Barking Dogs

by R. R. Irvine

  Vicki took a deep breath. The Regulator clock said an hour remained before the network update, barely enough time to interview the teacher and get the tape back to the up-link truck for editing and transmission.

  “Let’s go, Vic,” Manwaring said. “We’re ready.”

  He had placed Miss Iverson at her desk, with Vicki sitting to one side. The desk stood on a six-inch raised platform that made Vicki feel small and childlike again. The camera was behind her, angled so that the photographs showed in the background. After the interview, Holland would shoot close-ups of the dead to be edited in later.

  “Tell us about your students,” Vicki began.

  Miss Iverson, who was sitting very straight, appeared to be staring at the top of Vicki’s head. Her glasses failed to hide the distress in her eyes.

  Vicki started to reach out to her, to comfort her. But the teacher stood up, though Manwaring had asked her not to, and stepped to the blackboard. Vicki glanced at Manwaring to see if he wanted to stop tape and reseat the woman before continuing the interview, but all he did was shrug, a wait-and-see gesture.

  “Defiance fought us for years about schooling their children here,” Miss Iverson said after a moment. “They wanted to tutor their own, they said, but they were too small a community to have the wherewithal. In the end, we had to go to court to get them to send us their children.”

  With trembling fingers she reached out to touch one of the photographs. “This is Dewey Ware. I taught his father before him.” Her head nodded. “I’m working on my third generation of students.”

  Miss Iverson leaned on her fingers until her palm flattened against the snapshot. “You hear things from your children sometimes, things they don’t really mean to tell you, because you’re an adult and an outsider. But if you listen closely, you can hear between the lines.”

  She pushed away from the blackboard in order to touch the next child in line. “This is Oliver Mayhew, named for his father, whom I also had in my class.”

  Vicki nodded encouragement, but so far nothing was usable, not in a forty-second insert. She was about to ask another question when Miss Iverson suddenly sagged against the wall as if to hide her face. Sobs racked her body.

  Holland, Vicki knew, would have been zooming in for a close-up. To hell with Reisner and his rules, she thought, and got up and put her arms around Miss Iverson.

  “You said the children told you things,” Vicki prompted gently and glanced over her shoulder to see if the camera was still running. It was.

  Miss Iverson straightened her shoulders, separating herself from Vicki.

  “We were sitting in a circle during story time,” the teacher said. “We were taking turns, going from child to child when Dewey’s turn came. He changed the story line completely. It stopped being a fairy tale with a prince and princess. Instead, there were machines tearing up the earth and wolves howling in the night.

  “Oliver Mayhew was next in line. He said they were barking dogs, not wolves, that they were trying to protect Defiance from the machines. That’s when Becky Rasmussen spoke up. The dogs would be eaten by the wolves if they weren’t quiet, her mother had told her. After that, all the children were frightened.”

  “We loved scaring one another with spooky stories when we were children,” Vicki said.

  “I spoke with Becky after class. She told me dogs could see things people couldn’t, or so her mother said, though she should have known better. She said dogs could smell out the devil.”

  Vicki started to ask for clarification, then thought better of it and waited for the teacher to continue on her own. “I’ve heard people say Defiance is the devil’s work. Imagine that, in this day and age. They didn’t understand that Defiance wasn’t so much a religion as a way of life. People out there wanted to keep their life simple; they wanted to follow in the footsteps of their forefathers. But that’s not so easy when there’s a lot of money involved.”

  Vicki glanced at Manwaring. The look on his face said he hadn’t heard anything about money.

  “What money is that?” Vicki asked.

  “Defiance has a lot of land, nearly a thousand acres. A big company wanted to build on some of it, but Defiance wouldn’t sell. There was a lot of hard feelings because of the jobs lost.”

  “Are you saying that the fire could have been started deliberately?”

  “I’d hate to think that of anyone.”

  “What’s the name of the company?” Vicki said.

  “Bonneville Industries, they call themselves.”

  12

  AT THE up-link truck, Vicki went to work on the videotape, selecting a sound bite combining wolves and big business. While she did that, Manwaring wrote her script.

  With five minutes to spare before air time, she climbed onto the roof of the truck where Holland and Wilcox had set up the camera. No flames showed in the background this time, only the lights of Ellsworth.

  Manwaring came up behind her carrying the cellular phone. He had Hap Taylor, the late-night producer, on the line, along with a conference call patched through to Reisner at home.

  Manwaring held the phone so Vicki could listen in. Reisner was saying, “Is this as good as we’d hoped?”

  Manwaring summarized the schoolteacher’s interview.

  “Have you got the arson threat on the sound bite?”

  “It’s in my wrap-up,” Vicki said.

  “We’ve got pictures of the dead children,” Manwaring added.

  “Do you think the teacher’s right about the arson angle?” Reisner asked.

  Manwaring looked at Vicki, who shrugged. He said, “There’s not much evidence left to find.”

  “All right, then,” Reisner said. “We’ll do one more follow-up tomorrow and get you out of there. The way I see it, it’s time we started assessing blame.”

  Taylor broke in. “One minute to air.”

  “We’ll start with the fire chief,” Reisner said, “then go after the mayor. First thing tomorrow stick the camera in their faces and ask questions like, Why didn’t they call for outside help sooner? Why didn’t they evacuate Defiance? Why haven’t they caught the arsonist? You know the kind of thing I want. And don’t forget a body count. They must be setting up a temporary morgue by now. Get me some shots from there, maybe some burial footage if it’s available.”

  Vicki sighed. “I know the routine, Herb.”

  “Don’t forget children’s coffins. They’re always good.”

  ******

  Climbing down from the roof of the truck after the broadcast, Vicki felt shaky in the legs. She tried telling herself it was low blood sugar, that she hadn’t eaten anything in eight hours, but she knew better. She was angry at herself, embarrassed too, for not standing up to Reisner. I’m tired of you and your burials, she should have said. You and your love of Taps and flags at half staff. Instead, she’d caved in. I’ll get right on it in the morning, Herb.

  Sure. Anything you say, Herb. Just don’t play Taps for me and my career. Keep me in mind for the co-anchor. Make me famous. Make me rich. Make me the first Garcia to escape the ghetto; make my field-hand cousins proud.

  Manwaring helped her off the last rung. “What’s wrong, Vic? You look pale.”

  “I’m hungry, that’s all.”

  “Try the Teton,” the up-link trucker said. “It wasn’t open yesterday because the cook was hosing down his roof. Now that the wind’s stopped, he’s got fresh smoked ribs. I tried them myself earlier and they’re great.” He belched to prove his culinary judgment.

  Vicki laid a hand on Manwaring’s arm. “Kevin, promise me we won’t do morgue shots.”

  He stared at her intently, then nodded. “Whatever you want, but I have a feeling you’ll change your mind after you’ve eaten.”

  The Teton Inn, a long low building made of rough-hewn logs chinked with concrete, stood on the corner of Main Street and Custer Avenue, a block west of city hall. It reminded Vicki of the Lincoln Log cabins she’d built as a child to hold her dolls.
<
br />   Inside, there was standing room only around the bar, an all-male club. The only women present, besides Vicki and Linda Fisher of CNN, were waiting on tables, several of which were occupied by network crews.

  “I’ll get the drinks,” Holland said.

  Vicki ignored him and pushed her way through the male ranks until she stood at the bar. Flanking her were a pair of good old boys, shit-kicking cowhands by the looks of them. Both were tall and lanky; both wore straw hats, grimy jeans, and sweat-stained work shirts. The one on her right nudged her in the ribs and waved his Coors at the color TV set behind the bar.

  “You look like that Garcia broad we just saw on the tube.” His eyes were bloodshot; he needed a shave; he probably smelled, though she couldn’t tell because of the atmosphere of sawdust, sour beer, and cigarettes. “What about it? Was that you?”

  “Guilty,” she said.

  “You don’t look Mexican.”

  “I’m not.” She signaled the bartender, whose shrug said he was overworked for the moment.

  “You don’t sound Mex either.”

  “Why don’t you shut up for once, Jarvis.” The man who’d spoken from behind him wore an impish smile and a crushed tweed hat. He was half a foot shorter and fifty pounds lighter than the one called Jarvis. “Ms. Garcia shows a hell of a lot more class than you do,” the little man added.

  “Dammit, O’Dell, I didn’t mean anything.” Jarvis looked to the cowboy on the other side of Vicki for support, but the man immediately backed up, holding his hands out in a placating manner.

  “I don’t want to hear either of you using the word Mex again,” O’Dell said. “Unless it’s in a poem.”

  Both men nodded, astounding Vicki. They looked like they could stomp O’Dell into the sawdust without working up a sweat.

  “Sorry,” one said, then the other. They moved to the far end of the bar.

  O’Dell doffed his hat, exposing meticulously combed silver hair. “I’m Grady O’Dell, poet laureate of Ellsworth for lack of a better title. Allow me to buy you some refreshment.”

  “My crew’s finding a table. I was about to order for them.”

  “The service here is much better when you’re seated.” Swaying precariously, he bowed. “Allow me to escort you to your table.”

  “Only if you join us.”

  “I’m like the troubadours of old. I sing for my supper.” He winked. “Recite, actually.”

  “Consider yourself a performer for the American Broadcasting Network.”

  “In that case, why not?”

  Vicki slipped an arm through his and allowed herself to be guided to a table next to the front window where Manwaring, Holland, and Wilcox were already seated. They stood up as she introduced O’Dell as Ellsworth’s poet laureate.

  “Self-proclaimed,” O’Dell amended. “But then there isn’t much competition.”

  A waitress arrived with menus.

  Vicki asked, “What do you recommend, Mr. O’Dell?”

  “Irish whiskey, beer, and Dylan Thomas.”

  Manwaring, who was out of the man’s line of sight for the moment, made a face.

  “You heard Mr. O’Dell,” Vicki said to the waitress who departed immediately.

  O’Dell sat back, cocked his hat over one ear, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. He didn’t open them again until the waitress returned with their drinks.

  The poet raised his glass and saluted Vicki. “To you, Ms. Garcia. I hope to capture your beauty in verse one day.” He tossed back the whiskey.

  Vicki feigned interest in her drink to keep from laughing at Manwaring’s jealous stare.

  O’Dell rose abruptly. “Work in progress, untitled.” He took a deep breath and then spoke in a lyrical voice.

  “A dog’s bark, singularly,

  Glints on the blade of day

  Lying off to sea.

  Another dog, miles away,

  Wakes to the distant bay

  And calls its kind to war.”

  Vicki applauded quietly, staring at Manwaring until he joined in. So far, Manwaring hadn’t said a word since meeting O’Dell. That was producers for you, sulking if they didn’t get their way, if they couldn’t exercise control. But she’d learned to keep them in their place by making them wait for her whenever possible.

  “Now can we order?” Holland said.

  Vicki shrugged.

  O’Dell continued.

  “Up the valleys,

  Through the passes,

  Along the ridges of the hills,

  The hounds rise from sleep

  And dreams of ancient kills

  And screams of deer and growls of boar.”

  Vicki signaled for another round of whiskey.

  “You’re a good woman,” he told her and sat down. “You know an itinerant minstrel when you see one. Pour in the drink and out comes the payment.”

  He started to rise for another recital, but Vicki restrained him with a light touch on his arm.

  “Would you excuse me for a moment,” she said.

  O’Dell jumped up, swaying unsteadily until he grabbed the back of her chair and pulled it out.

  “Why don’t you men order dinner while I’m gone.”

  “Here we go again,” Holland said.

  Absolutely right, she thought heading for the ladies’ room. Make them wait. The longer the better. She veered toward the bar, where she found the man O’Dell had called Jarvis. He and his companion turned their backs and closed ranks when they saw her coming.

  She edged between them. They jumped at her touch.

  “A truce,” she said.

  “We didn’t mean anything before,” Jarvis said. “You tell Grady that. Tell him me and Grant here will apologize again if he wants us to.”

  “I want to know about him.”

  “We wouldn’t want anything bad to get back to him,” Jarvis said, shaking his head until Grant joined in.

  “You have my word.”

  “Like he told you, he’s a poet. He lives out on the old highway, Pitchstone Road it’s called now. When the fire started, he was one of the first to be evacuated.”

  “How long has he lived around here?” she asked.

  They exchanged worried glances. Grant spoke this time. “I guess there’s no harm telling you, since everybody knows the story anyway. Old Grady left Ellsworth right out of high school and went to college, then joined up for the Korean War. That’s where he won his medals.”

  “Which ones?” she said.

  “He was a big hero. He—”

  Jarvis interrupted. “Grady’s not one to brag about those things.”

  Vicki glanced back at the table, where O’Dell was sipping beer. The man intrigued her, particularly because of the respect he generated in others. He had to be twenty years older than Jarvis and Grant, not to mention a runt by comparison.

  “I don’t know how to put this,” she said, “but how come you two backed off when he came to my rescue?”

  Jarvis snorted. “Do you know how he won those medals? He went crazy, that’s how. We could probably take him in a fight. But you don’t risk it with a man like him. Once he starts, you know he won’t stop. Not until you kill him.”

  Vicki was wondering what to ask next when they took off toward the front door. Rather than pursue them, she headed for the ladies’ room near the rear exit. She lingered for a while, back-timing her return to the table. By the time she sat down to dinner, her ribs were cold, and everyone else had finished eating.

  O’Dell looked very drunk but sounded sober. “I’d never seen a forest fire up close before. I could hear it coming, breathing like it was alive. Like it was a creature let loose deliberately to kill us all.”

  “Are you saying someone set it?” Manwaring said.

  He waved away the question with a brusque gesture of his hand. “The dogs heard it coming. I should have listened to them, but I didn’t. If I had, maybe I could have saved those people out there.”

  He pushed aside his empty dinner
plate and leaned forward, resting his head on his forearms. His eyes closed. For a moment, Vicki thought he’d passed out. Then, abruptly, he spoke.

  “I don’t like the sound of city dogs,

  Their yap and clamor like rattling cans.

  The voice of a country hound,

  Echoing across the land,

  Lifts the heart, calls the spirit,

  Makes a forest-walker of any man.”

  O’Dell began to snore, though Vicki suspected that it was a ruse. She was about to poke him when their stringer, Blaine Larsen, entered the cafe and joined them.

  “I see you’ve met our poet,” he said. “Every once in a while I publish one of his works in the Herald.”

  “Someone’s going to have to put him to bed,” Manwaring said.

  Vicki picked up a sauce-covered rib and studied it cautiously. “I hear he’s been evacuated and doesn’t have any place to go.”

  “He’s been staying at the Herald office. Everybody who could took in refugees, me included.” Larsen leaned over O’Dell and propped open one of the poet’s eyelids. “Are you in there, Grady?”

  O’Dell grunted.

  Vicki said, “You’re still on our payroll, aren’t you, Blaine?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Tell us about Bonneville Industries, then.”

  O’Dell opened one eye and said, “They’ll own us all before it’s over.”

  “Before what’s over?” she said.

  “They call it an industrial park,” O’Dell went on, “but there’s nothing parklike about it. No poetry to it at all.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Manwaring said.

  “Bonneville is buying up land to build an assembly plant,” Larsen answered.

  “Did they want Defiance’s land?” Manwaring asked.

  “The site’s nowhere near there.”

  “So you’re saying they had nothing to gain by the fire?”

  Larsen hesitated just long enough to make Vicki suspicious. “Bonneville’s the first good thing to happen to this town in years. Once they build their plant, they’ve promised to hire a lot of local people.”