Disciple of the Dog

by R. Scott Bakker

  I know that you buy into all that “go with your gut” or “follow your heart” bullshit simply because I see versions of it everywhere, from tampon commercials to Palme d’Or—winning cinema. But I remember all the instances where my instincts have been dead wrong, not to mention the instincts of those around me. Given that your bean is a cherry- picking machine, you remember only what confirms your assumptions. So of course you think your gut is a pretty good one, especially when you’re full of shit.

  No. I wasn’t going to listen to my instincts on this one. I’d spent too much time with my thumb up my ass as it was. When it came to the Thirds, I needed to review things, maybe talk to Tim ... Dutchie.

  I imagined he was pretty pissed.

  As for Nolen, well, I supposed he was pretty much out of the picture. The Bonjour investigation would be handed to Jeff Hamilton, his deputy chief, and it would probably take a day or two to re-wrangle things. I probably couldn’t count on the kind of assistance I had enjoyed so far: he struck me as a hard nut. Since I was the Bonjours’ man in the field, he would have to extend me certain courtesies—regular updates, the odd heads-up here and there—but copies of official statements? Fat chance. He would be too bent on proving himself.

  The gathering media storm could change all that, of course. The positive was that it could turn Dead Jennifer into a national celebrity, and so enhance the chances of catching a break from someone who knew something without realizing they knew anything. The biggest negative was that it would slowly starve the Bonjours of emotional oxygen. The second drawback was that it would politicize the investigation. The simultaneous promise and threat of optics would bring in the Attorney General, state law enforcement, the FBI—as sure as shit.

  Sooner or later, the heavy hitters would roll into town, and the “courtesies” they extended me would become more and more ornamental. Backslaps and grins tend to make me especially prickish.

  Besides, I wasn’t sure how much “media scrutiny” a tarnished fuck- up like Disciple Manning could bear. I would look good on TV—that much was certain. For that reason alone I would probably be forgiven quite a bit, at first anyway. The world really is that super-fucking-ficial. But if they started digging...

  Yup. I would be well and truly fucked.

  There was a real issue here. An animal’s habitat is defined by the range of environments that allow it to squeak by. Feed and fuck, basically. So far I had been able to do both quite nicely. But things had changed radically, and were about to change even more radically still. The media sun was about to burn very hot and very close. The question was whether I could continue playing a role in the environmental collapse to come. Whether I could be a plus. For the case. For the drug-and-bimbo-binging travesty I call my life ...

  Would it be possible for me to run a clean private investigation?

  Not bloody likely.

  In any event, it was already too late. At the time I had thought myself pretty clever, gathering both “donations” and information with the toss of a single fraudulent stone. Vegas, baby. Now I wasn’t so sure. I could even see the news caption:

  PRIVATE DETECTIVE DEFRAUDS RUDDICK RESIDENTS OF THOUSANDS

  Yeesh. What was I thinking?

  Certainly not about CNN—that’s for damn sure.

  The dismay came across me slowly—catastrophic realizations may outrun their emotional implications, but they never outdistance them.

  Unless something decisive fell into my lap, and soon, I was going to have to cut and run ...

  Fawk.

  “Amanda ... It’s me, Disciple Manning. I’m afr—”

  “I know... I h-heard... It’s on the news...”

  Owich.

  God hates me. That’s gotta be it. God hates me because I don’t believe in him.

  “My baby. “ She started weeping. “M-m-my ...”

  “Amanda,” I said sternly. “I know this is the worst of possible times, but we have to discuss money. I’m running out of dough down here.”

  I know what you’re thinking. You bastard. The woman has just discovered her daughter is dead, that her daughter’s fingers and toes have been turning up across an obscure industrial burnout of a town, and you’re asking her to cut you a cheque—when you’re already flush with the cash you scammed!

  But that’s not it at all. I would cash the cheque, eventually, but that’s not the reason I brought up money. Money is cold, and more importantly, money is routine. Like I said earlier, that’s what makes money talk such a great way to throw cold water across overheated or overwrought clients: it reminds them of the reason they came to me in the first place.

  Amanda Bonjour had an important decision to make. I may have known that I was investigating a murder all along, but as far as she was concerned, I was hired to find a missing person. That missing person— or parts of her, anyway—had just turned up dead. Amanda had to decide whether she wanted to keep me or to cut me loose. Bringing up money was just a way to calm her down so that she could make that decision rationally, responsibly. I was charging her my highest rate, after all.

  And it worked. So fuck you.

  Her voice seemed to waver from a wire. “Um”-—a viscous swallow— “c-could you tell me what you know?”

  And you know what? I told her pretty much everything I’ve told you—everything short of her husband, her daughter, the basement, and the bottle of bourbon. At some point the memory of her tying her shoe in my office entrance just rose and stuck in my mind’s eye, until it seemed that was who I was talking to, Mandy silently crying while tying her shoe. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t lie to that image as I couldn’t hurt it ... couldn’t cheapen or demean.

  Whatever dignity truth does possess comes from tragedy. It’s all bullshit otherwise, without pain to do the sorting.

  She wasn’t worried about money, she said. She just wanted to know what had happened to her daughter. She understood if I wanted to fold my hand and clear out of town—she didn’t want me to do anything that could endanger my future—but until then, she wanted me to keep asking questions.

  “And Disciple?”

  “Yeah ...”

  “I wa-want you ... want you to ... If you find whoever did it, I mean ... could— “

  “Don’t worry about that, Amanda.”

  She was crying again—this time in fury. “Call me Mandy,” she said.

  Afterward I just sat there in the wallpaper silence, just ... absorbing emptiness, it seemed. I honestly didn’t have a fucking clue as to what I should do next. Put the thumbscrews to Baars about the Thirds? Find out more about Nill’s biker cronies, maybe pay them a visit? Hit all the residences around Nashron to see if anyone had seen anything suspicious? Go to the police station, check on Nolen, reintroduce myself to Deputy Chief Hamilton, and lay the groundwork for the inevitable ass-kissing to come?

  Instead, I scampered across the street so that I could get my dope back from the ceiling in the Odd-Jobs restaurant. I almost got clipped by a Lexus (where do people get all their fucking money?) scampering back to my room. I sat at the small, cluttered table and rolled a joint while watching TV. I needed perspective, I decided, a wide-angle, psychedelic lens. I surfed through the channels and there it was, as sure as shit ...

  Dead Jennifer hadn’t simply made the tube, she had made CNN. I just sat there blinking in amazement. Christ, things were moving fast. Especially for a dope-smoking chronic like me.

  “I have a story for you here, Soledad—interesting story. In the course of investigating a grisly ritual murder, a Pennsylvania police officer accidentally shoots and kills a homeless man. We’ll be sure to keep you up to date on what promises to be a tragic ... and extraordinary ... story. “

  Nolen. Poor bastard. People always make at least two mistakes in judging the actions of others. The first is confusing what they would do with what someone else should do. The fucking hubris of this is staggering, given that we only have our pinhole perspectives to work with— pinholes we continually confuse with t
he sky. The second is thinking they actually would do what they think they would. The ugly fact is that we rarely live up to our good intentions, that it’s a combination of wilful blindness and strategic amnesia that lets us continue duping ourselves otherwise. It’s not just that we judge people by the yardstick of ourselves, our lives, but by the yardstick of idealized selves—a self-congratulatory fantasy.

  The yardstick you’re using to judge me, in fact.

  Oh yeah. Nolen was fucked. The only thing Molly and I could do for him—literally—was keep him company on his tumble down. She would realize this sooner or later. Then she would forgive me ...

  By around seven or eight at the latest, I figured.

  The question was whether she would have time for a quick hummer.

  I got a little more fried than I expected, though I should have known: the bud I picked had been especially frosty. CNN kept coming back to Ruddick every half an hour or so, displaying an assortment of shots of Jennifer that I recognized from her Facebook page—the ones that made her look particularly wholesome and fuckable, of course. It was kind of fun watching them cobble together a story arc from what few details they possessed. They used every opportunity they could to repeat the words “young,” “attractive,” “severed,” and “cult.” I found myself wondering whether they had a formula for this, or whether they still “went with their gut” when it came to pushing verbal buttons.

  Even still, the piling on of inanities got very stale very quick. I tried to imagine having sex with the flat-chested blonde who was anchoring. Ah, yes, Linda. When that didn’t work, I clicked off the tube, stretched out fully clothed across the bed. Closed my eyes.

  The Third’s pig roast leapt into the breach—I mean, like, immediately. Hard to believe that it was just yesterday.

  “Disciple!” the Reverend called out. “I love your name. “

  “My parents were nudists,” I said.

  People laughed even though I wasn’t joking.

  I lay there, my mind swinging in vulture-slow circles. Usually the memories come at the behest of some kind of suspicion, conscious or unconscious, when I allow them to free-associate. But sometimes emotional ferocity alone seems to drive them. The louder the shout, the more persistent the echo, I suppose.

  I was staring across the ceiling, at the gossamer webs in the corners, listening to Nill’s crazed rap session, seeing the spectre of his reddening face, his eyes like clenched teeth. God hates, he was saying, therefore to hate is godly.

  “What kind of fucking goof does that?” Molly cried in disbelief. She was a classic “face-tripper,” one of those chicks with no inclination whatsoever to conceal her feelings behind a neutral expression.

  “Goof?” Nill spat. “Psycho? What do you think happens when God——the God Almighty—lands in your brain? You think you stay sane? Read your Bible, bitch. All his vessels crack. All of’em?’

  “Some apparently more than others. “

  “Manners! Manners, Missy! The Good Lord has a way ofteachingthem! “

  The looming shadow of Johnny Dinkfingers. The moment of movement and violence. And I saw them without seeing, the faces of the Third congregation tucked in the corners of my attention.

  I raised a thumb and forefinger to my eyes, tried to focus my thoughts. I reminded myself of my theory, that Nill, despite his Charlie Manson gaze, was too wedded to his power to be behind Jennifer’s disappearance. That he was being framed ...

  And then I saw them, or remembered seeing them, which is altogether different. Johnny Dinkfingers and the two characters I had pegged as junkies, bent in counsel about the rickety-rotted picnic table.

  A long conversation without jokes, eyes fixed then wandering. Looking down and bored, then matching gazes.

  “Okay. I see,” Johnny mouthed.

  “Sheesh. Too much,” the older junkie said.

  The younger junkie mimed blows, raised his face to boast a black eye.

  Caged laughter, a set of sideways glances. An exchange of inaudible words.

  Johnny watched. He seemed nervous, twitchy. “Please,” he said. “Give me a fucking break...”

  The younger junkie looked at him as if to say, So?

  Johnny smiled, then mouthed, “She’s dead.. “

  He shrugged and spat. The older junkie turned to me and grinned.

  I sat up in bed, blinking. This happens to me sometimes. It’s almost as if my memories possess a variable amplitude. The past concentrates, gathers valence, and assaults the now—to the point where it seems like I’m dreaming more than remembering. Sometimes the breakers overload and my brain snaps me out, like a reality fail-safe or something.

  If there’s one thing my career path—as sketchy as it’s been—has taught me, it’s that things tend to be pretty obvious in the world of humans fucking over humans. Like I said, people repeat. This isn’t to say that every murderer is a serial murderer, only that a murderer will typically have a history of some kind. Why do you think cops and courts are so fixated on rap sheets? Events in our psychological future tend to resemble events in our psychological past.

  So the presence of cons in Nill’s congregation fairly screamed for attention. I’ve been to prison, I know first-hand the vicious cunning that characterizes prison-gang power struggles, the way bloody shivs seem to float from cell to cell until they find the person-to-be-fingered-by-the-bulls.

  Kill a man. Send another to the SHU. Two birds with one shiv.

  Was that what this was? Was Dead Jennifer’s murder simply a higher- order weapon? A way for strung-out foot soldiers to take down their crazy Reverend? Albert even said these groups are far more likely to go gunning for one another.

  I mulled these questions, considered the different angles from which these memories of mine could be interpreted. At some point a fragment of Nill’s initial sermon struck me. “Does a man let his dog run wid in the streets?” I had to laugh at that, it was so sad: fucking fortune-cookie racism.

  I smoked another J.

  Had a nappy-nap.

  It was a classic summer evening: a charcoal sky leaning low over the silhouetted town, contrails soaring violet to black. Molly still hadn’t come by to forgive me, so I drove by the police station. The plan had been to check in on Nolen, see if he was still in action, and if he was, see if I couldn’t sweet-talk a rap sheet on Nill out of him. Soon as I turned the corner onto Curtis Street, I realized that things were not going to go as planned. Vans packed the curbs and sidewalks adjacent to the station’s corner lot, all glossy in the dying light, festooned with decals on their sides and satellite dishes on their rooftops.

  Something was going on. I drove by slow and more than a little paranoid. It’s hard to appreciate the power these Barbie-doll people have until you run into them in real life. It’s like a stage light follows them everywhere they go. They just seem brighter, cleaner than the rest of the world. Besides, I was well and truly stoned.

  A crowd of ridiculously well-dressed people had assembled beneath a podium set before the station entrance. Portable lights glared, cut everything with brilliant clarity and pitch shadow. I crept along, hoping the rattle of my ancient diesel wouldn’t attract any undue attention. I parked illegally farther down the street. Resolved to become a terrorist if I got a ticket.

  The air was warm and still, and I squelched the urge to buy a case of beer and party. When I was a kid, we used to play Ping-Pong in our driveway on nights like this.

  I pretty much crept to the back of the scrum—slunk all incognito-like, you might say. Everybody smelled like air freshener. Made me think of McDonald’s bathrooms. Nobody paid me any attention because I wasn’t paying anybody’s bills. They were used to rubbing elbows with scalliwags, I supposed, what with all the loser journalists from the internet. Things had already started. Someone I didn’t know, one of those guys who looked like he had been born wearing a suit, was making a statement of some kind. Nolen was standing beside him, one pace back.

  “—repeat: a firearm was found
in the possession of the victim. Of course, the investigation is only in its preliminary stages, but I remain confident that the facts will bear out Chief Nolen’s version of events, and that he will be able to return to his duties, which, as you all know, are of the utmost priority ...”

  A firearm, huh? Clever boy.

  Nolen’s gaze was too steely not to be medicated in some way. He saw me almost immediately. Even in a crowd of news models, my looks are quite striking. I could see the panic sputter beneath whatever wet chemical cloth he had thrown over his terror.

  I shrugged and winked, hoped that was enough to let him know it was all okay. More than okay, really: co-operation was now a foregone conclusion. I almost convinced myself that it had been my plan all along, clearing out so that he could plant his evidence. Forensics could fuck it all up for him, of course, but forensics tended to confirm whatever it was the cops or the screenwriters wanted it to confirm.

  No. Molly was the real question. She was still a believer, not a player like me.

  I was surprised she wasn’t there.

  Her car was parked, so I knew she was in. One low light brightened the curtained corner of her window. I found myself staring at the 17 on her motel room door.

  It was a capitulation, I know, but I couldn’t stop thinking of her heart- shaped ass. Dope makes me horny sometimes. The idea was to apologize first, then to let her know, not only that Nolen had saved his own bacon, but that we had actually made that possible by fading to black.

  The real challenge, the real argument, would turn on the bum, whom CNN had identified as Alex Radulov.

  Does a bum deserve justice? I certainly hope so, given that I’ve been a borderline hobo myself. I’ve had one foot in the gutter for a long, long time. And I’ve had many a friend who’s shrunk from the street lights, preferring to spark their pipe in the alley.

  But let’s face it: there’s injustice and then there’s just bad fucking luck.