by Robin Lamont
“The ancient curse of the Baskervilles.” Dunne’s voice took on a dream-like quality. “The lord of the manor Hugo Baskerville was so madly desirous of a neighboring farmer’s daughter that he kidnapped her and imprisoned her in his bedroom. She escaped in the middle of the night and he became enraged at the thought of losing her. He mounted his steed, let loose his hunting dogs, and went after her on the desolate moor. Later, they were both found dead. The girl had perished of fright, but Baskerville had a more grisly end. A supernatural beast, a huge black hound, had torn his throat out.”
There’s definitely something wrong with this guy, Jude thought.
“Arthur Conan Doyle had it right,” Dunne concluded.
“Had what right?” Jude asked hesitantly.
“The link between hunting and predatory sexuality.” Dunne smiled. “I cover this in my psychology class on gender and domination.”
Jude was wary, but intrigued. She couldn’t help but think of Cash and nodded for Dunne to go on.
“Hunting in modern times, and I include trapping as well, is experienced as an erotic activity in our patriarchal society. You often hear hunters speak of their appreciation or love of the animals they capture. They are adamant about ‘thanking the animal’ for her sacrifice; they speak of the grace and beauty of their prey; they’ll stroke the dead body and take photographs of themselves touching their victims. The sport is one of dominance and possession. And of course taking possession entails killing the animal, eating its flesh and often mounting the head on the wall.”
“It sounds so … deviant put that way,” said Jude.
“I suppose it is, but certainly something that has attained a cultural acceptance.”
“Around here, there’s so much antagonism towards wolves and coyotes,” she noted. “Clearly hunters and trappers don’t see them as beautiful or seductive.”
“That’s true, and it brings up the interesting correlation to rape. There’s a common perception by the rapist that the victim provoked the act – in the way she dressed or enticed him. Similarly, you see hunters cling to the notion that they have been the victims of animal invasion and are completely justified in striking back. Everyone around here knows that disease and weather are responsible for many more livestock deaths than wolves, but the predators are given demon status, which for many heightens the thrill in killing them.”
Jude was decidedly uncomfortable with this midnight discussion of rape and sacrifice, especially with someone as unpredictable as Dunne. She wondered if she ought to be afraid and glanced at Finn to make sure he was close. Yet what Dunne was saying matched up with Lisbet’s theory that imbuing wolves with mythical powers made killing them that much more exciting. Jude wondered if he could shed any light on the riddle of Craig Eberhardt and asked, “What would you say about a person … a hunter or trapper … who felt compelled to record all the animals he killed in a journal?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Criminal profilers have long since made the connection between the hunting mentality and serial killers. In fact, when it comes to violent crimes against people, law enforcement lexicon classifies those who seek out nearby victims as hunters, those who travel to locate their prey as poachers, and people who have a position or occupation that brings potential victims to them as trappers. Moreover, we know that many serial killers, particularly in sexual crimes, crave a trophy from their victims – a ring, a lock of hair, sometimes a body part. The trophy helps them re-live the thrill of the killing itself. Similarly, the head of an elk or a lion, a deer’s antlers, these are all souvenirs that allow hunters to re-experience the flush of the kill. So to answer your question, this person you describe is akin to a serial killer. He is proud of his kills and probably wants to list them, count them, and read about them over and over again. I would venture to say that he is taking physical trophies from the animals as well.”
“And where might someone like that keep his trophies?” asked Jude.
“Depends on the trophy, I suppose. Culturally, we think that the head of an animal mounted on a wall is perfectly fine décor. But perhaps this person is hunting or trapping animals that he oughtn’t. Can’t very well put those heads over the mantel, now can he? So he might find someplace safe to do that. A place where he feels in his element.”
Jude let that sink in for a moment, and it took her somewhere so dark, she wasn’t sure how to get back. Animal heads mounted on walls. All because humans felt superior. And what about the humans who felt superior to other races, other religions … might it be culturally acceptable to mount their heads in prominent places?
“Are you alright, my dear?” asked Dunne.
Jude nodded, fatigue leeching into her very bones. “I really must get upstairs,” she said. “Thanks for the tea and the conversation.” She had to push herself up from her chair. “Finn and I will be leaving in the morning, I’m sorry to say.”
“Too bad. I’ve enjoyed this fella’s company,” he replied, scratching Finn behind the ears.
“Well, good night.” Then, glancing back over her shoulder, Jude asked casually, “Do you need to … lock up or anything?”
He smiled. “Not to worry. You’re safe here.”
Before she got through the doorway, Dunne stopped her. “Miz Harris, I hope you find what you’re looking for.” His look was so penetrating that she thought, He knows. He knows you were asking about Eberhardt. And he knows who you are. I don’t know how, but he knows and he’s trying to help.
Jude shook off the feeling. She was just tired, that’s all. She gave him a genuine smile and said, “Thank you, Professor. I hope so, too.”
* * *
Jude swung her backpack over her shoulder and grabbed the handles of her duffel. She’d donned an extra layer of fleece in an effort to get the zipper closed on the overstuffed bag. The air was heavy with impending snow, due to start late in the afternoon, though she hoped to have crossed the Colorado border by then. With her free hand she gathered up the bag with Finn’s food and water bowl and they made their way downstairs for a last breakfast.
An unexpected visitor sat at the long table in the dining room. Sal Mayhill. She wore a worried expression as she talked with her brother. Jude only caught a bit of what she was saying, but FBI and arrest were the words that stuck out. Sal changed course as soon as she caught sight of Jude.
“Oh, Judy. Hi there. Ah, this must be the famous Finn,” she said. “He’s made quite an impression on my brother.”
“There’s coffee on the hutch,” said Dunne. “And Mary made oatmeal ’cause she knew you liked it so much.”
“Tell her thank you,” said Jude, helping herself from the sideboard. “Please don’t let me interrupt.”
“I should be off,” said Sal, pushing her chair back.
“So they’re going to make an arrest?” Dunne asked her.
“That’s the plan.”
“What arrest?” asked Jude.
When Sal hesitated, her brother said, “Tell Judy what’s going on, so she doesn’t worry about them looking for her.”
“The FBI is all over Stanton this morning,” said Sal. “They’re ready to make an arrest on Craig Eberhardt’s murder.”
Jude was stunned. “They are?”
“Yes. They got a DNA match from the trap on Eberhardt’s leg. It belongs to some member of a radical animal activist group. They have reason to believe he’s in the area and they’re mounting a manhunt.”
“I know the boy,” said Dunne, shaking his head. “I’m sad for Ben, the boy’s father,” he explained to Jude. “He lives in Saint Claire, and we both have known him for many years.”
They exchanged a few more words about the McIntyre family before Sal left. Foster Dunne glanced occasionally at Jude’s white face and if he guessed anything, he didn’t say. It was all Jude could do to go through the motions of paying her bill and checking out, all the whi
le feeling that the ground beneath her had opened up and she was being sucked into the darkest depths of the earth.
Chapter 24
A black Ford Explorer with tinted windows idled in front of the Eat, Sleep, Read bookstore. An identical vehicle was parked about fifteen yards away, giving the occupants an unobstructed view into the alleyway behind the store. If the FBI was trying to be unobtrusive, they were failing miserably. For them, DNA was incontrovertible evidence, yet Jude refused to let go of her belief that it was a terrible mistake or there was some other rational explanation. If Colin was guilty, why would he even think about staying in Stanton with his father? If he was guilty, I would’ve been able to see it in his face. Wouldn’t I?
She’d been up half the night battling with herself over saying goodbye to Colin, and the morning light hadn’t done much to ease her conflict. Once before she had left him without a proper explanation and she didn’t think she could do that to either of them again. The decision was made when she heard about his imminent arrest. Someone had to warn him.
Jude drove slowly past the bookstore, piecing together the scene. Laurel and/or Oliver were inside and the agents were waiting to see if either panicked and led them to Colin. Alternatively, Colin was already in custody and the agents were sitting on the location ready to pick up his friends should he decide to talk. In either event, they were wasting their time. She continued up the street toward Fielding’s Outfitters, where she saw two more government vehicles and a half a dozen men and women in navy flak jackets printed with large FBI yellow letters on the back. A few wore bulletproof vests. Jude had to shake her head. We’re animal activists, folks, not heavily armed white supremacists. Two of the agents were apparently impressed with a resident’s pickup truck and the canid carcass that had been tossed into the back. Terrorism is in the eye of the beholder, thought Jude, ticking off another in the escalating count of dead wolves. She made an angry u-turn and drove back into town.
Abby was working at the Tripp Street Café.
“Hey, how’s it going?” asked Jude with forced cheer.
“Not so good,” responded the waitress. “I partook … is that a word? Partook? Partaked? Alls I know is I drank too much last night. But that band was good! Did you enjoy yourself?”
“Sure did. Say, Abby, do you have a phone book I could look at? A white pages?”
“Over by the take-out counter. Cash ever find you last night, honey? After you came into the kitchen, he poked his head in looking for you. I sent him out through the pantry, told him you were feeling poorly.”
Jude fought the urge to check behind her. “Mmn, yeah,” she mumbled. “I’ll take a black coffee to go and have a look at that phone book.”
She hurriedly flipped through the pages under M and found a McBurnham, McIntosh, and McMillan. But no McIntyre. Her heart sank. Then her eye caught the heading; she was looking in Stanton. Ben lived in Saint Claire.
Yes. There it was. Ben & Joan McIntyre, 54 Tolan Way. If Colin wasn’t home with his father, he was still at the cabin. Ben could tell her where it was.
She turned onto Tolan Way and drove nearly a mile and a half along the sparsely populated road until she found the mailbox for number 54. Taking a deep breath, Jude turned into the rough, pebbly driveway to the house.
She cracked a window in the Subaru for Finn and rapped on the front door. After a moment she heard shuffling footsteps. A thin, drawn man with his hair freshly combed opened the door part way. She saw a much older version of Colin in the shape of his jaw and the tiny frown lines at the center of his brow.
“Mr. McIntyre? My name’s Jude. I’m a friend of Colin’s. Is he here?”
He scrutinized her face before replying, “No, he isn’t. What do you want?” He made no move to allow her access.
“I don’t know if Colin has ever mentioned me,” said Jude. “We were … very close in college. We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“So?” he asked distrustfully.
“I think he may still be at the cabin. I have to find him.”
“I have no idea where he is.”
“It’s important, Mr. McIntyre.”
Ben growled, “Look, I told you people I haven’t seen him and I don’t know where he is.”
Oh God. He thought she was a cop or with the FBI trying to scam him. “I’m not what you think. I really am a friend.”
Glaring at her, Ben asked, “Is Colin alright?”
“I think so, but…”
“But what?”
“Mr. McIntyre, there are quite a few federal agents gathering in Stanton. They’re going to arrest him. They have DNA evidence that links him to the murder of the Wildlife Services agent.”
“That’s a lie,” snapped Ben.
“I don’t think so. I’m told they found his DNA on the trap.”
For a moment Ben looked utterly confused. His already pale face went a shade grayer as he sagged against the door frame.
“Are you okay?” Jude asked, alarmed.
“It’s not possible,” he cried. “You have it all wrong.”
“Mr. McIntyre, please–”
“Go away. Get out of here!” he barked and shut the door in her face.
Jude lifted her hand to rap on the door again and heard a low moan on the other side of the door. He must have been deeply distraught, unable to accept the fact that his son might be a killer. And he thought she was a cop – he would never tell her where the cabin was. A stomach-churning sense of failure washed over her and she kicked herself for handling the situation so badly. Now she had to go back to Stanton and find a way to get to Oliver or Laurel. As she headed slowly back across the front yard, her foot kicked something and it rolled away, bumping down a gentle slope. Layers of snow fell away revealing a flash of yellow. She saw what it was now – a tennis ball. From the yip inside the car, so did Finn. His favorite game was chasing tennis balls, the older and smellier the better. There were a few more yellow orbs dotting the yard, some half-covered by snow.
This must be where Ben threw tennis balls for his dog Oona. Jude could picture her, tail flying, ears flapping, chasing them down and dropping them at Ben’s feet, looking up at him with shining eyes and a wagging tail. Do it again, do it again! And he would. Oona … who went everywhere with Ben, according to Laurel. In the back of her mind, Jude heard again Colin’s lament that his father kept no photos of his children, “but he keeps the dog collars.” Except Oona’s. Why? Ben had buried her when she got hit by a car. Isn’t that what he told Colin? If so, why didn’t he keep her collar with the others? The questions circled and then were drawn as if by a powerful magnet to one thought – one recalculation. Ben’s cry You have it all wrong. It’s not possible! Dear God, he meant it. Not theoretically, but factually. Colin a murderer? It was not possible.
Jude did an abrupt about-face. She pounded on the door, calling, “Mr. McIntyre, open the door.” Nothing. She knew he could hear her. “I am not who you think I am. My name is Jude Brannock and I’m an animal rights investigator. I was with Colin at the cabin at Lake Freedom yesterday. He told me that he’d seen you and that you were talking about your dogs … Hoop and Far Away, right?”
“Get out of here!” Ben bellowed from beyond the door.
Jude wasn’t going anywhere. “You’re right, they have it all wrong. I know what happened. Oona got caught in Eberhardt’s trap, didn’t she?”
She could almost hear him holding his breath. “Go away,” he tried again, though his voice had weakened.
Please, Ben,” implored Jude, willing him to open the door, “if you want to help Colin, you’ve got to talk to me.”
There was movement inside, and a moment later Ben unlatched the door. His eyes burned, dark and glazed, as if with fever. He turned and stumbled to a nearby armchair where he collapsed. Jude went over to where he sat with his head in his hands.
“Can I
get you something?” she asked.
He shook his head.
“Let me help you,” Jude pleaded. “Let me call somebody.”
“No,” he said sharply. “Don’t you dare.”
“Okay.” She knelt by his side and asked gently, “What happened to Oona? She wasn’t hit by a car and you didn’t bury her. If you had, you would’ve kept her collar along with the others. Colin told me about finding them all, but not Oona’s. Because Eberhardt took it, didn’t he? She got caught in one of his traps and he took her collar as a trophy.”
Ben did not protest, he just continued to stare at the floor. His passivity angered Jude and she snapped, “You’re going to let Colin take the rap for his murder? Is that what you’re going to do?”
“No!” exclaimed Ben, coming to life.
“Tell me what happened,” she demanded.
Finally, he lifted his head and shed his burden. “She liked to wander. Ever since she was a puppy, she’d go walkabout, every year farther and farther. But Oona always came home. She was my shadow, my friend, and after my wife died and I found out about my cancer … she was all I had. One day she didn’t come home. I went out looking for her that night, the whole next day. I called and called. I knew something was wrong.
“I thought she might have gone up by the cabin. It’s far, but she loved it there with the lake and all. I drove up and started walking around. I don’t know how she knew I was there, but she began to howl. I found her in a leg hold trap, a big one.” Ben shut his eyes against the memory. “She was almost gone. Her teeth were broken, her mouth a bloody mess. Her leg was all torn up. She’d lost so much blood. I don’t know how long she’d been there. Dear Jesus, my girl was hurtin’ so bad, but when she saw me, she tried to wag her tail. She trusted that I would save her. But I couldn’t open the trap. I’d been walking all day and my strength was gone. I didn’t have tools with me. Even a year ago, I could’ve opened it somehow. But not with this damned cancer.” He clenched his fists, ready to fight with his disease.