Strike Dog

by Joseph Heywood

“We all just might,” another shaky voice said.

  Wind suddenly ripped into the cave, toppling Service onto his side.

  He immediately reached for the wall of the cave, looking for something to hold on to as the man beside him disappeared.

  “Service!” Tatie Monica shrieked.

  Service saw her arms splayed as she was yanked and spun outside by the wind. He jumped on her legs, trying to pin her with his weight, but they both kept sliding and skidded off a slippery ledge, and all he could think was, Shit.

  The water was a shock, much colder than he expected.

  He kicked his way to the surface, saw a boulder looming, and managed to use a hand to straight-arm it as he was propelled downstream, spinning. Where was Tatie Monica?

  No idea how much time had passed, aware only that it was lighter, the rain still coming down in sheets, but there seemed to be more light and a little less wind. A tree crashed into the water ahead of him and raised a spout like a depth charge as objects began to splash all around him. At one point he saw a spotted fawn floating by, its neck bent at ninety degrees. He looked around, saw several people bobbing and splashing in the water, stretched out and swam to get speed, and when he had his stroke going, looked up, saw a gravel bar ahead, and swam onto it, scraping his chin as he beached himself.

  A tech came by holding out a hand and Service got a wrist-lock and yanked him ashore. The man was bleeding from the mouth and nose. He helped a second man ashore and looked upstream but saw no more people. He assumed the others had found a way to safety or were somewhere downstream. The dead fawn was wedged between some rocks just below him.

  He heard shouting, the rain drowning out most of the words.

  “Body bag,” a voice screamed. Service thought it was Tatie Monica, but he had no idea where she was.

  Eddie Waco was soon crouched beside him. “I seen where hit went,” he told Service, who nodded and said simply, “Let’s go.”

  They eased into the water together and began to swim side by side.

  The rising river carried them fifty yards through a narrow neck with a riffle before dumping them into a long frothy eddy. Service saw the bag floating ahead of him and got to it first. Eddie Waco joined him, and the two of them guided it, kicking their way into flatter water, pushing and pulling it toward the cliff wall with the most shoreline.

  “I need a smoke,” Service said, his chest heaving.

  The Missouri man held out his snuff tin. “Why I carry this,” he said.

  Service shook his head. “We need to secure the body.”

  “Not down here,” the man said. “This rain still a-goin’, they’ll be a crest rollin’ downstream.”

  “How high?”

  “Don’t take much ta push ’er up six ta eight feet. I seen as much as twelve a couple times, and back in the nineties she once come way up over thirty.”

  Service scanned the rocks above them. “Another cave?” he asked.

  “Plinty ta choose from, but we need ta get ta one up high enough.”

  The heavy rain reminded him of monsoons in Vietnam, but Waco had nylon rope and carabiners in his waist pack, and located a cubbyhole above them. Service climbed up while Waco secured the line to the body bag. With Service pulling and the other man climbing, and pushing and guiding, they got the body fifteen feet above the waterline and wedged into a space that was more scallop than cave.

  “We ought to check on the others,” Service said.

  “They hain’t safe, nothin’ ta be done about hit.”

  Service stripped off his vest and turned it inside out. He always carried two packs of cigarettes sewn into a waterproof pouch inside the back of his bulletproof vest. He peeled off the vest cover and dug out a pack.

  He reached into his pants pocket and fished out a sealed plastic container of wooden matches. “How long until it crests?”

  “Cain’t say, but she’s a-risin’ pert fast.”

  Service looked down and saw that it was true.

  “The body’s gonna be in bad shape,” Service said.

  “Dead’s dead,” Eddie Waco said.

  Rain continued to fall unrelentingly, and an hour after they had snugged into their perch, they heard a voice shouting along the canyon wall. It was impossible to make out any words. Eddie Waco got outside and inched his way toward the sound, came back, and grabbed his pack.

  “What?” Service asked.

  “Got us a snakebite,” the man said. “Water drives serpents ta cover, same as us.”

  Service lurched and looked around. He was not crazy about snakes. “Poisonous snakes?”

  Eddie Waco said. “Like most folks, snakes don’t bite less’n they’s feelin’ cornered.”

  “Great,” Service said sardonically. One of the comforting things about the Upper Peninsula was the rarity of poisonous snakes.

  The conservation agent put on his small pack and started along the rock wall. Service looked around, began imagining snakes in all the little crevices in the cave, and decided to go with Waco, invited or not.

  It was a long, slippery, and clumsy crawl along the rock face through sheets of cold rain and powerful wind gusts before they reached another conservation agent. “Lady fed got herself bit,” the man told them.

  Service noted they were a little higher than where they had the body stashed.

  Special Agent Tatie Monica was sitting in a hole sculpted from the limestone by nature and time. Her dark hair was mashed to her head like a helmet. Her eyes were rheumy, more from irritation than fear. A crime scene tech was sitting next to her. Every time he reached for her, she swatted his hand away.

  “Tatie!” Service barked.

  She glowered at him.

  “What happened?”

  “Snake,” the tech beside her said.

  “You get ’im?” Eddie Waco asked.

  “She mashed its head with her pistol grip,” the tech said, pointing.

  The reddish-brown earth-tone serpent was piled up between some stones. Eddie Waco found a stick and prodded the reptile, which moved.

  “Jesus, it’s still alive!” the tech yipped, scrambling away from the FBI field agent.

  Eddie Waco probed with the stick again and the snake pulled away. He kept poking it until he uncovered its tail, grabbed it, and snapped the snake backward like a whip. It cracked sharply in the heavy air and he dropped it on the ground, unsheathed a small knife, and cut off its head. “Copperhead,” he announced. “Just a little feller. You’n got heart problems?” he asked Agent Monica.

  “Field agents aren’t authorized in the field if they have heart problems,” she said defiantly.

  “That’s real good to know,” Eddie Waco said. “How ya’ll feelin’?”

  “Stupid,” the woman said.

  “You got pain?”

  “It burns.”

  “Where?” the conservation agent asked.

  “Buttock,” the tech said. “She won’t let us look.”

  “Let’s git thim trousers off,” Eddie Waco said, but he found himself staring at the barrel of a 9-millimeter.

  “You got antivenin?” Tatie Monica asked.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Snakebite kit?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “I don’t want my ass carved,” she said, her eyes rolling.

  “The way it is,” Eddie Waco said quietly, “copperheads don’t kill many people except’n young ’uns and ole folks with heart problems. This ’un’s not too big, which means not a lot of pizen, but even little fellers got enough ta kill flesh and muscle at the bite site. I reckon we need to get what pizen’s in there out right quick afore it spreads.”

  She brandished the weapon. “Nobody touches my ass,” she repeated.

  Grady Service raised his left hand to deflect the barrel of her weapon up, and struck he
r hard on the chin with the heel of his right hand. The pistol came loose and she slumped to her left. He picked up the weapon, popped out the clip, and handed the weapon and magazine to Gasparino, who had joined them, his eyes bulging like jumbo egg yolks.

  Eddie Waco rolled the stunned woman onto her stomach, cut her belt with his knife, and sliced open the fabric of her pants and underpants, skimpy black French cuts, which made Service think of Nantz and gulp.

  The fang marks in her right buttock were small but distinct. The skin was already red, shiny, and swollen.

  “You going to cut and suck?” Service asked.

  “Cuttin’ causes more damage less’n you’n a doctor man,” the Missouri man said, “which I hain’t.” He put down his pack, reached into it, and took out a red bandanna, which he unfolded to reveal a flat, oval rock, white with brown speckles. He set the stone aside and took out a small, single-burner camp stove, connected the fuel canister, and handed a metal container to Gasparino. “Fill ’er with watern, quickety split.” Eddie Waco lit the burner, which hissed.

  Gasparino crawled clumsily down to the raging river, filled the cup, and passed it up. Waco took out another cup and filled it from a flask. He put the second cup on the burner, took some antibacterial soap out of his pack, washed the wound, and blotted away excess moisture.

  Tatie Monica tried to roll over, but Service pressed her shoulder down. “Keep still,” he said.

  “Don’t cut me,” she muttered, with the side of her face pressed to the ground.

  “Be no cuttin’,” Eddie Waco said calmly.

  When the liquid boiled he put the stone in it and let it bubble for a while. He took his Leatherman tool off his belt, opened it to form pliers, and extracted the rock, which had turned pure white from heat. Eddie Waco looked at Service, saying, “Bes’ hold ’er down.” Then to her, “This might could smart some.”

  He took the stone in his glove and pressed it to the wound, where it seared the flesh. Tatie Monica bucked and cursed, “Fuckers!”And passed out.

  Service turned his head to avoid the smell. “What now?” Service asked. It was still pouring, but the wind had slackened.

  “We wait,” the Missouri agent said.

  Service had no idea what was going on. “Is this for real?”

  “I seen it done afore,” he said. “You got a better idee, Michigan Man?”

  Service didn’t.

  Waco turned off the heat under the boiling liquid, picked up the flask, and handed it to Service. “For what ails you’n.”

  Service took a sip, swallowed, felt the fire bloom in his stomach. Eddie Waco also took a sip. “White mule yella corn,” he said. “Best there is, aged some eight years.” He held the flask out to Service again, who held up a hand.

  “I’m good.”

  Service pointed to the stone on the FBI agent’s right buttock. “What is that?”

  “My great-granddaddy done shot him a white deer, found hit in the animal’s belly, done passed hit down to my daddy, and Pa done passed hit on ta me. People down this way use such stones for the rabies.”

  “It works?”

  “Sometimes, but hit’s plenty good for snakebite, you git ta hit soon enough and there hain’t too much pizen.”

  “What’s it called?” Service asked.

  “Madstone,” the man said.

  “You believe in witchcraft?” Service asked.

  “I don’t, but if’n I was in a pinch, I’d ask a witch for help, wouldn’t you’n?”

  Service nodded, knowing desperation was more the mother of invention than pedestrian need.

  The tech left Service and Eddie Waco alone with Monica. “She’ll live,” Waco said. “Who be in the bag back yonder?” he asked.

  “Don’t know,” Service said. “I just got a quick look when the storm blew in.”

  They sat for two hours, and when the stone fell off the agent’s bare flesh, Eddie Waco reheated the stone in the alcohol, which turned green, and applied the madstone again.

  “Maybe the stone cauterizes?” Service offered.

  “I hain’t much on science,” Eddie Waco said.

  After forty minutes, the stone came loose again. This time Eddie Waco repeated the process, but the alcohol remained clear and the stone wouldn’t stick. He wiped it dry with the faded red bandanna, meticulously refolded it, and carefully put it in his pack. “Snake didn’t get much inta her,” he said. “She’ll be fine, but we best git her outside to the hospital.”

  Service looked up at the sky, which was still roiling, but there were devil’s smiles beginning to slice into the canyon, turning the water below them to quicksilver.

  “How far to the get-out by boat?” Service asked.

  “I reckon six mile,” Eddie Waco said, “but with the watern up, they’ll be a heap a’ trees pilin’ up in the narrers.”

  “The poison works on the heart, right?”

  The Missouri man nodded.

  “We gotta keep her still, limit exertion.”

  “Weather clears, we might can get a chopper in,” Eddie Waco said. “Have ta mule her up top, but we got enough men for thet.”

  “No boats?”

  “Too risky,” the conservation agent said. “Would take too long.”

  The water looked like it had come up five feet and was still rising.

  “She’ll peak in two, three more hours, drop pert fast after thet.”

  Service found Monica’s radio and gave it to the man. “Can you arrange pickup through your own contacts?”

  “Not thim feds?”

  “A fed left us here,” Grady Service reminded him. “We can get the body and her out at the same time.”

  Eddie Waco nodded and started trying to radio for help.

  Tatie Monica stirred beside them. “No cuts,” she mumbled.

  “No cuts,” Service said. “Just a little brand for a keepsake.”

  She whined. “My ass.”

  “Think how good it’ll feel when it stops,” Service said. “Let’s get some trousers from the others,” he said to Eddie Waco.

  “Just gon’ cut ’em off when they get her inta the whirlybird,” the man said.

  “Looks like you get to moon the world,” Service told her.

  “My mother would just die,” she mumbled.

  “P’int is, ya’ll don’t,” Eddie Waco said.

  It took two hours to get the agent and the body bag on top of the bluff, and by then a Missouri Highway Patrol Huey was waiting with a medical team. Gasparino looked disoriented and Service couldn’t blame him. The past few hours had been tough. Service sent two techs with the body. Tatie Monica was mostly awake, but far from alert, and offered no resistance.

  They watched the helicopter rev its rotors, lift a swirl of debris, and lumber away.

  “Missouri emblem on the chopper shows two bears,” Service noted.

  “They musta snuck up from Arkansas,” the conservation agent said with a grin.

  Service called over to the lead tech. “You recover photos?”

  “Cameras are with our gear,” he said, “if the wind didn’t carry it all off to Kansas.”

  “Wind comin’ from t’other direction,” Eddie Waco pointed out.

  The refrigerated shelter had been shredded. Pieces were pasted like confetti in trees, the metal frame posts twisted and bent. There was no sign of the generator. The crime scene techs’ gear was scattered, but most of it had been blown inland. The tops of some trees upriver had been severed by wind shear. Eddie Waco surveyed the trees, said, “Twister jes sorta skipped over top like a flat rock.”

  The chopper had gotten in and out, but the leaden sky continued to threaten, and from time to time they heard thunder and saw flashes of lightning. It took the lead crime scene tech thirty minutes to find the plastic lockbox with the camera and digital crime sc
ene photos. Why hadn’t Tatie Monica brought the camera with her when they hauled the body down from the top of the bluff? Panic? Service and Eddie Waco sat on a downed tree and opened the box. The Missouri conservation agent studied the photographs and handed them back to Service without comment, his tanned skin looking a lot lighter.

  “Somebody you know?”

  “Agent Elray Spargo,” Waco said with a sigh. “Elray was a card-­carrying comminist lib’ral atheist, a by-God, down-to-the-bone secular humanist, which hereabouts is akin to bein’ the devil. All that mattered to Elray was the law. That was his only religion, and he wrought legal hell on lawbreakers.”

  “He made enemies?”

  “Most a’ which he sent off to jail. After more’n twinny year, he purty well had control, an’ ever-body knew it. Loan me one a thim cig’rettes a’ your’n?”

  Service held out a pack.

  “I got me this feelin’ they’s more ta this thin just Elray,” Eddie Waco said.

  “Yeah?”

  “You gonna say different, Michigan Man?”

  Service shook his head. “It’s a federal show.”

  “Way we see hit, kill one a’ our kind makes hit our show.”

  Service understood and sympathized, but did not tell the man what he knew. “I hear you,” he said.

  “We best mosey,” the Missouri game warden said.

  “I thought we had to wait for the water to recede.”

  “I thought we’d take us a walk. Thim others can wait an’ take the boats out.”

  Service called Gasparino over. “Agent Waco and I are walking out. Special Agent Gasparino, I guess that makes you in charge.”

  “Me?”

  “Wait until the water level goes down and take the boats downstream.” Service gave him Tatie Monica’s handheld radio. “You’ll probably have to wait for more boats to help haul everything out.”

  Gasparino nodded solemnly. “Where are you two going?”

  “Things ta tend to,” Eddie Waco said, standing up, putting on his pack, and offering no further explanation.

  “What about more tornadoes?” the young FBI agent asked.

  “Might be, might not,” Waco said. “They come, you best find cover.”

  “What if somebody gets snakebit again?”