by Robin Lamont
* * *
Heather quickened her pace as she left the farmers market, forty-six dollars in tips tucked in her jeans pocket. Her parents thought she was going for a soft-serve with Rachel.
She crossed the stone bridge over the Winooski River, made a right onto Summer Street, and walked down the residential street to a three-story clapboard house. The wood window frames were rotting, and weeds sprouted up between the uneven bricks in the sidewalk. An older model blue Grand Prix with a long gouge on the front fender was parked in front. With a quick glance behind her, she climbed to the third floor. His apartment was in the back and he’d left the door open a crack.
Afternoon light came through the grimy windows and pooled on the linoleum floor of the kitchenette where some liquid had spilled and hardened. The place smelled of roach spray and cigarette smoke. Bobby Gravaux spoke from the shadows in the corner. “What took you so long?”
“I told you, I had to do the market today,” said Heather. She traipsed over to the mattress on the floor where Bobby sat, ankles crossed, his back against the wall. “What happened to your car?” she asked.
“Some asshole side-swiped me.” Bobby’s voice was smooth and ripened. So was the way he moved and the way he looked in his trademark black leather vest. A thick lock of wavy brown hair fell across his brow and he brushed it back with long fingers.
“Guess what?” asked Heather. “Tyler is an undercover investigator. He was working undercover at the lab over on 107. Do you fucking believe that?”
Bobby pulled a half pack of Marlboros from his vest pocket, tapped out a cigarette, and flicked a disposable lighter to the tip. He drew in a lungful of smoke and exhaled lazily. “So?” he asked.
“So, isn’t that like totally insane?”
“How’d you find out?”
“Some woman came looking for him today. She’s with this group he works for. She said it does animal protection things, but I think only hardcore animal activists go undercover.”
“What’d you tell her?”
“I told her I don’t know where the fuck he is. That I haven’t seen him since that night.”
“You tell her what happened with Tyler?”
“Nothing more than what my parents know. Christ, my mother was standing right there. You haven’t seen him, have you?”
Bobby shook his head, but Heather wasn’t sure she believed him. “Isn’t that crazy, though? Under-cover,” she intoned, wiggling her fingers in front of his face. “Like a real spy.”
Gazing at her through narrowed eyes, Bobby asked, “Is that a turn-on for you?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I just … think it’s crazy.”
“Yeah, crazy,” drawled Bobby with another smoky exhale. Then he held out his hand, “Come ’ere, baby.”
Heather let herself be pulled down onto the mattress where, without moving from his fixed position, Bobby kissed her, thrusting his tongue slowly and luxuriously into her mouth. She responded in kind, and soon he was unzipping her jeans and pulling them off, ready to devour her. She wriggled away, saying, “I wanna do up first.”
“Naw baby, then you ain’t interested.”
“I will be, you’ll see,” pleaded Heather. She sweetened the deal, leaning in to run the tip of her tongue across his lower lip.
Bobby balanced his cigarette across the top of an open soda can and reached over to get a kit from the floor. The pale hairs on Heather’s neck rose in response like tiny cilia seeking nourishment. He tore the sterile cellophane wrappings from the spoon, the vial of distilled water, and the acidic solution. Bobby relied on prepackaged injection kits – his livelihood was too important to risk infection just to save a buck here and there.
He emptied some grains of heroin into the spoon and added the water. Before he began to heat it with his lighter, he tossed a rubber tube to Heather, who grabbed it and with practiced hands tied it around her upper arm. She watched with hungry anticipation. When the brown juice was ready, Bobby drew it up into a new syringe, tapping on the glass to remove any bubbles. Then he fed it into Heather’s waiting vein.
Almost before he had withdrawn the needle, Heather lifted her head, a beatific expression spread across her face. She closed her eyes, feeling as though the softest, warm blanket had just been draped around her body. She was floating and everything around her was perfect.
“You good?” asked Bobby.
“Yeahhh. Good.”
“Tell me about the woman asking for Tyler.”
Heather responded with a quiet moan and shook her head. She couldn’t be bothered now. She just wanted to be inside herself, cradled in God’s arms, all the expectations and conflict vanquished.
“Don’t get too used to it, baby,” crooned Bobby. “You’ve only got a chicken shit habit now. Let’s keep it that way.”
He left Heather lolling on the mattress and picked up her jeans. He rifled through the pockets and found her tips, counted out twenty dollars, then reconsidered and added two fives. She owed him from last time, too. Bobby stuffed the cash into his pocket and drifted into the kitchenette to get himself a bowl of cereal.
He ate standing up, watching the first drops of rain hit the river and turn it from muddy green to black. Tyler Jeffries was an undercover investigator for animals? Sonovabitch.
CHAPTER 8
That night Galvey’s pulsed with energy. A band from Burlington was hammering out a cover of a hot country duo from the elevated stage, and the young crowd, a mix of wanna-be hipsters from the community college and some of the locals, were geared up to blow off steam at the end of the workweek. All were having fun, dancing and getting drunk.
Jude pushed her way up to the bar and studied the chalk board that listed the beers on tap. She tried to catch the attention of one of the bartenders. Finally, a girl with a lip piercing and a long, black braid came over.
“I’ll take a Magic Hat,” shouted Jude.
The bartender nodded and brought back a tall, frothy glass of the amber ale. Before Jude put her money on the counter, she thrust the photograph of Tim in front of her and asked, “You seen him around recently?”
The girl toyed with her lip ornament for a moment, giving Jude the once over.
“Not a cop,” Jude read correctly. “Just a friend.”
Eyes whisking over the photo, the bartender said, “Not for a few days.”
“How many days?”
“I don’t know. A week, maybe? I don’t work every day.”
Thanking her, Jude picked up her glass and held it aloft to keep from spilling while she jostled her way to a spot along the wall as far from the band as possible.
It wasn’t that she minded the music. In fact, she liked country music, especially the old artists like Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash. Friends often made fun of her preference for the traditional sound, but regularly jolted by the latest cruel and capricious ways animals were abused, she was comforted by country’s predictability. The same cadences and stories, music that was sure and steady, something in her life she could count on.
Tonight, however, she wasn’t here to enjoy the music and needed to position herself near the entrance where she could see who was coming and going. She didn’t know exactly who she was looking for and wasn’t holding out hope that Tim would appear, but Galvey’s had been mentioned more than once as a place he hung out. In her job, if you were patient and kept your eyes open, sometimes a lead would surface.
The band had launched into its second set and the place was rowdier than ever when Jude spotted a familiar face. Indeed, who could miss the flaming red hair that was now free of its laboratory hair covering? Sylvia, the tech from Amaethon, came through the door with two girlfriends. The three women pranced across the dance floor and up to the bar, where they ordered shots of tequila. They were soon joined by a couple of guys. When Sylvia’s pals drifted off with them onto the dance fl
oor, Jude made her move.
She gently elbowed her way up to the bar next to Sylvia and ordered another draft beer. Then, as if running into the Amaethon tech was a surprise, she said, “Oh, hi. Remember me?”
Sylvia remembered all right. “Did you find Tyler?” she asked. “I’m sorry about your father.”
“Yeah, well,” hedged Jude. “You want a drink? It’s on me.” She pointed to Sylvia’s empty glass.
“I can pay,” she replied warily.
“No, let me get it.” Jude motioned to the bartender to bring another round for her friend, then faced her.
Sylvia’s eyes were bloodshot and there was high color in her cheeks; Jude guessed she’d been drinking before she arrived. “I know you couldn’t really talk before, not with your bosses standing around. Neither could I,” she added, projecting over the noise. “Here’s the thing. I didn’t exactly tell them the truth, which is I’m not really Tyler’s sister. We both work for an animal protection organization. You probably know if you’ve worked at other labs that they don’t always treat the animals well. So, um, Tyler – actually his name is really Tim – was there to see how Amaethon is doing in that regard.”
Sylvia looked at her strangely for a moment as if she had misheard. Then she said, “We do not abuse animals at Amaethon.”
“I’m not accusing you of anything,” Jude replied.
After a moment to take in Jude’s confession, Sylvia asked, “You’re telling me Tyler was an undercover animal rights person?”
“Guess you could say that.”
“Holy shit.”
Their drinks arrived, and Jude tipped her glass against Sylvia’s. “Cheers,” she said brightly.
“It’s the God’s honest truth?”
“God’s honest truth,” said Jude.
Sylvia’s face twitched and a giggle erupted from her throat. “That is sick!” she said, starting to laugh. “That is so sick.” She collected herself and asked, “What is his real name again?”
“Tim.”
“And your name isn’t really Emily, is it?”
“No. It’s Jude.”
A new bout of laughter overtook Sylvia. She wiped her eyes. “I don’t know why I find this funny. It’s just … so weird.”
“Yeah, a little weird,” concurred Jude. She felt in some odd way that she was making progress. “But it gets weirder, even. Because we don’t know where Tim is, and we’re concerned that something’s happened to him.”
The tech downed her shot quickly, and while her throat adjusted to the burn, stared at the empty glass … buying time. Jude was sure she was holding back, but by now recognized that it wasn’t just the alcohol; the girl was so stoned she might not be able to organize her thoughts well enough to pick and choose what to reveal.
Jude decided to help her out. She leaned in and asked, “You have any ideas? Like, for instance, you have any reason to think that the bosses at Amaethon, Dr. Ostrovsky and that other guy Mr. Byer could have known or suspected that Tim was undercover?”
“I doubt it,” offered Sylvia. “If they did, he would have been out on his ass.”
“And how about Tim? Did he seem his usual self or did he seem bothered about anything?”
“Well, now that you mention it, the whole last week he did seem kinda sketchy.”
“Sketchy, how?”
“Oh, rushing through everything, like he kept forgetting to make notes on the humidity and temperature charts. And he got crazy about one particular dog that we called Bailey. We’re not supposed to give them names, but we do.”
“What was the matter with Bailey?”
“He wasn’t doing well.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was blood in his stool, and he wouldn’t eat. We had to hand feed him so he’d get the proper dosage.”
“Of the heart medication? That’s what you’re testing, right?”
Sylvia hesitated. “I’m not sure I should be talking to you,” she said warily.
“I don’t care about Amaethon,” responded Jude. “The undercover thing is over. I’m only interested in Tim, and I need to understand his state of mind.”
“Okay,” Sylvia said cautiously. “So, what’s your question?”
“What happened with Bailey?”
“He died.” She swigged the last few drops of tequila.
Jude had an overwhelming urge to heave her glass against the bottles lined up behind the bar. The sudden concussion of smashing glass might have obliterated the image of Bailey, a brown and white beagle with soft, floppy ears. The patrons’ shrieks might have blocked out the knowledge that he and the other dogs, most of them barely six months old, were bred to be used as living petri dishes. Bred to be dosed, then coolly monitored as they sickened, and finally to be disposed of when the experiment was over. The sense of human entitlement sometimes made Jude want to shatter things.
But tonight, she needed information. Jaw clenched, she asked, “Do you think Tim is still in the area?”
“I have no idea.” Sylvia finally made eye contact now that Jude had moved on to more solid ground.
“He didn’t give you any indication that he was going to quit?”
“No.”
Wafting scents of sweat and perfume, Sylvia’s friends breathlessly rushed back to the bar.
“Hiya,” said Jude cheerily. “I was talking with Sylvia here. Either of you ladies know Tyler Jeffries?”
“Who?” asked one girl.
“What does he look like?” asked the other.
“Curly brown hair, six-two, nice looking … you know who I’m talking about?”
Both girls tittered and shook their heads. They seemed hyper and unable to focus. One of them poked Sylvia gently with her elbow and said, “Hey, you need to use the bathroom?”
The second girl jumped on the idea, “Yeah, I have to pee,” she agreed, giving Sylvia a knowing look.
About as subtle as a Humvee; the eyes on both of them weren’t just bright – they were ablaze, red-rimmed, pupils huge. They were miles high on something, probably coke, and aiming to snort a couple more lines in a bathroom stall.
Sylvia was good with that and said to Jude, “Well, sorry I can’t be of more help, but … I do have to use the ladies’ room, so …”
“Hold on,” said Jude, putting her hand on Sylvia’s arm. “Before you all go hit up, I gotta ask you something.”
“Don’t know what you’re–”
“Spare me, okay? I’m not a cop,” she said, for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. “Listen, I got word that Tim was involved with some heroin. I don’t know if he was or not. But if he was, where around here would he get something like that?”
The women checked in with one another before shaking their heads.
“Come on,” chastised Jude. “You ladies have been around, you know what I’m talking about. Just give me a clue, if not a name, a coffee shop, a street corner, I’ll make my own inquiries. No one will know it came from you.”
“No, we don’t know about that,” said Sylvia.
“Unless, maybe, Tim was getting his smack from you,” said Jude, louder than was necessary.
One of her friends leaned in and said, “You could ask around for Bobby G.” She said his name with a smile that made Jude think she was smitten.
“Shut up!” cried Sylvia, smacking the girl on the arm.
“Where might I find this … individual?” asked Jude.
“Jesus Christ,” barked Sylvia to her friend. “Uh, we’re done here.”
“Okay, okay,” Jude said, holding up her hands in surrender. “Listen, if you think of anything or hear anything about Tim, I’m staying at the Riverside Motel, room 210.”
Sylvia scooped up her pals and steered them away.
Watching them blend into the dancing crowd, Jude
wondered what Sylvia was hiding. It would make sense that she didn’t want to name her drug supplier, but she’d been uncomfortable even before that.
The space occupied by Sylvia and friends was soon taken by a couple of flushed young men who eyed Jude admiringly and appeared poised to strike up a conversation.
Muttering an excuse, she put her half-finished beer on the bar and headed out. At the door, she looked back over her shoulder. Maybe I’m reading too much into it, she thought. Who wouldn’t be defensive talking about force-feeding dogs just to see how sick they’d get? Who wouldn’t want to smoke something or pop a pill that could make you forget what you did all day?
She watched Sylvia – head thrown back, red hair dancing wildly to the music, not caring if she had a partner – and had the feeling that the dogs weren’t the only ones who were suffering.
* * *
Four months earlier on a warm evening in May, Jude kicked off the damp sheet on her bed and arranged the pillows behind her for better back support. For a moment, a distant siren crowded out the chirping of urban crickets outside. She wore nothing except one of Tim’s old denim shirts. It was soft with the color bleached out from a hundred washings and it smelled of him: earthy and sweaty underneath the “fresh scent” of laundry detergent.
She settled herself cross-legged and ran her finger down the list she’d prepared on a legal pad. “Come back,” she hollered. “We still have a lot to go over.”
From the kitchen, she heard the refrigerator door open and close several times. “What are you doing?” she called impatiently.
Tim wandered into the bedroom, buck naked, holding a dish piled high with broccoli and carrots. “Getting something to eat,” he said. “Want?” He held out the dish.
She shook her head. “Let’s go over the video systems again.”
“Let’s not.” Tim stretched out next to her and continued crunching on his snack. Finn padded in and dutifully sat next to him, hoping he would share.
Jude looked over with mild disapproval and asked, “How can you eat broccoli raw like that?”