Here Be Monsters (Tyler Cunningham)

by Sheffield, Jamie

  Plans C through K involved variations and combinations of the first two options, and fit somewhere between them on a sliding scale of trickiness and risk and trusting people that I didn't trust to act in Cynthia's best interest. I considered taking things from George: family, drugs, money... or himself. I thought about approaching one or more of his men/teams with an offer to exchange Cynthia for: their continued freedom from incarceration, money, drugs, not being killed (I had/have no interest in killing anyone, but this type of person might understand and/or respond to this flavor of threat). I thought about bringing Frank in to Smart Pig for a discussion of the situation and see what he could do with the various ingredients I had at our disposal (different chefs can make soup or salad from the same stuff, based on their inclination and experience). I thought about finding/following whoever George Roebuck had entrusted Cynthia with, and affecting her release (similar to what I had done with Sadie, but likely more complex and risky for everyone involved). I wrote these options down as a list, drew them on my whiteboard in boxes, with balloons and arrows and squiggly lines, used the growing numbers of empty coke cans (marked/named with post-its) to represent all of the players and places and their relations... until my head hurt, and then I took a nap on the couch.

  When I woke up I knew how to choose the best course of action, drank a coke from the coke-fridge quickly enough to get a cold-headache, and headed out to the TLAS.

  Tri-Lakes Animal Shelter, 7:48a.m., 9/6/2012

  The TLAS doesn't open until 10a.m. on the days that it's open, but someone on the staff gets there by 7a.m., or a few minutes after, each day to start the never-ending process of feeding and cleaning (input and output maintenance) and exercising and caring for the hundred or so animals that live there at any given time. I rolled up and dumped the Element into a parking spot between the other two cars already there (one was Dorothy's, I didn't recognize the other). I grabbed a box of training treats and some fleece blankets I'd picked up on sale at Kinney’s recently, and headed in through the back door. I found Dorothy lining up bowls along a table, measuring varying amounts of food and pills into each, shook the treats and blanket at her, and wished her a good morning.

  “What, no donuts?” she asked, only partly kidding; Dorothy runs on donuts like I run on coke.

  “Not this morning, sorry, I didn't think to stop at DD before coming over.” I replied.

  “You look good and wired; I can hear you crackling from here... you must be working on something... tricky.” She had seen me come in early before, and knew that it usually meant that I had blocky chunks of thought knocking around in my brain, just waiting to get their edges rubbed off so that they could fit together the way that they were supposed to.

  “You are correct Madam. It is quite a three-dog problem, and I beg that you won't speak to me for 90 minutes, while I let your wildest beasts drag me around the woods!” She made the joke the first time, and now I served it up for her every time the situation came up.

  Without a word, Dorothy headed back into the isolation suite, a series of rooms and pens for the dogs not suitable, for whatever reason, for life in the main kennel, to get my first partner of the morning. I'm never sure if she has a method for picking out, and ordering, the dogs that she serves up when I come in on these days (or if it's entirely random), but it generally works pretty well for me, so I'm not too eager to peak behind the curtain and mess with her system. I could feel the floor shuddering in a series of thumps, like someone rolling a couch down a flight of stairs, as she came back in to the room, smiling at my surprise.

  I generally get down on my knees to meet new dogs, to reduce my size and their perception of me as a threat, and allow them to meet me on their terms; in this case it worked too well. I had time to think, “Wow, Great Dane, Saint Bernard cross... you don't see that every day.” before the hairy beast came up on me, and chest-bumped me over and onto my back. Dorothy let him straddle me and give me some kisses, before reining him in with the leash and allowing me to roll out from under him. Back on my knees, and better braced this time, I got a good look at him: black and white longish hair, tall enough that his chin could have rested on the top of my head in our respective position, broad in the chest like a Saint Bernard, bright eyes, loose skin, feet as big as my hands. He was easily the biggest dog that I had ever been next to in my life.

  “Tyler, meet Gandhi. Gandhi, meet Tyler.” said Dorothy. I laughed, for the first time in days, at the thought of this armored vehicle of a dog being named Gandhi, took the leash, and headed out into the woods with him. We had a spectacular time, once we had worked out some ground rules, and I assured Gandhi that I had enough training treats in my pocket to get us through the woods and back. He ate some logs, dug a canyon, drained the pond by a few inches, and dropped a ten-pound poop. He was able to walk at heel, but preferred to walk a few feet ahead of me; on the way back up the hill to the TLAS, we ran full out, terrifying birds and beasts and, as we broke out into the opening near the shelter, a delivery guy for UPS who must have thought that bigfoot had eaten a bear and was now looking for dessert. We came inside through the back door laughing and smiling and panting, neither of us thinking a bit about Cynthia or drug dealers or doing anything but running and playing with big dogs (or willing humans, as the case may be).

  The next dog was a Saranac Lake Special... Rottweiler/Shepard/Pit bull mix, with maybe a bit of lab mixed in somewhere down the line, as it was black as night; Dorothy introduced him as Mike. Mike made funny snoring sounds when he pulled at the leash, which Dorothy explained was because someone had cut his throat before leaving him to bleed out on the road at Cascade Acres in Placid. I feel and react to things differently than other people do, but I choked/gagged a little when I touched the line of scar tissue under the fur on Mike's neck when I reached to scratch him. I reined him in less than I would have with another dog, to let him pull, and also move faster to prevent the collar from pulling on his neck. Way back in the woods, we sat down and looked up at the clouds for a while (at least I did). Mike turned to face me, leaned in, and rested his cement-block head on my shoulder and sighed. He apparently found some fleas or some such behind my left ear, because he gave me some gentle nibbles until I bribed him to stop with a handful of training treats. There wasn’t much positive training going on between me and Mike, but he didn't hate me for being the same species that cut him, so I figured we were doing OK. We walked back off-trail and snuck up on the shelter through thick woods that smelled like rot, but in a good way. He sat perfectly for me when we got back to the office and gave Dorothy a handful of kisses as she walked him back to his crate.

  When she came out again, I was certain that she had either made a mistake, or was messing with me; she was leading, almost dragging, a thirty pound brownish beagle mix. The dog took one look at me and, all at the same time, pee'd and started barking at me, while shivering and pulling to get away.

  “This is Hope. She doesn't like anybody, but especially hates men. She mostly acts scared, but sometimes that includes biting, so be careful... unless you want me to grab one of the other dogs?” this last bit came out somewhat a question.

  I took Hope's leash and we walked quietly out into the yard behind the shelter, away from the road and parking lot and door. I sat down on the morning-wet ground, let her go to the end of the long lead, put a couple of training treats in a small pile a couple of feet away, and waited. Hope stayed as far away from me as she could, and stared at me as though I were to blame... for everything. She shivered and growled, but wasn't barking now that we had left the shelter, and I wasn't making her do anything or go anywhere. She looked at the treats quickly and then away, careful not to make eye contact with me; I picked up one of the little treats and threw it nearer to her. After a few minutes of just sitting there, with me talking to her occasionally, about the weather or Dorothy or my recipe for bacon-enhanced ratatouille, she moved so slowly towards the snack that it was only noticeable when it disappeared; after which she retreated to the
far end again, shivering and giving little barks and grunts under her breath, ashamed with herself for giving in to temptation in the face of such an obvious threat, and vicious bastard as myself. We sat there for another ten minutes, me talking, her listening, until she slid a bit closer and ate the rest of the treats in the pile. I told her that she was a good girl, and offered her a couple in my hand, which set her shivering again, and air-snapping from a few feet away. I kept talking and not hitting her, and she eventually leaned against my outstretched leg while eating a series of treat-bits that I chucked to the ground right in front of her. She never got within reach of my hands, but neither did she bite me and by the end of almost an hour, she wasn't shivering anymore. I got up slowly and walked around her and back towards the door we had used earlier. Dorothy gave me a look when we walked in, and I told her that we'd done OK, but not great.

  I love these dogs, and wish sometimes that I was able to provide them with a good, loving and stable home; but I can't, so I resolved, as I always do, to visit more, and to try and help the tough ones find forever homes. I thanked Dorothy and joined her for a coke that she made a big deal of getting out of her fridge for me, while she had a cup of coffee during her mid-morning break. She asked about what I was working on, and I told her that although I couldn't talk with her about it right now, that I would love to pick her brain about it sometime soon. She asked which dog I was going to take home, and I told her that of the three today, my favorite was Mike; she tilted her head as though that was a meaningful answer.

  “Did it work?” she asked me in a hopeful tone.

  “Did what work?” I asked, although I knew what she was talking about; I wanted a few seconds to wrack my brain for an answer. I hadn't thought about Cynthia or George Roebuck in nearly two hours, and needed to get my head back in line.

  “Did my dogs do your detective work for you, and if so, when do they get paid?” she said.

  “You know... they did. I've got my answer; I know what to do. The next time I come I'll be bringing a pile of my world-famous cookies as big as Hope.” I answered.

  “Always glad to help.” she said with a smile, as she finished her coffee. “I gotta get back to work, tell me about it when you can, and give me a call if you need to, or need me for anything.”

  George Roebuck's House, 1:23p.m., 9/6/2012

  I went straight back to Smart Pig from the Animal Shelter, guzzled a pair of cokes (taking a minute afterwards to load another case into the coke-fridge), changed my clothes, and washed the dog off of my face and hands before heading over to George's Sandwich place. Once there, I got a ham sub, some chips, and bottled water, and asked for George. I was told that he wasn't in, and that they didn't know when he might be (not too helpful, really); but I wasn't thwarted, I'd done a few minutes research before heading out, and knew where to head next. A person working for the Saranac Lake School District offices owed me a favor for some work I had done a few years earlier, and it took them no time at all to find an actual home address for George Roebucks and also his ex-wife's separate address, with junior; although it was deeper in than I would have thought... PO boxes for grades and address of record, but the emergency contact and forms from their pediatrician had a billing address and phone number for George that seemed plausible. I drove the Element out of the Village of Saranac Lake and away from my well-worn mental maps of the area, out into uncharted wilderness of Oseetah Lake (only a few miles outside of Saranac Lake, but I'd never explored the area much, except for paddling across the lake on my way somewhere else).

  I rang a doorbell, but hearing nothing, knocked on the solid-sounding front door as well. After about 20 seconds I could feel, more than hear, someone moving up to the other side of the door, so I smiled appropriately (#6, earnest, determined, polite, but not overly friendly) at the peephole (the first one I'd noticed in the Adirondacks), and waited to be let in. The man I had seen at the football practice just the other day with Frank opened the door, and gave me a quick examination: looked in my eyes, at my clothes, for a briefcase, mentally checked my age against someone likely to know his son, tried to place me in his own personal socio/economic/employment framework... failed, and then simply asked.

  “What?”

  “Mr. Roebuck? (although I already knew... that's just how these things start) I'd like to talk to you about Cynthia Windmere. More specifically, why she is missing, and what it might have to do with you. More specifically still, how her going missing is related to your involvement in the production and sale of methamphetamine both here and in some towns around the rim of the Adirondack Park.” I had decided to drop a bomb like this in the hopes that he would, if not panic, at least give some indication of his guilt that I could use to aid my advance to the next step in the process that I hoped and believed would lead to a return to normalcy and comfort in Cynthia's and my lives.

  He gave me a stunned five count and an odd bark of a laugh, before opening his mouth to reply; even then, he stopped himself twice before finally speaking. “Well, I guess you're not from the Witnesses or the Mo's or a lost pizza guy. You're not straight enough for a cop, either local or state; and you're not as slick as one of the letter-feds. I heard from my guys that someone was asking for me at the shop, and seein' as you were good enough to buy a sub, I'll ask you in for a minute; but do me the favor of leaving your jacket and backpack here on the front porch and my boy Justin will check you for recording devices. If any of that bugs you too much, you can leave now, and I'll even give you a coupon for 10% off your next sub. How's that sound to you------?”

  “Tyler, Mr. Roebuck, Tyler Cunningham, and that sounds fine to me; if a bit over the top.” I answered.

  I left my coat and bag on the front step, and stepped over the threshold, where a guy a few years younger than me was waiting with what looked like the little radio my father used to have in the bathroom to listen to 1010 WINS Radio while he was shaving in the mornings. The house was huge and flashy inside... lots of light wood and marble and gold fittings and high ceilings. It seemed a little out of place in the Adirondacks, and George seemed a little out of place in it himself; as though he'd seen the whole thing in “Successful Drug Kingpins Quarterly” and ordered it over the phone that night. Justin and the who-knows-what detector didn't like my watch, so I took it off and reached back out the door to drop it on top of my coat. George walked away from me, assuming (rightly) that I would follow, so I did; we went back through a long hallway and an archway to a living room twice the size of the entirety of Smart Pig, and sat at the far end, at an island in a big empty sea of carpeting, made up of a fancy oval poker table with six chairs around it.

  “Tyler, I'm George, especially to people who accuse me of kidnapping and murder and drug-trafficking.” he barked out another laugh, this one sounding a bit like a very large fat man clapping his hands... his voice and heart and mind weren't in it; it was just a place-holder, something to fill space and time. “Sit down and tell Justin here what he can get you while we talk.”

  “A can of Coke would be great, if you have it, but if not, water would be fine. Thanks.”

  Justin left the room, and the rug and space and something else, maybe a white noise generator, ate up the noise so effectively that a second later it was the quietest space I'd been in months, maybe ever. I could hear George breathing, he wheezed a bit. I was used to the sounds of wind and water and cars and people and pipes and AC and old buildings settling, and none of that happened in this room; it felt like it was just me and George, maybe in the whole world.

  “You got that look, like the quiet is zapping you... me, I love it. I couldn't believe how noisy it was out here in the woods when I moved up here from the city... noisy and dark, so dark at night.”

  I didn't want to start this with him getting on top of me, inside my head, so I tried to turn things around a bit, “I like organic, living sounds. This place sounds dead; I couldn't live here.”

  “Enough! Let's talk about that shit you said about me, and why I shouldn't
sue you or worse for sayin' it? If what you said was true, why don't I just make you disappear? Problem solved.”

  “Because my coming directly to you is either clever or stupid, and you want to know which, and to what degree. You also want to know what I know, what I could prove, who I've told, and what I want. It's likely occurred to you that making me disappear too could be a bigger problem than it's worth, so you wanted to talk with me to figure out which. Either that, or you wanted to show off your really big, really quiet, living room.”

  George barked again, “Hawh! Sass, and not scared a lick... like you said, either smart or stupid... maybe a bit of both. It seems like even with your stuff out front, I'd be a chump to do much more talking here... tell me what you think, what you know, what you can prove, and what you want.”

  “I'm going to do just that George.” I said as Justin glided in without a noise, deposited what my nose told me was a bourbon and coke in front of George, cracked an ice-cold can of coke for me (which sounded explosively loud in this room), put it on a coaster on the table, and left again just as quietly as he had entered, “I'm going to lay all of my cards on the table, as it were.” I made a spreading motion of my hands across the felt surface in front of me. “That being the case, I want you to wait until I'm done before you lose your cool and go all Tony Montana on me... deal?” I was trying to push his buttons on purpose, hoping to keep him off-kilter, desperate for just enough time to sell my idea, my plan, to him; he nodded, and drank an inch or so off the tall glass of his drink.