Hobbs and I raced back to the Cruiser. Running without lights, we followed them down 21st until they took a right on Division. After so much time sitting in the car, Hobbs had become semi-acclimated. He still sat at an odd angle, bracing himself for imminent impact, but no longer perspired or made mewling noises.
We were now retracing the route Rabbit Man had taken earlier in the day. This time, nearly all the shops were closed. We passed Do It Best Hardware and Stumptown Coffee, continued on past Dairy Queen, and finally took a left at the light on 60th.
I kept well back, watching their taillights until they turned right onto a short residential street I knew ran up against Mt. Tabor Park. The park was one of the largest within the city limits, with three above-ground reservoirs, many wooded patches, roads, trails, playgrounds, and fields, all grouped around the miniature mountain that gave the park its name.
I turned the opposite direction off 60th and parked. Hobbs and I eased from the car, crossed back over 60th, and jogged along the sidewalk, keeping as much as possible to the shadows. The van was now parked at the far end of the street under overhanging trees.
Closing to within several houses, we slowed to a walk and left the sidewalk, crouching low to move from yard to yard. From two houses away I saw two dark figures open the van's rear doors and manhandle a large rectangular object out of the back. One gripping each end, they lugged it around the side of the van and out of sight toward the park.
Hobbs and I moved closer, taking cover behind a parked SUV. At that moment a slight breeze blew from their direction, and my nose twitched.
"Rabbits,” I hissed. I'd become so accustomed to the smell back in Rabbit Man's neighborhood that I hadn't missed it until it was suddenly back. “What does it mean?"
"Let us find out."
Hobbs leading, we ran at an angle to a low-hanging tree twenty feet to the right of the van. We now had a clear view of the narrow service road between the van and the park. Most of the road was shaded from streetlights, but there were scattered patches of light. Just then the two returning figures crossed such a patch, and I finally saw their faces. It was Rabbit Man Daniel Parkinson and a slim young woman with blondish hair tucked into a stocking cap.
I froze, sure they would glance over and see us. But their attention was focused on the van. Once more they removed a heavy box from the back and started toward the park.
We followed, careful to avoid the lighted areas. I heard Rabbit Man and his companion grunting and puffing as they crossed the service road and reached the park's edge. Here they dropped the box. One of them bent over, fiddling with it. Then both figures were erect again, staring off into the park.
Hobbs raised his telescope, focusing on a lighted stretch of grass thirty feet beyond them.
"As I feared,” he said after a moment. “They are loosing rabbits into the park."
He offered the telescope, and I brought the same area into focus. Sure enough, I saw the leaping legs and tufted tails of small furry beasts scampering off into the darkness.
"What's going on?” I whispered. “What are they up to?"
"They are spreading terror, of course. That is what terrorists do."
It was well after midnight when we followed the van back down Division toward Rabbit Man's house. He and his accomplice had continued their labors until six large crates lay empty at the edge of the park.
"All right,” I said to Hobbs. “What was that crack about spreading terror?"
"That was no crack, as you put it. I suspect Mr. Parkinson and his lady friend are terrorists of the worst sort."
"You mean like Al-Qaeda?"
"That has yet to be determined. You know what rabbits are used for, do you not?"
"Fur coats, of course. And lucky rabbits’ feet. I had one when I was a kid."
"They are also raised for food,” Hobbs said, “and their fur is woven into wool. But their primary use today is in the laboratory. They are, for example, used to produce polyclonal antibodies, or antigens."
"Okay. Sure."
"In other words, they are used to manufacture antibiotics. But they are also employed as test subjects, infected with various diseases in the hunt for possible cures."
I gripped the wheel tighter. “Infected? Like with viruses?"
"Precisely. I fear that is why Mr. Parkinson has been wearing rubber gloves of late. He has infected these animals with a virus harmful to humans, and has now deliberately released them where they are likely to encounter people. Tomorrow, this park will be alive with hikers, picnickers, dog-walkers, and frolicking children. Any and all of them coming into contact with those rabbits will be vulnerable to infection. If not checked right away, such a virus could spread quickly through the city."
"How bad could it get?"
"It depends on the strain, of course. But some are so virulent they could wipe out our fair city and the outlying populace within a matter of days."
"So what do we do? Who do we tell?"
"The Centers for Disease Control, to begin with, and possibly Homeland Security."
"They'd be as much help as Reno 911!,” I said. “We'd have better luck with the Boy Scouts."
"We may alert them, too,” Hobbs said, my sarcasm lost on him. “But first, I wish to put the screws to Mr. Parkinson myself. Perhaps he can be persuaded to reveal the exact nature of the threat."
* * * *
As the van turned left onto 22nd, I went a block further. I wanted to circle around and come at them from the other direction. I cut my lights as we turned onto 22nd and parked several houses away. The van, now facing us, idled in front of Rabbit Man's driveway. Through the windshield I saw the two figures lean toward each other, their faces close. Kissing.
Hobbs made a noise resembling a horse toot.
Rabbit Man and his lady finally broke their clinch. The passenger door opened and he slid out. As if on cue, four dark shapes boiled out of the bushes. Two latched onto Rabbit Man, dragging him up the driveway toward the rear of the house. The other two yanked the woman from the driver's seat and pushed her, struggling, after Rabbit Man.
"What do we do?"
Hobbs chewed his lip. “I don't know. Perhaps that was Homeland Security."
"I don't care who they are. They're manhandling that woman.” I reached behind my seat and grabbed the Portland Beavers souvenir mini-bat I carry for emergencies. I jumped out and sprinted for Rabbit Man's driveway.
Holding the bat low in my right hand, I followed the sounds of the scuffle. Rabbit Man lay huddled on the concrete near his Xebra, while two figures in ski masks kicked at him. The blond woman, her stocking cap gone, had been pushed against the side of the house. One Ski Mask held her arms at her back while the other punched her in the stomach.
"Think you can mess with us?” Punch. “Steal our rabbits?” Punch. “That we wouldn't catch you?"
I slammed the mini-bat across the side of the puncher's head and aimed a kick at his partner's knee. The partner twisted. My kick missed and he thrust the woman at me. I stumbled, about to fall.
Strong arms caught me from behind. A nasally British voice said, “Steady, Watson."
"Wilder,” I said. “But thanks."
The two Ski Masks by the electric car stopped kicking Rabbit Man and advanced. One said, “Who the hell are you?"
"Hobbs.” My friend's fist collided with the speaker's jaw, making a snapping sound. “Skyler Hobbs.” He pivoted and delivered a side kick to the second man's stomach, producing a hearty whoof.
The Ski Mask I'd clobbered with my bat lay groaning on the ground, but his partner came at me with fists flying. I ducked under and buried the end of the bat in his stomach. As he doubled over, I put him down with a chop to the back of his skull.
I swung to help Hobbs. One of his opponents held a knife and advanced like he knew how to use it. The other was just rising from the ground to take Hobbs from behind.
I was about to charge when Hobbs's elbow shot back, catching the rear Ski Mask squarely in the throat. B
efore the man could so much as gurgle, Hobbs's leg snapped out like a cobra and the other man's knife went flying. Hobbs advanced, delivering a flurry of straight-armed punches to the center of the knife owner's chest. The last Ski Mask sat down with a whump.
I said, “You sure you're not the reincarnation of Bruce Lee?"
"That was baritsu, Doctor. Mr. Holmes was an advanced practitioner."
A short siren whooped in the street and we were suddenly bathed in light. Only Hobbs and I were standing. The woman slumped against the side of the house, Rabbit Man lay groaning near his car, and the four Ski Masks were sprawled all over the driveway.
* * * *
By the time the cops got us sorted out, two more squad cars had joined the first. They seated us in three groups, spread out in various degrees of discomfort on the driveway. ID was inspected all around.
Without the masks, I recognized our four opponents as the same we'd seen exit the rabbit house earlier in the evening. They had learned, from an unnamed neighbor, that their beloved pets had been kidnapped by criminals in a dark panel van. In hopes the evildoers would return, they had donned their ski attire and waited in the shadows.
"Why didn't you call us?” the head cop asked.
The rabbit owner snorted. “How much priority would you give stolen rabbits?"
No one had an answer for that. The cop turned to Rabbit Man and his girlfriend. “And what's your story, Mr. Parkinson? You really pinch these guys’ pets?"
"They weren't pets,” the woman said with heat. “They were torture victims. These creeps were selling them to research labs."
"That's true,” Rabbit Man put in. “Sheila and I were merely liberating them."
"Animal rights activists,” I hissed to Hobbs. “And you said—"
"Quiet over there.” The cop shined a flashlight in my face. “We know what these other idiots were up to. Where do you two come in?"
In the process of searching us, the cops had removed my phony dreadlocks. I felt more ridiculous than ever. I'd been hacking for years and didn't have a sniff of suspicion to my name. Now I was about to be busted for public brawling.
"My friend here,” I cocked my head at Hobbs, “is a consulting detective. And in his infinite wisdom, he had deduced—"
"—that these four miscreants were operating a methamphetamine laboratory,” Hobbs finished. “The raising of rabbits was merely a ruse to mask the telltale odor of their chemicals.” This was met with a stunned silence, followed by everyone talking at once. The loudest voice belonged to the ringleader of the gang. “Bullshit! Complete bullshit! He's making that up to save his ass."
I feared that was true.
The cop looked sternly at Hobbs. “What about it. Got any proof?"
"It's right before your face,” Hobbs replied. “If you will inspect the chemical stains on these gentlemen's trousers, I'm sure you will find traces of phosphorus, lithium, and ammonia."
"A meth lab,” Rabbit Man said. “Son of a bitch."
I couldn't have said it better myself.
* * * *
The next evening, Hobbs and I sat in his living room watching ourselves on television. The report by Channel 12, the local Fox station, had been picked up by the cable networks, and we were surfing them all.
For at least the thirteenth time, the pretty reporter said, “You say you are a consulting detective, Mr. Hobbs. Is that something like Sherlock Holmes?"
"Precisely like that,” the television Hobbs replied. “In fact, it may interest your viewers to know I consider myself to be...” dramatic pause, “...a great admirer of Mr. Holmes."
I lowered the volume. “I'm still surprised you didn't spill the reincarnation beans on them."
Hobbs nodded, a bit sadly, I thought. “That, I very much fear, is a notion for which the world is not yet prepared."
"Listen,” I said, “there's still one thing I want to know. When you told me Rabbit Man and that Sheila babe were terrorists, did you really believe it?"
Hobbs clasped his hands, made a steeple of his fingers, and peered at me over the peak. “Crime detection is a science, Doctor, but it is also an art. Claude Monet once said, ‘Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.’ Does that answer your question?"
"Yeah,” I said. “You're not telling. Look, I admit you have what it takes to play detective, but the work you did on this case brought you doodly-squat. How do you expect to make a living?"
Hobbs smiled. “With the publicity this affair has generated, prospective clients will soon be beating a path to my door. And if I am not very much mistaken, I am about to be compensated for my part in this case as well."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Listen, Doctor, and you shall hear the happy sound of feet climbing my front steps.” He paused, allowing me to hear that very thing. “Admit Mr. Parkinson and his Sheila, if you will, and see what they have brought us."
Shaking my head, I answered the knock. Sure enough, it was Rabbit Man and his accomplice.
"We wanted to thank you both,” Sheila said. “If not for you, Danny and I would have been arrested."
Danny, as she called him, attempted a small smile, but it came off as more of a sneer. He was employed, we had learned, as a dishwasher at the Reed College cafeteria. This accounted for his sweaty fingers and sour personality. “Yeah,” he said. “We thought you deserved a reward."
Hobbs glanced at me, raised an eyebrow. You see? “You are too kind,” he said to Sheila.
"Here.” Sheila produced a burlap sack from behind her back. “Something to remember us by."
While Hobbs simply stared, I took the proffered sack, thanked them both, and closed the door. I laid the sack gently on the carpet and loosened the top. Out hopped a fat brown rabbit.
"Congratulations,” I said to Hobbs. “Your first fee."
He had now regained his composure. “Laugh all you want, Watson. But it happens I possess an excellent recipe for rabbit stew."
I opened my mouth to say Wilder and protest the rabbit slaughter. Hobbs stopped me with a wink, picked up the rabbit, and cradled it gently in his arms.
I settled back in my chair. “I'll take the room,” I said. “But he sleeps in yours.” l Copyright © 2010 Evan Lewis
* * * *
Raise a Glass to Sherlock Holmes and the BSI
To complement the Baker Street Irregulars’ festivities to mark the January 6th birthday of Sherlock Holmes EQMM has included in this issue one of the strongest Holmes pastiches that's come our way in recent years (see “The Adventure of the Scarlet Thorn,” page 28) as well as a delightful comic mystery about a modern-day would-be Holmes (see “Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man,” page 65). For the 67th time, members of the BSI (the world's oldest Sherlockian organization) will be banqueting in New York to celebrate the occasion, a copy of EQMM at each seat, as there has been every year since the very beginning.
A toast to all of them from all of us!
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: BOXCAR by Nancy Means Wright
Agatha Award winner Nancy Means Wright is the author of five adult mysteries (all published by St. Martin's Press), a young adult novel, and two children's mysteries. She has also written historical fiction and nonfiction. She brings her interests in history and mystery together here for the story of a widow and a hobo riding the rails, along with a coffin and a mongrel dog. A new Wright historical mystery novel, Midnight Fires, is due in April of 2010 from Perseverance Press.
Still, after an hour in the box-car, the hound kept up a growl, deep in the throat. They'd shoved the beast on at the last stop. Grace was wedged between two sacks in a corner; they hadn't noticed her when they rammed open the door. When it shut she was plunged into darkness. Only gradually her senses returned: to the stench of mold and urine, the skittering of small creatures among the boxes—though mice shouldn't frighten a farmer's wife, should they? Her back ached from something s
harp in one of the sacks. But if she shifted weight, the hound might crash through its bars and her scream would bring a railroad man.
Then what—whack him with Clyde's gold-topped cane? And if they put her off the train, what would she tell the children? Who'd be with Clyde the long way to New York? No, she had to endure the moment. She dragged the softer sack over by her husband's coffin; her weight molded it into a cushion. The dog barked and she held her breath; let it out slowly. “Good doggie,” she said.
At the last minute she'd sold her seat; Clyde had left more debts than she realized. She was shocked at the red ink. The banker, Ollie Runwell, was sober in a black suit, spotted tie—tomato soup, she thought. He said, Yes, Clyde had been there, wanting to borrow money. The banker refused—too much of a gamble in bad times. Anyway, farms weren't selling, Runwell reminded her, not since the stock market crash. Though Clyde had an offer from a neighbor—didn't Grace know that? (she didn't). “But way below value.” He named a figure. She was horrified, but she'd have to accept, turn over most of the money to the children.
It was a two-day journey to Albany, New York; she'd stretch out on the coffin if she had to. It was quiet now, she seemed to have made peace with the dog. Nobody here but herself and the animals. And Clyde. As usual, she thought, almost smiling, he had nothing to say.
Well, he was a quiet man—a religious man. A loyal man, hardly glanced at other women. Hardly at her. The time she came over on the Campania, in steerage: the stink worse than this car, smells she couldn't recognize, though bad cheese came to mind, dead rats, unwashed bodies. Her half-sister Robina dead of some influenza and Clyde writing home to Scotland for her—to help out with his children. The trauma of it for a seventeen-year-old who'd never even seen the city of Edinburgh! When he met her at the boat, he just grunted, swept up her box, strode on ahead to the lighter that took them to Ellis Island. She could smell the onions on him, the pipe tobacco, the garlic. Something stronger—whiskey. Train to Albany, a buggy ride worse than this lurching train to the Vermont farm. He never asked about her crossing, no.
EQMM, February 2010 Page 13
