by Carl Hiassen
Skink nudged him. "Make the call, son. I'm not getting any younger."
Like a disjointed centipede, the hunting party advanced tentatively along the cleft at the base of the grassy slopes. Drawing closer to their prey, the two men out front altered their walk to a furtive stoop, pausing every few steps to rest on their haunches and strategize. The one doing all the pointing would be the guide, Twilly figured, while Robert Clapley would be the one bedecked like an Eddie Bauer model.
Viewed ,from a distant perch, the stalk unfolded as comic mime of a true wild hunt. Whenever the lead duo halted and the men trailing behind would do the same. The bare grass offered the trackers neither protection nor concealment, but none was necessary. The killer rhinoceros continued chewing, unperturbed.
"If you had to take out one of them," Twilly said to Skink, "who would it be – Governor Dickless?"
"Waste of ammo. They got assembly lines that crank out assholes like him. He wouldn't even be missed."
"Stoat, then?"
"Maybe, but purely for the entertainment. Tallahassee has more lobbyists than termites," Skink said.
"That leaves only Mr. Clapley." Twilly closed one eye and framed the developer square in the crosshairs. Clapley's face appeared intent with predatory concentration. Twilly carefully rested a forefinger on the Remington's trigger.
Skink said: "It's his project. His goddamned bridge. His hired goon who tried to kill you."
Twilly exhaled slowly, to relax his shooting arm. The hunting guide and Clapley had approached to within forty yards of the rhinoceros.
"On the other hand," Skink was saying, "it might be more productive just to snatch the bastard and haul him down to the Glades for three or four months. Just you and me, reeducating his ass on the Shark River."
Twilly turned his head. "Captain?"
"Could be fun. Like a high-school field trip for young Bob Clapley, or holiday camp!" Skink mused. "We'll send him home a new man – after the banks have called in his construction loans, of course ... "
"Captain!"
"It's your call, son."
"I knowit's my call. Where's the damn dog?"
"The dog?" Skink sprung up and looked around anxiously. "Oh Jesus."
So many enthralling smells!
McGuinn reveled in the country morning: Sunrise, on the crest of a green hill, where seemingly everything – leaves, rocks, blades of grass, the dew itself – was laced with strange intoxicating scents. Large animals, McGuinn concluded from their potent musks; jumbos. What could they be? And what sort of place was this?
Although most of the smells that reached the hill were too faint to merit more than a cursory sniff or a territorial spritz of pee, one scent in particular hung fresh and warm, cutting pungently through the light fog. McGuinn was itching to bolt loose and track it.
The scent was not that of a domestic cat or another dog. Definitely not duck or seagull. Negative also for deer, rabbit, raccoon, skunk, muskrat, mouse, toad, turtle or snake. This earthy new animal odor was unlike any the dog had previously encountered. It made his hair bristle and his nose quiver, and it was so heavy in the air that it must have been exuded by a creature of massive proportion. McGuinn yearned to chase down this primordial behemoth and thrash it mercilessly ... or at least pester it for a while, until he found something better to do.
In the distance a vehicle stopped and emptied out a new bunch of humans, and soon McGuinn detected other aromas – gasoline exhaust, sunblock, aftershave, coffee, cigar smoke and gun oil. But it was the smell of the mystery beast that beckoned irresistibly. The dog glanced around and saw that nobody was paying attention to him. The young man, Desie's friend, was preoccupied with pointing a gun down the hill. Similarly distracted was his travel companion, the hairy-faced man who was perfumed indelibly with burnt wood and dead opossum, and on whose wrist was limply fastened the cursed leash.
McGuinn levered his butt imperceptibly off the grass, scooted backward a couple of inches, then sat down again. Neither of the men looked up. So McGuinn did it again, and still again, until the slack in the leash was gone and all that remained was to coil his muscles and execute The Lunge – a heedless, headlong escape maneuver familiar to all owners of Labrador retrievers. During many an evening walk, McGuinn had employed The Lunge to excellent effect, leaving Palmer Stoat or Desie standing empty-handed, snatching at thin air, while he dashed off to deal with an insolent Siamese, or to take a dip in the New River. The dog was well aware he was exceptionally fast, and virtually impossible for humans to overtake on foot.
Once he made his break.
This time it happened so smoothly that it was anticlimactic. McGuinn surged forward and the leash simply came free, slipping so cleanly off the hand of the hairy-faced man that he didn't feel it. The next thing the dog knew, he was barreling away, unnoticed and unpursued. Down the long slope he ran – ears unfurled, tongue streaming, velvet nose to the grass – faster and faster until he was but a black streak, hurtling past the dumbstruck hunters. He heard a flurry of agitated voices, then a familiar angry command – "Boodle, no!" – which he gleefully disregarded. Onward he sped, the leash flopping at his heels, the powerful alien fragrance reeling him in as if he were a barracuda hooked on a wire. Directly ahead loomed a gnarled mossy tree, and beneath it stood a great horned creature so immense and unflinching, McGuinn thought at first that it was made of stone.
But, no, smell it! A piquant blend of mulchy digestive vapors, sour body mold and steaming shit. With a self-congratulatory howl, the dog bore in. He circled first one way and then the other before dropping to a snarling crouch behind the animal's gargantuan armor-plated flanks. McGuinn expected the beast to wheel in self-defense, yet the stately rump remained motionless. McGuinn inched around cautiously to confront the snouted end, where he initiated a sequence of spirited head fakes, left and right, to feign a charge. Yet the creature did not shirk, bridle or jump at its tormentor's well-choreographed hysterics. The creature did not move; merely stared at the dog through crinkled, gnat-covered slits.
McGuinn was flabbergasted. Even the laziest, stupidest dairy cow would have spooked by now! The dog backed off to catch his breath and sort through his options (which, given a Lab's cognitive limitations, were modest and few). He affected a baleful pearly drool, only to stare in bewilderment as the monster placidly resumed nibbling from its bale of forage. Incredible!
Then came the approach of measured footsteps, followed by urgent human whispers. McGuinn knew what that meant: No more fun here. Soon someone would be snatching up his leash and jerking the choke chain. Time was running out. One last try: The dog growled, flattened his ears and insinuated himself into a wolf-like slink. Once more he began circling the torpid brute, which (McGuinn noticed) had ceased chewing, its jaws bewhiskered with sodden sprouts. But now the dog directed his focus at the stern of his prey: a sparse cord of a tail, dangling invitingly.
A leap, a flash of fangs and McGuinn had it!
Instantly the beast erupted, whirling with such hellish might that the dog was flung off, landing hard against the trunk of the sturdy old oak. He scrambled upright and shook himself vigorously from head to tail. With a mixture of surprise and elation, he observed that the monster was running away – and pretty darn fast, too!
McGuinn broke into lusty pursuit, driven by ancient instincts but also by sheer joy. Was there a better way to spend a spring morning, racing free through cool green meadows, snapping at a pair of fleeing hindquarters while slow-footed humans yammered helplessly in protest?
Every dog dreamed of such adventure.
No one was more rattled than Palmer Stoat to see a black Labrador charging into the line of fire, because it looked like his dog – Jesus H. Christ, it washis dog! – gone for all these days, only to surface at the worst possible time in the worst possible place. Stoat felt an upswell of despair, knowing the dog wasn't running downhill to greet him, but rather to flush Robert Clapley's prize rhinoceros, thereby disrupting the hunt and possibly mucking
up (yet again!) the Shearwater deal.
It was no less than a curse.
"Boodle, no!" Stoat yelled, cigar waggling. "Bad boy!"
A few yards ahead stood Clapley, his aggrieved expression revealing all: He wanted to shoot the dog, but Durgess wouldn't permit it. In fact, the guide was signaling all of them to remain still.
"Hold up here," Asa Lando dutifully instructed Stoat's group.
Dick Artemus leaned in and whispered, "Palmer, is that your damn fool dog?" Willie Vasquez-Washington chuckled and began shooting pictures. In mute wonderment the guides and hunters watched the Labrador circle and taunt the rhinoceros; even Asa Lando found it difficult not to be entertained. The dog really was a piece of work!
Palmer Stoat shaded a nervous eye toward Clapley, huddled in a heated discussion with Durgess. Of all those present, Stoat alone knew of Clapley's peculiar obsession. Stoat alone knew without asking that the man had brought dolls, and probably a miniature pearl-handled hairbrush, concealed inside his ammo vest. Stoat alone knew the wanton seed of Clapley's motivation (which had nothing to do with sport), and understood the true base nature of his panic. No rhino, no horn; no horn, no live Barbies! In such a fraught equation, one frolicsome Labrador carried zero weight.
Only too late did it dawn on Stoat that he should have taken Bob aside the night before and explained that the "killer" rhinoceros would not and could not escape, due to the insurmountable barbed fence that enclosed the Wilderness Veldt Plantation. And though the news might have taken a bit of luster off the hunt, it might also have lowered Robert Clapley's buggy anxiety to a saner level, at which he might not have attempted to sight his Weatherby on something so inconsequential as a pesky hound. From the spot where Stoat knelt, he could see Clapley trying again and again to raise the gun barrel, only to have it slapped down by Durgess.
In desperation Stoat bellowed: "Boodle! Come!"
Dick Artemus stuck two fingers in his cheeks and gave a whistle that sounded like the screak of a tubercular macaw. The Labrador failed to respond. Peering at the confrontation through a 500-mm lens, Willie Vasquez-Washington could make out amazing details – the electric green bottleflies buzzing about the rhino's rear end, the shining strands of spittle on the dog's chin ...
And when the Lab suddenly leapt forward and seized the rhino's tail, it was Willie Vasquez-Washington who loudly piped: "Look at that crazy sonofabitch!"
Palmer Stoat saw the rhinoceros spin. He saw Boodle windmilling through the air. He saw Robert Clapley shake free of Durgess and jump to his feet. And then he saw the rhino take off, his idiot dog biting at its heels. The beast vectored first one direction and then another, ascending halfway up the northernmost slope before deferring to gravity. With a resolute snort, the rhino arced back downhill toward the three groups of men, whom it might easily have mistaken for shrubbery or grazing antelopes (given the rhinoceros's notoriously poor vision). Arbitrarily it picked for an escape route the twenty-yard gap between the first two groups. The dog bayed merrily in pursuit.
Because of the rhino's barge-like girth and laconic-looking trot, the swiftness of its advance was misjudged by both Stoat and Clapley – though not by the two guides, whose awe at the decrepit pachyderm's resurgence was outweighed by their aversion to violent death. Durgess, who anticipated the next phase of the fiasco, grimly flattened himself to the ground. Asa Lando spun on one heel and ran for the live oak. Governor Dick Artemus took the cue; dropped his gun and hit the grass ass-first. His two bodyguards dashed forward, seizing him roughly under the armpits and dragging him toward the zebra-striped truck. Meanwhile, Willie Vasquez-Washington backpedaled, snapping pictures in hasty retreat.
And Palmer Stoat, faced with a charging African rhinoceros, raised his rifle and took aim. Exactly sixty-six feet away, Robert Clapley did the same. Both men were too adrenalized to recognize their respective vulnerabilities in the lethal geometry of a cross fire. Both were too caught up in the heart-pounding maleness of the moment to sidestep manifest disaster.
It had been years since Stoat had shot an animal that was more or less ambulatory, and he trembled excitedly as he drew a bead on the grizzled brow of the lumbering rhino. As for Clapley, killing it would be more than a display of machismo– it would fulfill a fantasy that consumed him night and day. Through his rifle scope (laughably unnecessary at such close range), Clapley breathlessly admired the rhino's immense horn. He imagined presenting the hair-encrusted totem – upright and daunting – on a satin pillow to the twin Barbies, who would be curled up nude and perfumed and (he fervidly hoped) blond. He envisioned a grateful glow in their nearly completed faces. Next week: the chins. By Christmas: perfection.
As the rhinoceros thundered on a straight line between them, Clapley and Stoat swung their gun barrels to lead the beast, as they would a dove on the wing. Except, of course, they were not aiming upward, but level.
"Hold your fire!" Durgess shouted, strictly for the record.
That night, drinking heavily at a bar in Mclntosh, neither he nor Asa Lando would be able to say which of the fools had fired first. Judging by the stereophonic roar of gunfire – and the instantaneous results – Robert Clapley and Palmer Stoat could have pulled their triggers simultaneously. Both of them completely missed the rhinoceros, naturally, and both went down very hard – Clapley, from the Weatherby's bone-jarring recoil; Stoat, from a combination of recoil and shrapnel.
Reconstructing the split-second mishap wasn't easy but, with some help from Master Jack Daniel, Durgess and Asa Lando would conclude that Stoat's slug must have struck the trunk of the oak at the instant Clapley's slug struck Stoat's Winchester, which more or less exploded in Stoat's arms. At that point the lobbyist was not dead, although his right shoulder had been seriously pulped by splintered gun stock.
Asa Lando would recall looking down from the tree and seeing Stoat, hatless and dazed, struggling to his knees. Likewise, Durgess would remember helping Robert Clapley to an identical position, so that the two hunters were facing each other like rival prairie dogs. But the guides well knew that Stoat wasn't staring at Clapley, and Clapley wasn't staring at Stoat – both men were scanning intently for a fresh rhinoceros corpse.
"You missed," Durgess informed Clapley.
"What?" Clapley's ears ringing from the gunshot.
"Mr. Stoat missed, too," Durgess added, by way of consolation.
"What?"
As Durgess stood up to scout for the runaway rhino, he heard frantic shouting from high in the live oak: Asa Lando, trying to warn him. The ground under Durgess's boots began to shake – that's what he would talk about later.
Like a damn earthquake, Asa. Could you feel it, too?
The rhinoceros had cut back unexpectedly and now was rumbling up from behind the scattered hunting party; prey turned predator. There was no time to flee. Asa squawked from the tree. Palmer Stoat spit his broken cigar and gaped. Durgess dove for Robert Clapley but Clapley wasn't there; he was down on all fours, scrambling after his rifle. Helplessly Durgess rolled himself into a ball and waited to be crushed. Beneath him the earth was coming unsprung, a demonic trampoline.
Durgess felt the rhinoceros blow past like a steam locomotive, wheezing and huffing. He peeked up in time to see an outstretched black shape silhouetted briefly against the creamy pink sky, and to feel Labrador toenails scuff his forehead. Durgess decided he was in no hurry to get up, a decision reinforced by the sound of Clapley shrieking.
The guide would remember remaining motionless until hearing a man's heavy footsteps, and feeling a shadow settle over him. He would remember rocking up slowly, expecting to see Asa, but facing instead a bearded apparition with a gleaming grin and a molten red eye that might have been plucked from the skull of the devil himself.
"We've come for the dog," the apparition said.
While being dragged to safety, the governor lost the tender scabs on his buttocks. By the time the bodyguards got him to the Suburban, he had bled through his khaki trousers – the word shame appeari
ng chimerically across his ass, like stigmata. If Willie Vasquez-Washington noticed, he didn't say so. He and Dick Artemus were hustled into the backseat. The FDLE agents hopped up front, locked the doors and radioed for a helicopter and ambulances.
Riding back to the lodge, the governor looked drained and shaken, his great cliff of silver hair now a tornadic nest. He sank low in the seat. Willie Vasquez-Washington rode ramrod-straight, a fervent amazement on his face.
"Sweet Jesus," he said. "Did you see that!"
"Willie?"
"Those poor fuckers."
"Willie!"
"Yeah?"
"I was never here. You were never here." The governor placed a clammy hand on Willie Vasquez-Washington's knee. "Can we agree on that?"
The vice chairman of the House Appropriations Committee rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. With his other hand he touched a button on the Nikkormat, still hanging from his neck, and set off the automatic rewind. The hum from a swarm of wasps would not have been more unsettling to Dick Artemus.
Ruefully his eyes fell on the camera. "You got some pictures, huh?"
Willie Vasquez-Washington nodded. "A whole roll."
"Color or black-and-white?"
"Oh, color."
Dick Artemus turned and stared straight ahead. Just then, a white-tailed buck crashed out of the cabbage palms and entered the path in front of the truck. The agent who was driving stomped the accelerator and swerved expertly around the deer.
"Nice move!" Willie Vasquez-Washington cheered, bouncing in the seat.
The governor never flinched, never blinked.
"Willie," he said, wearily.
"Yeah?"
"What is it you want?"
Twilly Spree tried to go after McGuinn but he was chased down and tackled by Clinton Tyree, who whispered in his ear: "Let it happen, son."
Said it with such a startling serenity that Twilly understood, finally, what sustained the man – an indefatigable faith that Nature eventually settles all scores, sets all things straight.