Ragged Man

by Ken Douglas

  She darted her eyes in all directions. She was trapped. She wondered it if was a mountain lion. She had never heard of them in these woods, but she supposed it was possible. She heard a low growl and her mouth went dry. Her eyes stayed glued to the bushes. They weren’t moving now. Whatever was in there was being still. It growled again, more like a big dog, she thought.

  Afraid to move and afraid not to, she inched away from the bushes on the other side of the creek toward home and safety. The thing in the bushes growled and started to move. She moved a little faster. The pain in her arm was like wild fire.

  The thing roared and she saw a black blur leap the creek and vanish into the pines ahead of her. Oh my god, she thought, it’s between me and the house. Thinking quickly, she reversed her direction-and ran. She was too afraid now to deal with pain.

  She rejumped the creek and started pumping her runner’s legs, dodging tree and bush the best she could, but still getting several scrapes. The thing roared again, giving her an adrenaline rush. Scratched and bleeding, she ran for the sluice with the thing behind her. She felt it closing as she neared the path down the hill. The adrenaline gave added strength. She lept off the hill, landing on her behind in the center of the vee in the sluice.

  The landing knocked the wind out of her, but she had no time to catch her breath, she was sliding down the hill and it was all she could do to keep from tumbling head over heels. Instinctively, she lay back and tried clutching the dirt sides to slow her slide. Failing, she grabbed at thinly growing shrubs, but to no avail. She was going over loose dirt, small rocks were ripping at her clothes and there was nothing she could do about it till she hit bottom. She was frantic. She didn’t think she was going to make it. She was about to give up, when the angle of slide leveled a bit. She used the opportunity to grab onto a shrub with her good hand and managed to stop her slide and catch her breath.

  The few seconds it took her to grab a breath seemed like forever. Any second the thing was going to get her, she thought. She forced herself to turn and look up the hill. It wasn’t easy. She had to push her tired, aching, and damaged body onto its side with her good arm. If the thing came for her, there was nothing she could do. She sat up, fighting the urge to cry out. Sitting, she turned, expecting the worst, but there was nothing there. Whatever it was, it apparently didn’t want to leave the forest.

  She felt exposed on the hill. She felt like she was being watched. Then the thing roared once more and by the sound of it, she was able to tell that it was going away, but for how long? Would it come back? She had to get off the hill. She had to get home to J.P.

  She tried to move, but it was agony. Her arm was screaming. With great care, keeping her feet in front of herself to control her rate of descent, she went down the hill on her backside. It was agonizingly slow work, but she forced it upon herself. She couldn’t afford the luxury of waiting for help. She wanted to get home to J.P. as quickly as possible.

  After a few minutes, with not much progress, she slipped and started to slide. She was out of control, rolling and tumbling in the sluice, screaming against the fear and the stabbing pain. But the careening ride didn’t last long, in short order she was thrown out of the sluice and deposited on the soft beach sand below.

  She tried to stand and found that if she bit hard enough into her lip, it was possible. Then she saw the most beautiful sight, Rick’s red Jeep coming down the beach. Once again he was going to be her savior.

  J.P. shuddered when he heard the animal scream from the forest. He knew what it was and he was afraid, but his mom was out there. He ran toward his mother’s bedroom, tripping on the oval rug in the hallway. He picked himself up and hurried on. He stopped for an instant in front of his mother’s bureau, he was scared shitless, but again he heard that animal roar and he pulled open the bottom drawer.

  He knew what was there, his mom had shown it to him and told him to never, never touch it, but he was going to touch it now. He knew the gun was loaded, because his mom had told him it was. “This is a thirty-eight Police Special,” she had said. “I’m showing it to you, so you’ll know what and where it is. It’s not a toy,” she continued. When he asked her why they needed a gun, she said, “We’re alone now and you never know who might come calling in the middle of the night.” She had gone on to say that she trusted him and his judgment, after all he was almost eight. That’s why she wanted him to see the gun. She trusted him and here he was grabbing it out of her bottom dresser drawer, but he wasn’t going to play with it.

  With the gun in hand, he raced down the hallway, careful not to trip again. He left the hardwood floor and turned onto the wall to wall carpeting of the living room. He skirted around the davenport and coffee table, more afraid than sure of himself, with his little boy’s hot, sweaty hand extended for the front door’s big brass doorknob. He threw open the door, crossed the porch and went down the steps, skipping the last one.

  He didn’t have any farther to go. Standing in front of the house with the sun hanging in the early morning sky, he was confronted with silence. The woods were quiet. He strained to hear the steady drone of forest noises, and hearing none, strained his eyes for movement. His eyes weren’t disappointed. They fixed on the rustle of bushes behind Rick’s house. There was something there. He saw a blur dart behind the pines that extended from behind Rick’s house to the back of his house.

  The birds are back there, he thought.

  “ You’re not gonna get the birds!”

  He bounded up the steps and again raced across the living room, but instead of going into the hallway, where his bedroom and safety were, he turned into the dining room, careful not to bust his shins on the one chair that was always pulled out from under the big round oak table. That table always reminded him of King Arthur and his knights. Now, he was Sir Lancelot on his way to protect his mother from the evil dragon.

  He threw his shoulder against the swinging kitchen door, throwing it inward, without breaking his stride, running across the tile floor into the service porch. He grabbed the back doorknob and tried to turn it, but his hand slipped round the knob. Locked. He let go of the knob, and, with shaking fingers, tweaked the lever in the center of it and turned. Then he grabbed the doorknob and turned, turned and pulled. The knob turned but the door was still locked, deadbolt locked, double deadbolt locked.

  Mr. Keeper at the hardware store told his mom that double deadbolts were better than singles. That way if a thief broke in through the window, he couldn’t get the doors open to take their stuff out. He could hear Mr. Keeper’s voice, plain as the gun in his hand. “There is a danger to double deadbolts though, you can’t get out without a key, there have been children killed in fires, because they were trapped inside.” He remembered old Mr. Keeper telling his mom to be sure your boy knows where the key is kept.

  He had his own key on his key ring, somewhere in his bedroom, but he couldn’t remember where. Then he remembered that his mom had a spare, an emergency key. It was in the cupboard, next to the coffee filters, hanging on a coffee cup hook. He lay the gun on the dryer and ran into the kitchen. He opened the bottom cupboard and using the kitchen counter for a hand hold, stepped up on the lower cupboard shelf. He was too short to reach the top cupboard by himself. He opened the top cupboard door, grabbed the key and pulled on it, breaking the key chain. Then he hopped down and went back into the service porch at top speed, fighting the urge to be scared. Sir Lancelot was never scared.

  Back in the service porch, he fumbled the key in the lock and turned the deadbolt. He started when it clicked, but only for an instant. He grabbed the gun and opened the door. Cautiously, not running, not in a hurry anymore, he stepped out onto the back landing. There was something out there. He felt it. He looked at the loft. The birds usually up and pecking the ground or billing and cooing were silent. Something in the air had frozen them statue still, silent sentinels warning him of the danger out back.

  He descended the steps, no longer Sir Lancelot. He was a cautious Rambo, a nig
htfighter climbing down those wooded stairs, one hand on the railing, the other clutching the gun. The gun that his mother had forbidden him to ever touch. Leaving the steps, he crossed the silent yard to the loft. The sound of his footsteps rang through the quiet morning air. Now, he was only a boy, a scared boy.

  Running his eyes through the inside of the loft, he saw Maverick, a tough male blue bar and his mother’s favorite, by the feeder, unmoving, head cocked, eyes alert. He sensed danger. Dancer, his favorite, was on Maverick’s left in the same position. All the other birds were in their orange crate nests. Never had he seen them like this.

  He walked around the cage, knowing something was out there. He wanted to turn and run back to the house and crawl into his bed, but something told him he was no safer there than he was out back with the birds. Besides, his mom was out there somewhere. He hoped she was okay.

  He saw something move beyond the clearing, twenty feet from the loft. He turned to face it. Nothing there. But something was there, in the bushes. He knew it sure as Maverick and Dancer knew it.

  He took a step forward, squinting into the morning sun. He remembered from the Louis L’Amour stories that his mom read him, that a gunfighter liked to have the sun at his back, and he was staring into it. What would a Louis L’Amour gunfighter do? He would move, try to get a better position. J.P. moved away from the loft, toward Rick’s house, never for an instant taking his eyes of the area where he’d seen the bushes move.

  He stepped sideways, one step, two, three and the bushes moved again. It was only the breeze, he told himself. Then he heard something, a low growl. Black Fang, he thought. Four steps, five, six, seven, the bushes moved again and this time it wasn’t the wind. Eight steps, nine, ten, his angle was better, the sun no longer directly in his eyes. Eleven steps and then the largest animal that he had ever seen gracefully appeared from the bushes as if by magic. It seemed to be walking on air.

  It was Black Fang, the Ghost Dog. Its blue-black, short fur glistened in the sunlight and its red eyes bore into him, like the electric drills that Mr. Keeper sold in his hardware store. He wanted to turn and run, but he stood his ground. Sure as a Louis L’Amour villain would shoot him in the back, this thing would come for him if he ran. He stood fast, meeting its glare full on, afraid to move and afraid not to. If the thing charged him, he was done for. He wasn’t a gunfighter. No way could he shoot. He was a boy and he wanted his mother.

  The blue-black beast raised its right paw as if it wanted J.P. to get a look at it, and he did. He saw the steel-like claws reflecting the sun’s glow like diamonds. It was the animal’s way of telling him it was going to rip him apart. Then it pawed the ground, digging, no not digging, demonstrating its power by ripping up great chunks of earth as easily as one of Mr. Keeper’s buzz saws ripped through pine.

  Paralyzed, J.P. watched as the beast glided toward the loft and the birds inside. J.P. felt a new fear, not fear for himself, but for the birds he loved. The Ghost Dog or whatever it was, was going to kill the birds before it came for him. It was going to rip through the chicken wire cage and turn his birds into blood pudding.

  No way.

  “ No, you’re not!” He was getting mad. The beast was halfway to the cage, taking his time, making J.P. suffer, trying to make him more afraid. But it wasn’t working. J.P. was getting more mad than afraid. He raised the gun, holding it with both hands, like a TV cop. He pointed it at the beast and pulled the trigger.

  The noise was louder than any firecracker and his arms were thrown up and back with the kick of the blast, but he held onto the gun and kept the animal in sight.

  The animal faced J.P. The shot had gone wide and to the right, throwing up a divot of dirt halfway between it and the pigeon cage. The animal looked first from J.P. to the loft, then back to J.P., like it couldn’t make up its mind to go for the birds first, then J.P., or the other way around. Then it turned back to the loft and continued its slow glide to the pigeon cage.

  J.P. brought his arms back down, back into the TV policeman shooter’s position, tried to aim and pulled the trigger again. This time the gun didn’t jerk as much. He was ready for it and had tightened the muscles in his hands and arms. This time the shot didn’t go wide. He hit the beast square in the chest, right where his dad told him to aim, when he’d taken him deer hunting. “Make the shot clean,” his dad had said, “and you won’t have to go crashing through all hell and gone trying to put a wounded animal out of its misery.”

  The beast stopped and regarded J.P. with its red eyes. J.P. saw that it was bleeding. He shot again and missed. The beast didn’t move. He shot again and again hit it full in the chest. His dad would have been proud, but the beast didn’t go down. It stood stock still, baring its fangs, longer teeth than J.P. had ever seen, and he shot again. Another miss. Another shot, another hit, again in the chest. He pulled the trigger again and heard the metallic click that told him the gun was empty.

  He’d seen enough television to know that when the gun was empty you threw it at your attacker. They always did that in old cowboy movies. But that would be dumb, far smarter to run, but that would be useless. He could only stand and watch as the hot breath closed in on him. The animal advanced slowly, no longer interested in the birds. This was no television monster. This was real.

  He saw the Ghost Dog prepare to spring and knew that he was finished. Then he heard the car coming fast. The blue black Ghost Dog heard it too. The car was getting close. It was out front. The Ghost Dog, with a bullish snort, turned and vanished into the woods.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tom Donovan left the freeway at Colorado and turned north toward Pasadena City College. The rented Chevy came with a broken air conditioner and it was hot. He made a mental note to complain to the company about it as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. Even with both front windows cranked down, it was a gesture he had to repeat every few minutes.

  He had been coming to Southern California off and on for the last five years. He didn’t like it. It was too hot and too smoggy, but this time he was excited, as excited as he was the first time he had seen Led Zeppelin that great day in 1975 at Earl’s Court in London.

  He patted his shirt pocket, feeling the folded letter. The letter that was a gateway to a lot of money, maybe a quarter million or more, but the money was secondary, as it always would be when it came to Led Zep. It was the board tapes that he was after. The fact that he would make a small fortune was bloody great, but to hear stereo soundboard recordings of the greatest band on earth before anyone else, that was to die for, and the letter promised him that.

  In his heart he had never forgiven Rick Gordon for scoring Zep board tapes and putting them out. The man cared nothing for the band, didn’t even like them. He was only in it for the money. If anyone should make money off the band, Tom felt it should be him. He hated it that he had put out over two dozen Zep boots and Rick Gordon put out five and made ten times the money.

  True, his own titles were seriously lacking in the sound quality department. They were mostly recorded from the audience, with cheap cassette players, but they were great shows that documented the history of the band. It was also true that before he started doing business Rick’s way, he was slugging along, making barely enough to keep out of work and to keep up his Zep Collection. By signing on with Rick, he’d made enough money so that he wouldn’t have to work for ten, maybe fifteen years.

  But Rick shouldn’t have put out the Zep board tapes without consulting him first. And he never should have put out Earl’s Court. That tape was sacred. That show was the one that had shown him the way. He should have been able to lie in bed at night and listen to it with his headphones and enjoy. He couldn’t enjoy it to the fullest knowing somebody else was enjoying it, too. The true collector lived to have a one of a kind thing. He should have been the only person in the world to be able to listen to that tape.

  “ When are we going to Disneyland, Dad?” his son, named after Led Zeppelin’s famous guitarist, Jimmy Page Donovan
asked from the back seat.

  “ Don’t bother your father,” Sylvia, Tom’s new wife, said.

  J.P. was glad to be with his father. It had been so long since he’d seen his dad. He couldn’t believe it last week when he’d called his mom and asked if she would let him fly to L.A. and spend two weeks in Southern California, going to the beach, Disneyland, Magic Mountain and, of course, the Pasadena Meet. But he was surprised when his dad met him at the airport with a new wife. He wasn’t sure how he should act around her or what he should call her. She seemed nice and he didn’t want to not like her, just because she’d married his dad.

  “ It’s okay, Sylvia,” Tom said. Then, catching his son’s eyes in the rearview mirror, he added, “Just as soon as I meet the guy at the meet and collect the tapes.” He bet his son was the only eight-year-old in the world that knew the true value of a Zep board tape.

  “ Are we gonna listen to them on the way, Dad?”

  “ On the cassette player in this heap? You have got to be kidding. I’ll bet the only time it ever had clean heads was when it was new, and it’s not new now.” If he had his way, they would go back to the motel straightaway after he got the tapes and spend the next forty-eight hours listening non-stop, but he had promised his wife a trip to Disneyland, and she would never forgive him if he put Led Zeppelin ahead of Disneyland. It was a paradox to him that he loved and married a woman that hated the band.

  When he received the letter, two weeks ago, with a sample song from the Montreal ’76 show, he was euphoric. Whoever Sam Storm was, he was offering him a fortune for only a hundred dollars a show. Six shows, six hundred dollars.