same to a child? You're willing to bet the lives of my sons on his sterling character and judgment?” She closed her eyes, fighting against a wave of nausea. Then took a shallow, ragged breath.
"Did you report it to the police?"
"Of course. Well, sort of. I talked to Jerry Landry at the gym, he's a deputy sheriff. He said that even if we could prove it, the man would only get a fine. And he might retaliate against us."
"How? By killing our dog? Or will—?” She broke off in a spasm of coughing. Then lay carefully back on her pillows, utterly ashen. The aide hurried in a moment later. Janie would need absolute quiet now to avoid a seizure. I had to leave.
Outside the door, I lingered in the hallway, wanting desperately to go back in, to s
omehow change the look in her eyes. Erase the contempt. In nine years together, she'd been angry with me many times. But never like this. We needed to talk this out. But we couldn't.
I swallowed, hard, only a notch away from crying. Started walking, so no one would see. And realized I was right on the edge of losing it. My love was dying, I'd be raising our sons alone, my job was shaky, and now...
Enough! I just couldn't take any more. Couldn't deal with one more goddamned thing.
But at the same time, I realized that any chance of letting Sparky's killing pass was gone now. I'd have to do something about it.
* * * *
The Sinclair house wasn't hard to find. Algoma's a small town and Chandler Sinclair was listed in the phone book with everyone else. Nor was his home particularly plush. The yard was broad enough for football, but the house was a rambling red-brick ranch, set on a hill that looked down on the woods behind our subdivision.
We were practically neighbors.
I rang the doorbell. A woman answered, wearing designer slacks and a red silk blouse. Mid twenties, pudgy, dark hair, dark circles under her eyes.
"Can I help you?"
"I'm Professor Dylan, from Hancock State College. Is Mr. Sinclair in?"
"He's in, but he doesn't see many people. What's it about?"
"I'm sorry, you are...?"
"Dana Sinclair."
"Ah, the sister, of course. I really do need to talk to Mr. Sinclair. It's about hunting."
"You don't look much like a hunter, but maybe he'll see you. It's all he really cares about.” She hit an intercom button, set in the wall beside the door. “Chan? Some guy to see you, says it's about hunting. You in?"
The croaked reply through the small speaker sounded like a frog's command. I couldn't understand it, but Dana apparently could. Long practice, no doubt.
"He's in the den. Through the living room, that door over there."
"Thank you.” Odd décor for a living room. Hardwood floors, no carpeting. Furniture widely spaced. More like a rough country cottage than a wealthy home. The den door was intricately hand-carved, though. A hunting scene. I knocked, and went in.
And stopped. It wasn't a den, it was a trophy room. The upper walls were lined with mounted heads, dozens of deer, bear, coyotes. Below them, a rack of weapons that could have equipped a small army. Rifles, pistols, and at least a dozen different crossbows, ancient and modern.
The man coming toward me was equally shocking. Bloated, misshapen, he was dressed in full military camouflage, olive drab, but he didn't look like any soldier I've ever seen. More like an egg with broomstick arms. And withered legs. His thighs were thin as sticks thrust into boy-sized boots. He was in a power wheelchair with four oversized wheels. Built like a tank. Or an ORV. Its cleated treads were powered by an electric motor that hummed like a dynamo.
"What?” he asked, stopping in front of me. “Oh. They didn't tell you about my chair."
"No,” I managed. “I didn't know—"
"That I was handicapped?” he finished. “I'm not. They are.” He gestured at the trophies with a withered talon of a hand. “They're dead. I'm still here. Dana said something about hunting?"
"Actually, it's about killing. I believe you killed my dog, Mr. Sinclair."
"No kidding? So what's the problem? Was it an expensive dog?"
"That's not the point."
"Then what is? We've got a leash law in this county, mister. A licensed hunter can shoot any dog guilty of chasing deer. Which makes any dog loose in the woods fair game."
"He was on private property."
"What property?"
"The five-acre plot at the end of the Birchcrest subdivision."
"It was you!” he said, his bug eyes bulging. “You're the son-ofabitch who tore up my blind!"
"I destroyed a blind. It was on my land."
"Your land? My family owned and hunted that section for a hundred years. Trophy bucks don't give a damn about property lines, they range five to ten miles a day—"
"I don't care what bucks do or what your parents used to own. We own it now, and you're not welcome. You had no right to kill our dog."
"I didn't kill your damned dog! Every time somebody whacks a mutt around here they blame it on me. Usually because they want a payoff. If they ask nicely, sometimes I pay. But not this time. Where do you get off wrecking that blind? Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to build it, with these hands? Even with Dana helping, it took me days."
"You should have built it somewhere else."
"There isn't anywhere else! Not for me. Not that I can get to in a chair."
"You should have thought of that before you killed my dog."
"I already said I didn't kill it."
"Unfortunately, I don't believe you.” I moved to the display of crossbows on the wall. Steel bolts with savage broad-heads were on the shelf below them. Along with a cardboard vial of chalk dust. Blue. “Why do you use blue chalk dust, Mr. Sinclair? I'm told most hunters use orange."
"That's why I don't. It's a bit difficult for me to track game with my ... situation. If another hunter spots an orange mark, he knows it's a wounded buck. He might find it first, claim it for his own. Make off with it."
"Maybe you should take up a gentler sport. Like chess."
"Screw you, Dylan. You don't hunt, do you?"
"No."
"Didn't think so. You should try it. Men are natural predators, you know. All men. It's in our genes. Even snobs like you."
"You know nothing about me."
"Wrong. I know a million self-righteous wimps like you! You think eating tofu makes you morally superior to people who kill their own food. I've got news for you, pal, taking game is a reality check for life. From the eagles in the air to the worms that get us when we die, every natural creature on this earth spends most of its time hunting. God must love hunters, he sure made enough of them. Including us. Especially us. You ought to give it a shot, Dylan. Hunting's how the world really works. Puts you in touch with your inner predator."
"Be careful what you wish for, Mr. Sinclair. And from now on, stay the hell off my land."
Sinclair stared down at his clawed hands for a moment, as if wishing for the strength to strike me. Just once. When he looked up, his eyes were as blank and hard as a lizard's. Crippled or not, he was a very formidable man.
"Maybe I will, maybe not. If you want trouble, you came to the right place, sport. When you wrecked my little hut in the forest, you messed with my life. Maybe I'll return the favor."
"I'd stick to dogs, if I were you. They can't shoot back."
I stalked out of the den, slamming the door behind me. Dana Sinclair overtook me in the foyer at the front door.
"I couldn't help overhearing. I'm very sorry about what happened, Professor Dylan, but ... well, you see how he is. Was your dog black and white? A little guy?"
"You saw him? You were there?"
"I'm always there. I have to walk Chandler out to his blind in case his chair gets stuck. He did kill your dog. And others, too."
"Would you talk to the police about it?"
"No! And for God's sake don't tell anyone I told you. Things are hard enough for me as it is."
"Then why do you stay?"
"He's my brother,” she said simply. “When I was a girl, we lived in a lovely home on State Street. Three stories with winding spiral staircases. But after Chan was born, the stairs were too difficult for a wheelchair, so we moved here. One level, easier for him to get around. No one asked me whether I wanted to move. It was all for Chan. And when my father died, he left everything to Chan because he knew damned well if I had two nickels of my own I'd be gone. This is my home as much as his, but I'm just a housekeeper here."
"Sis!” the intercom crackled to life. “Come here, please. My colostomy bag's almost full."
"I have to go. But you'd better watch yourself, Professor. Chan's mean. When he warned you about your house, he wasn't kidding. He'll get even somehow."
/> * * * *
As I backed out of Sinclair's driveway, I noticed a patrol car parked in the turnout at the end of the block. Couldn't see who was behind the wheel, maybe Jerry Landry, maybe someone else. But it wasn't just sitting there, it was idling.
As I drove off, the prowl car pulled out, tailed me half a block, then made a U-turn and drove back to the Sinclairs'. And stopped.
It could have been a coincidence, but I didn't think so. It felt more like a message. That in this town, the Sinclairs had their own private police force. Bought and paid for.
"We're flunking the Hitler test,” Janie murmured. “The law failed us when they left that psycho running loose. We'll have to deal with him ourselves.” I was sitting by her bedside at the hospice. It was noon, but the shades were drawn and the lights dimmed to avoid any strain on her eyes. Her equilibrium was very fragile now. Teetering on the edge of the abyss.
"How do you mean that?” I asked.
"You're the political scientist; how do governments manage a problem like this?"
"Well, if a nation is attacked or its citizens are injured, it can counter with a measured, equivalent response sufficient to deter future aggression. The police actions in Korea and Desert Storm, for example. Or it can act on a massive scale to remove the threat. As in World War II and the second Gulf War. I think we can skip the nuclear option."
"Do any of those apply?” Janie asked. “I can't think."
"I don't think so, honey. Even if we found a way to strike back, would retaliation help the situation or make it worse? I'm not sure the man's playing with a full deck. And he's wealthy enough to cause serious trouble for us."
"More than I have now, do you think? Too bad it didn't happen a few months ago, when I could still hobble around. If I could move, I'd do something about this maniac. God knows I've got little enough to lose."
I caught the savage edge in her tone, and realized her anger was a stimulant, pumping her adrenaline, keeping her mind off the pain. But her judgment was as shaky as her condition.
"Janie, we can't respond with anything illegal. If I get caught, the kids will have no one. The law isn't perfect but it's all we have. We should leave it to them."
She didn't speak for a very long while. I thought she might have fallen asleep.
EQMM, July 2007 Page 2
