Karma's a Killer

by Tracy Weber

  It suddenly occurred to me that I might well be fingering “pellets” that came out of the wrong end of an owl. I quickly dropped the foil-covered ball back into the jar and wiped my hands on my already-soiled pants.

  “I don’t understand, Judith. From what you told me at Green Lake, I thought you couldn’t keep wild birds or you’d lose your license.”

  Judith paused as if considering her words carefully. “I said I couldn’t keep wild birds as pets. And as I just said, these two are not pets.”

  “Oh, right. Educational purposes.” I was still confused.

  “I’ll admit,” Judith continued, “it’s a gray area of the law, and I work pretty close to the edge sometimes. I try not to break the rules, but I’ve been known to bend them on occasion.” She held up her index finger. “Not that I’ll ever admit that in public.”

  She took another long swig of her coffee and set the mug on the counter. “Birds like these, well, most places would euthanize. But the way I figure it, animals aren’t all that much different from humans. We each get one chance at life. The decision to take that life away should be considered very carefully.” She shrugged. “Or at least that’s what this old lady thinks.”

  “Couldn’t they go to a zoo or something?”

  “Depends on the animal. Sometimes yes. Most times, no.”

  “Do you keep all the animals you help? If they can’t be returned to the wild, I mean?”

  “Heavens no, child. I’d be shut down for sure. I only keep a few very special ones, like Spook here. Besides, domestication doesn’t work for all wildlife. Some could never get used to being around people. Pigeons, ducks, this owl here—for them, it’s pretty easy. All I have to do is figure out how to get around the legal bureaucrats. Birds like kingfishers would be miserable. In their case, if they can’t be returned to the wild, euthanasia is the only humane option. So far, I’ve been lucky with Spook and his buddy. The state looks the other way as long as no one complains and I don’t take government funding.”

  “Government funding?”

  “Yes, most rehab centers—most animal shelters, for that matter—operate using grants. But those come with mighty big strings attached.”

  “Like what?”

  Judith took my mug and set it next to hers on the counter. “Follow me.” She continued her monologue as we walked. “You think I want to work out of my garage like some hoarding hobo? I can’t afford anything else. I’ve practically bankrupted my husband and me.”

  She pointed at the varied inhabitants of the dog crates, glass enclosures, and cages. “See all these animals? Your pigeon, that squirrel, that rat, those baby bunnies? If I followed the restrictions of the government bureaucrats, not one of them would be alive. To them, those fellows are all nuisance animals—not worth saving. If I took their precious money, no matter how little, I’d have to euthanize every one of them, whether they could be saved or not.”

  She scowled. “So I do my best to drum up donations, and my seventy-eight-year-old husband works a day job to pay for the rest. I decided a long time ago that those navy-suited numbskulls could take their government grants and shove them up their white skinny behinds. I will not euthanize a healthy animal without a danged good reason.”

  Judith crossed her arms. “And that’s what I told that protester who got herself killed, too. Comin’ around here threatening to close me down.” She mumbled under her breath. “Over my dead body.”

  My skin prickled. Over Judith’s dead body, or someone else’s?

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “Raven was here?”

  Judith swiped her hand through the air as if shooing away an invisible horsefly. “Whatever her name was. The one in the paper. She showed up here Saturday afternoon after the fun walk, dragging along that pale-skinned vampire girl.”

  “How did she know where to find you? The address on your pamphlet is a PO Box.”

  “You’re right. I don’t publish my address. That’s how I keep the crazies away. That no-good PETA wannabe tricked me. She called here claiming that she found an injured possum. I gave the lying sack of owl pellets my address and told her to bring him on by.” Judith wrinkled her lips. “She and little Miss Vampira barged into my house, took one look at my owls, and started hollering that I was abusing them. She said she was going to make sure they were put down for their own good.”

  Spook hooted loudly from the kitchen, as if he understood and was offended by the statement. “She could have caused me some real trouble,” Judith went on. “If someone else hadn’t killed her, I might’ve done it myself.” She pointed with her thumb to the corner. “I picked up that broom over there and swatted her with it. I told her to get the heck off my property before I rang her scrawny neck.”

  I took a step back, horrified.

  Judith laughed. “Oh honey, wipe that look off your face. I’m seventy-five. I say what I think. Keeping crap like that in—that’s what gives you cancer. I already told you. I don’t kill anyone unless they’re suffering. Not even if they deserve it.”

  She held up her swollen-jointed hands and rotated them back and forth. “Besides, look at these claws. You think they’re capable of strangling someone?”

  Strangling, no. But holding someone—especially someone already weakened by a blow to the head—under water?

  Maybe.

  After all, she’d moved deceptively fast when cornering that hawk.

  I wanted to ask her a thousand more questions. Like Exactly how much trouble could Raven have caused for you? Maybe How far would you go to protect these animals? Oh, and this one for sure: Where were you on Saturday night, anyway?

  I idly considered transporting her to the King County Jail for a nice cozy chat with Officer Chuckles, but I didn’t get the chance. A car pulled into the driveway, and few seconds later, an older, equally stooped-over man walked through the front door.

  “Hey sweetie. You done spending my day’s earnings yet?”

  Judith gave the elderly gentleman a peck on the cheek. “Not yet. We’ve got pigeon surgery to do.” She turned to me. “Kate, it’s been nice talking to you, but it’s time for you to go now so we can get to helping that bird of yours. Give me a call in a couple of days, and I’ll let you know how he’s doing.”

  She ushered me out the door and clicked the deadbolt solidly between us.

  Fourteen

  I battled I-5 and Mariners game-day traffic for over sixty minutes on the drive home. Sixty minutes in which I struggled to reconcile my conflicting feelings about Judith. I liked Judith. I didn’t want her to be the killer. But I had to admit: if Bella’s life were at stake, I might take extreme measures. Drowning the threat in Bella’s favorite swimming hole wouldn’t be my first option, but who knew what I’d be capable of, given sufficient provocation? Bella had risked her life to save mine in the past. Did I owe her any less?

  Michael’s Explorer wasn’t parked in the driveway when I arrived home at six-thirty. Hopefully he’d gotten my message and was off cavorting with Bella somewhere, not grumpily waiting for me at PhinneyWood Pizza. I popped open the trunk and grabbed Dharma’s suitcase. It seemed like a hundred years had passed since I’d visited her motel room that morning. I trudged to the kitchen door, cursed the construction workers for trampling my tulips, and inserted the key in the lock. It turned easily.

  Too easily.

  Those blasted contractors! They’d left the house unlocked—again. I whispered contractor-related expletives under my breath and pressed the door open.

  To a disaster.

  Michael had truly outdone himself.

  Debris littered every square inch of the kitchen, and only part of it was the contractors’ doing. Our one remaining cabinet hung open, and the towels normally stored inside were tossed in a pile on the floor. Clean and dirty dishes lived in unsegregated harmony all over the countertops, and a half-eaten apple lay on the floor ne
xt to the garbage can. My sacred Bella food-preparation area was covered with sawdust, power tools, and scattered dog food, and my special tried-and-true measuring cups were strewn across the floor. A five-pound bag of flour lay open and on its side next to the sink. Michael must have been planning to cook something, though what, how, and why, without benefit of a working oven, was a mystery to me.

  I pressed through the plastic covering the doorway. The living room hadn’t fared much better. Throw pillows and couch cushions decorated the floor. The storage boxes for the displaced items from the kitchen, bathroom, and office were empty, their contents piled haphazardly next to them. How one man could do so much damage in a single day was truly beyond comprehension.

  I set Dharma’s suitcase on the floor and took several deep breaths, trying to calm myself. I didn’t want to lose my temper anymore. I wanted to learn how to control it. I needed to learn how to control it. I took a deep breath and prepared to practice Pratipaksa Bhavanam, a meditation sometimes referred to as “replacing with the opposites.”

  In other words, I would try to replace my current impulse to wring Michael’s neck with something …

  Well, something less violent.

  That was the best I could hope for in this particular moment.

  I rearranged the couch cushions, sat down, closed my eyes, and imagined that I was the sweet and understanding girlfriend I wanted to be. In my mind’s eye, perfect, fictional Kate greeted Michael at the door, not with frustration, but with love and acceptance.

  As I’d been taught, I utilized multiple senses to make the visualization as vibrant and detailed as possible. I imagined my breath becoming long, slow, and rhythmic. Tension oozed from my muscles like butter melting on a hot August afternoon. I inhaled Michael’s clean, soapy scent and felt my face melt into a smile. I tasted his moist, salty kiss. In my mind, I reached my arms up over Michael shoulders and …

  Wrapped my fingers around his throat.

  No matter how often my mind played out the scenario, it always ended the same. With me shaking Michael until his head almost popped off. Somehow I didn’t think this was what the ancient teachers had in mind.

  I gave up and poured myself a glass of Merlot.

  I loved the man, truly I did. I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. But his slovenliness was rapidly becoming the stuff of legends. The only way Michael’s and my cohabitation would end in anything other than violence was if this home renovation project got finished, and soon. Then I could reclaim my bathroom and ban Michael from ever stepping foot inside it. I needed one peaceful place where I could retreat from the wreckage.

  I heard the back door open, followed by a sharp bark and the telltale sound of Bella’s claws scrambling against linoleum. Michael’s voice echoed from the kitchen.

  “Bella, stop!”

  Bella crashed through the plastic into the living room, dragging her leash behind her. The wiry hair along her spine stood on end like a porcupine’s quills. She charged up to the first empty box, let out a single, high-pitched bark, and attacked, sinking her teeth into the cardboard and ripping out a large chunk. First box destroyed, she moved on to the next.

  And the next.

  What had gotten into her?

  These weren’t the first boxes that my overly territorial German shepherd had destroyed. Bella attacked every package delivered by her nemesis, the brown-suited psycho killer who drove the UPS truck. But until today, her box-biting behavior hadn’t included items already inside the house.

  “Bella!” I admonished. “What is wrong with you? Stop that!”

  Bella whipped toward my voice and gave me a look that clearly said, Don’t worry, I’m on it. She gave three quick air-sniffs and roared up the stairs to the master bedroom.

  Michael pushed through the plastic carrying a large, steaming pizza box. The delicious aromas of garlic, hot cheese, and tomatoes wafted around him.

  “What on earth happened here?”

  I opened my mouth to scold him, but before I could utter a single reprimand, I got a good look at his face. Michael’s expression wasn’t guilty; it was horrified.

  I gestured at the upended boxes surrounding me. “Wait a minute. You mean you didn’t do this?”

  Michael’s eyes widened; his lips turned down. He held the pizza box close to his chest. “Of course I didn’t do this. Jeez, Kate, I’m not that messy. We’ve been burglarized.”

  I took in the room with new eyes. He was right, of course, but how was I supposed to know? When you shared your home with a living poltergeist, it was hard to tell the difference sometimes.

  Michael set down the pizza box, picked up an umbrella, and gripped the handle in his fists like a baseball bat. I swore I could smell the testosterone oozing from his pores. “Kate,” he ordered, “go outside. Lock yourself in your car where it’s safe and call the police. I’ll make sure the house is clear.”

  I pointed to the umbrella. “What are you going to do if you find someone? Poke him in the eye? Threaten to open it and curse him with seven years of bad luck?”

  Michael didn’t answer. He was too busy stomping around the room, looking for someone to bludgeon. I briefly considered handing him a box he could bite, but Bella had already destroyed most of them. I tried reasoning with him instead.

  “I’m not hiding in the car. Believe me, Michael, whoever broke in here is long gone. Otherwise, Bella would already have cornered him somewhere.”

  As if on cue, Bella trotted back down the stairs, muscles rigid, tail pointing straight up on high alert. She pranced on her toes and grumbled under her breath, as if offended that she’d been cheated out of her first bite of burglar.

  Michael’s grumble wasn’t much sweeter. “Fine then, but keep Bella close and call the police.”

  I grabbed Bella’s leash and the two of us followed Michael around the house to assess the damage. The upstairs and what was left of my office were all similarly trashed.

  “What were they looking for?” I said to no one in particular.

  Michael and Bella both answered by growling unintelligibly.

  I locked Bella in the bathroom when the police officer arrived a half-hour later. She serenaded him by snarling, barking, and scratching at the door. He alternated between taking notes and glancing apprehensively over his shoulder.

  “Is she always that aggressive?”

  Bella answered by sniffing under the door, clearly trying to memorize the officer’s scent so she could hunt him down later.

  “Sorry, she’s a little worked up,” I said. “She takes her guard-dog job pretty seriously, but she’s not as ferocious as she seems.” I flashed him a tepid smile. “She’s never actually eaten anyone.”

  The officer didn’t look amused. “I don’t want to be the first. Make sure no one opens that door until I’m in my car.” He scooted farther away from the bathroom. “Better yet, give me five minutes to get out of the neighborhood.” He shuddered, then glanced down at his notepad. “Back to the burglary. You said the workmen have left the door open before?”

  “Several times, even after I called and read them the riot act,” I replied. “They promised that they would be more careful.”

  The officer tapped his pen against a notepad. “If the door was left open, you were an easy target. It was likely kids, looking for drug money or playing a prank. You’re sure nothing was taken?”

  “I don’t think so. At least, nothing I can see so far. We don’t have much to steal, but I’m surprised they didn’t take my computer.”

  “Unless it’s a laptop, they usually don’t. Kids take electronics that are portable and easy to sell—things they can hock for quick cash.”

  “Well, if they were looking for money, they came to the wrong place. We’ve given all of ours to irresponsible construction workers.”

  “I’ll file a report, but honestly, unless something easily id
entifiable is taken, break-ins like this are almost never solved.” The officer stood up. “Let me know if you find anything missing, and from now on, lock your door.” He glanced toward the bathroom. Bella was still snarling inside it, doing her best impersonation of a rabid wolverine. “Taping a photo of that dog to the front of the door wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  Thirty minutes later, Michael and I sat on our reassembled couch, eating cold pizza. Bella ignored the gruel in her bowl and lay at Michael’s feet, begging for morsels. He tossed her a piece of crust.

  “Stop feeding her pizza,” I snapped. “She hasn’t eaten her food, and it has her medicine in it. She doesn’t have enough enzymes in her system to digest all that crust.”

  Michael frowned. “You act like I don’t already know that. I gave her one bite.” He made eye contact with Bella and pointed at her food bowl. “No more treats until you eat your dinner.”

  Bella—who understood a remarkable amount of English—stood up, padded to her bowl, and began slurping down her premedicated food.

  “See,” Michael said. “There’s a method to my madness.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry for snapping at you. I’m just tired.” I sighed. “What a day.”

  I poured another glass of Merlot, took a sip, then added the rest of the bottle. “Hey, did you get a chance to call Sally?”

  “Yes, but Maggie got to her first. She wouldn’t talk to me. Evidently you and I are no longer welcome to visit DogMa or speak to any of their employees.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael.” I took another deep drink of coppery-tasting tranquilizer.

  “Isn’t that your third glass of wine?”

  “Maybe.” He was counting now?

  He looked at the half-eaten slice of pizza on my plate.

  “You’re not eating?”

  “Sorry, I’m not feeling very well.” I touched my belly. “I’m a little nauseated, probably from all of the stress. Dharma, the wake, the

  pigeon … not to mention the break-in. Food doesn’t sound all that appealing.”