Wild Thing: A Novel

by Josh Bazell

  After a while, though, Brisson stops cooperating. Becomes more interested in proving that just because one fucked-up thing happened to you doesn’t mean a whole bunch more can’t. Particularly if you help them along.

  It’s like a particularly unfunny flip-book. Alcoholic car wreck in his early twenties. Alcoholic liver enzymes in his late twenties. Bad sugar control the whole time. Leg amputated for diabetic gangrene while he’s still in his forties. Five years later, onset of Korsakoff’s syndrome.

  Fuck should I have thought of that before. In Korsakoff’s, people whose memories have been wrecked by thiamine deficiency—usually, in developed countries, from alcoholic malnutrition—start unconsciously creating new memories in real time. Suggest to someone with Korsakoff’s that something may have happened, and there’s a good chance they’ll suddenly remember that it did, and give you the details. It should have been the first thing I considered.

  I replace the chart. Pull the ones on Autumn Semmel and Benjy Schneke.

  Autumn’s is two pages long, about a sprained ankle five years ago. Apparently McQuillen wasn’t her usual doctor. Which, given that she lived in Ely, makes sense.

  Benjy’s chart starts with a certificate of live birth eighteen years ago and ends with a note from two years ago that just says “d. MMVA.”* Both the birth certificate and the close-out note are signed in McQuillen’s distinctive, lost-art handwriting.

  Clipped inside the back cover of Benjy’s chart is a manila envelope sent to McQuillen from the Minnesota Bureau of Criminal Apprehension in Bemidji. Still sealed.

  I try to think of some way of opening it that won’t be obvious later, but end up just tearing it across the top.

  When I get back to the front room, Violet’s in the doorway, leaning in to see without crossing the threshold. “Is he here?” she says.

  “No.”

  “But you went in?”

  I pull the door shut behind me and start down the stairs. I don’t want to be here anymore. McQuillen coming back because he forgot something is the least of it.

  “Door was unlocked,” I say. “I was worried about him.”

  True-but-false: it’s not just a game. It’s an attitude.

  “Isn’t that still breaking and entering?”

  “Not if you don’t break anything.”

  “Are you sure he’s not there?”

  “I looked around. Maybe I got the time wrong.”

  As I unlock the car, she notices the manila envelope in my hand. “And you took something?”

  “Just this. Which he won’t miss. He never opened it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Tell you on the way.”

  “You can’t tell me now? You’re freaking me out.”

  I look over at her. Wonder how much of my lying to her she’s actually bought, and how much she’s just been too polite to call me on.

  Either way, I’m about to distract her.

  “They’re the autopsy photos of Autumn Semmel and Benjy Schneke.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah.”

  She blanches. “What do they look like?”

  “Like if McQuillen had bothered to open the envelope, he’d be a lot less sure April and Benjy were killed by a boat propeller.”

  19

  Camp Fawn See, Ford Lake, Minnesota

  Still Saturday, 15 September

  “Is there any chance they’re shark bites?”

  “No,” Violet says. She’s seated on the floor with her head in her hands and her back to my bed. Behind her, on the mattress, the black-and-white glossies are spread in two hideous rows.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know?”

  “A bunch of reasons.”

  I don’t know what’s more embarrassing: the fear or the relief.

  “For one thing,” she says, “they’re bell shaped, like from something bottle-nosed, which as far as I know no shark is. And I’ve never heard of a shark that could be metabolically active enough in fresh water to attack someone. I don’t know any saltwater fish that could do that.”

  “Salmon don’t seem to have a problem with it.”

  “Salmon molt from fresh water to salt water, once, one way. Which is relatively easy, because they just have to fill their cells with enough junk to stay osmotically attractive to water. When they go back, the fresh water poisons them. It’s the final evolutionary stressor before they spawn and die. Anyway, sharks also only have cutting teeth. Like piranhas, or Komodo dragons. Whatever this was had cutting teeth in the molar position but puncturing teeth up front. That’s why the front of each bite’s all stringy.”

  “Jesus, that’s good to hear.”

  Violet looks at me. She’s taking it pretty well for a first timer, but she looks teary eyed and ill. “How do you figure?”

  “I don’t like sharks.”

  “Lionel, whatever this is, it’s worse.”

  “I doubt it. It probably was a propeller.”

  “You said in the car that propeller injuries were short, parallel incisions the same distance apart as the front-to-back depth of the screw. And that parts attached to clothes or hair get shredded.”

  “Yeah, in textbooks.”

  The bodies in the photos aren’t wearing clothes. Bodies in autopsy photos seldom are, but the accompanying report says they were mostly naked when they were recovered. The girl’s bottoms were still on. Whether she had long hair isn’t clear, since her head is missing.

  “You don’t understand,” Violet says. “I recognize this bite pattern.”

  It stops me. “What do you mean?”

  “This bite pattern—it’s impossible to miss. I mean, I’m not a zoological paleontologist. I’m not a zoological anything—”

  “You seem to be doing okay.”

  “No offense, but that’s because you know even less than I do about this stuff. I’m an amateur. I don’t even know where my gaps are.”

  “Okay.”

  “But this bite I know. Every paleontologist knows it, because it’s so unique that it gets used to mark the end of the Cretaceous.”

  “Which is when?”

  “That’s the fucking problem. Sixty-five million years ago.”

  I remind myself that I’ve essentially just shown this woman stills from a snuff film. I’d put a hand on her shoulder, but I don’t have that kind of hands.

  “Violet—”

  She winces. “I know. I’m a paleontologist. Most of the animals I’m familiar with died out in the K-T extinction.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But not all of them.”

  As gently as possible, I say “I really doubt this is a dinosaur.”

  “Until 1938, people thought the coelacanth had been extinct since the Cretaceous. Then they started turning up.”

  “But we don’t share a habitat with coelacanths. The only reason we found out they were still around is that we started drag-netting their spawning grounds. Even then, most people who saw one probably thought it was just another fish and forgot about it. You and I are talking about something that supposedly looks like a dinosaur, and hangs out in a national park. And eats people. Where’s it been all this time? Frozen?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “What?” I say.

  “That’s not completely impossible.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “It isn’t. I may not be a zoologist, but I know there are frogs that can freeze solid.”

  “How? Their cells would burst.”

  “They flood their cells with ultrahigh levels of glucose, then supercool. No active metabolism. Until they wake up, they’re just proteins in a block of ice.”

  “And they can stay that way?” I say. “For sixty-five million years?”

  “No. Not for sixty-five million years. Random nucleating events would blow out the cells in that kind of time, and there’d be molecular decay. But this thing doesn’t have to have been frozen for sixty-five million year
s. What if it’s only sat out the last couple of centuries? That would explain why there’s a painting of it. And there’s been a hell of a lot of habitat change in the last two hundred years. In 1780 New York Harbor froze. This summer Minneapolis reached a hundred and twenty-three degrees.”

  “But just because a handful of amphibians can freeze doesn’t mean there are reptiles that can.”

  “There might be, though. Turtles can pull all kinds of crafty shit to survive at the bottom of lakes that freeze over. They can alter their enzymes. They can stop their hearts and lungs and just breathe through their skins.”

  “Which means they’re still building up lactic acid.”

  “Unless they’re buffering it. There’s even a squirrel that can supercool.”*

  “So…”

  She avoids my eyes. “So maybe it’s like that thing Sherlock Holmes says, where when you eliminate all other options, the one that’s left has to be the truth, even if it seems like it can’t be.”

  “Violet, I’m sorry, but that’s the dumbest thing Sherlock Holmes ever said. How can you ever know you’ve eliminated all other options?”

  She looks miserable. “Name one.”

  “I will. This was done by a person.”

  She looks at me, both hopeful and dubious.

  “How could you know that?”

  “Because it’s possible it was done by a person. Which nine times out of ten means that it was. Humans will do any sick shit you can imagine. And if this was done by a human, then it could easily have been done by one smart enough to figure out what a dinosaur bite should look like and replicate it. You could probably modify a bear trap to do that.”

  “But Autumn and Benjy had other people with them when they died.”

  “Two other teenagers, who weren’t even on the same lake. Everybody involved was probably fucking at the time. Maybe the friends heard noises, or thought the water looked disturbed when they got there. But nobody’s told us those kids saw anything—including the bodies. No one’s told us anyone saw the bodies before the police picked them out of the water, which was at least three days later. That’s plenty of time to fake a bunch of dinosaur bites.”

  She stares at me. “Do you think Reggie’s capable of that?”

  “I don’t know. But there are plenty of people who are. Don’t forget, there were two other murders right here the same week. And no one’s suggesting those were animal attacks.”

  “But if the person who shot Chris Jr. and Father Podominick had a gun, and knew how to shoot it, why wouldn’t they… I mean, how could they do this? To two children?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe one person killed the kids, and a different person, thinking Chris Jr. and Father Podominick were responsible, killed them.”

  “You mean someone thought Chris Jr. murdered his own daughter?”

  “Who knows? Maybe the shooter wasn’t even trying for Chris Jr.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nobody even seems to know what Chris Jr. and Father Podominick were doing here that night. So how many people could have known where to find them? And according to Reggie, who granted is not the most reliable source in the world, Father Podominick was shot in the head and Chris Jr. was shot in the chest. So someone with a scope took as much time as necessary to line up the most lethal possible shot on Father Podominick, then had to set up the second shot as quickly as possible, because the second target would have known it was coming. That’s why the killer went for the chest shot: it’s faster and easier. Maybe the killer never even saw Chris Jr.’s face.”

  Or clothes.

  The whole idea starts to sound dumb to me: who assassinates two people with a scope and doesn’t bother to identify both targets?

  “Who are you?” Violet says.

  “What do you mean?” I say.

  I know what she means, though. She looks horrified.

  A total fucking idiot is who I am.

  “Why do you know about shooting people in the head with a scope? Or mutilating people’s bodies with—what did you say? A bear trap?”

  “Violet—”

  “Why aren’t you afraid when people shoot guns at you?” Violet says.

  “I was afraid.”

  “You were smiling. And afterward you refused to call the police. Why did you rob McQuillen’s office?”

  “Oh, come on—”

  “Are you even really a doctor?”

  Christ. It used to be only my patients asked me that question. Now everybody does.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “Are you also some kind of policeman?”

  “No.”

  “Are you some kind of criminal?”

  “No.” Not at present.

  “Have you ever been in prison?”

  “No.” Nine months in jail awaiting and standing trial for double homicide, maybe, but prison? Never.

  True-but-false: it’s not just an attitude. It’s a lifestyle.

  “Are you who Rec Bill thinks you are?” Violet says.

  What a smart fucking question, I almost say to her.

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Rec Bill asked Baboo Marmoset—do you know who that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Rec Bill asked him to recommend someone who had a science background but also might be able to protect you if something went wrong.”

  “To protect me?”

  “I know: I haven’t exactly been doing that job.”

  “Wait. Who wanted to protect me?”

  “Rec Bill.”

  “Rec Bill wanted you to protect me?”

  “He wanted me to at least be able to if it became necessary.”

  “Holy shit,” she says.

  She’s forgotten about my criminal tendencies. She’s forgotten the pictures of the dead teenagers.

  Hard to not see what that means.

  I say “Are you and Rec Bill…”

  “What?” she says, distracted.

  “Is Rec Bill the guy? The semi-boyfriend?”

  It brings her back. “No.”

  “Then why are you blushing like that?”

  She looks away. “Fuck you. I’m not.”

  “He is!”

  “I don’t want to discuss it.”

  “Then we’d better get it over with.”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  “That you’re fucking our mutual boss?”

  “What?”

  At least now I’ve got her full attention again.

  “Okay,” she says. “(A) I’m not fucking him. (B) I’m not fucking you either, so what the fuck business is it of yours? You and I kissed. Once.”

  “It was the only time I’ve seen you sober past sundown.”

  “Up yours!” She pushes off the floor. Turns away from me, then away from both the photos and me. “That is bullshit. And it’s presumptuous. Maybe not totally presumptuous, but presumptuous. It’s rude as fuck, anyway. And what is your fucking problem? Because I’m not really going to believe you if you tell me that it’s that you don’t sleep with drunk girls.”

  “Yeah. When I’m drunk too.”

  “Ugh!” Violet says. “Forget I asked. This is so typical. You think Rec Bill wants me, and suddenly you want to date me or some bullshit. And I don’t even know if he does want me. I don’t know what the hell either of you are thinking. Ever.”

  “Ever?”

  “Rec Bill’s not approachable like that. And you don’t answer questions.”

  “Well at least I’m approachable.”

  “Fuck you. Do not try to make me laugh. It’s not fun, being around you. You make it seem fun, but it isn’t. It’s scary. Because I don’t even know who you are. Seriously: who the fuck are you? And what do you want from me? Some kind of fling on a business trip? For us to become friends without my knowing anything about you? What?”

  Damn.

  Not wrong or undeserved, but damn. It’s amazing how many of the things I’ve be
en thinking about her now suddenly seem ridiculous.* And how many of the things I’ve said to her.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Great. Let me know when you decide. In the meantime, do you want the room?”

  “No.”

  “Ugh. Just—ugh. And take your fucking pictures, please.”

  I guess that means I’m leaving.

  20

  Camp Fawn See, Ford Lake, Minnesota

  Still Saturday, 15 September

  I walk around the marina. Up to the outfitters. Back down to the marina. To the parking lot to stash the envelope of photos in the car. To the woods between the lodge and the main town of Ford.

  The woods have had paths blazed through them. Not recently—I have to reverse out of the first couple I try—but on a scale that makes it clear that someone at some time thought it was a good idea for people to be able to move between Ford and CFS on foot. I think I get about halfway before I hear voices ahead of me and stop.

  It’s Debbie and her Boys, coming toward me. Toward CFS.

  The fact that Debbie, who’s walking with her hands in fists like she’s striding toward a bar fight, is wearing jeans and a fleece vest makes it kind of funny that all the Boys are in camouflage and face paint. But only kind of, because all the Boys have guns.

  I run back to the lodge and knock on the door of Cabin Ten.

  “Who is it?” Violet says.

  “It’s me.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “I can’t. Debbie’s on her way here through the woods with her Boys, and I need you to start moving everyone up the hill while I call Sheriff Albin.”

  There’s a pause. “Seriously?”

  “Swear to God.”

  “Hi, Debbie,” I say when she reaches the spot on the lawn where I’m standing.

  “Hell are you doing here?” she says. Her regiment is checking the spaces between the cabins, military-style.

  “I’ve been wondering that myself. Hello, dickhead with a gun.”

  The oldest-looking Boy, with the Colt Commander, comes toward me pointing it at my face. “You’re really looking to get iced, aren’t you?”