The Association

by Bentley Little

  And there was still no sign of Barney.

  His gaze alighted on the mailbox.

  With a sinking feeling in his gut, he walked around the Suburban. He stepped up to the mailbox and paused, then reached out and pulled open the rounded metal door.

  There was nothing inside.

  He let out a sigh of relief, unaware until that second that he'd been holding his breath. He'd been almost certain that he'd find the cat mutilated, its body stuffed into the mailbox, and he had never been so thankful to be wrong. He turned back toward the house, intending to bring Maureen out here and show her the damage, when he saw a glimpse of fuzzy black amidst the light green stems and deep magenta flowers that had been tossed onto the driveway between the cars.

  He knew without looking closer exactly what that fuzzy black was, but he moved forward nevertheless, bending down to examine the object more fully.

  Barney.

  The cat was lying atop two discarded plants, and its dead open eyes were staring upward at the bumper of the Toyota. White foam was dripping from the animal's mouth onto the asphalt, where it had already puddle into an irregular pool. He wasn't an expert on these things, but he was pretty sure that Barney had been poisoned, and he hurried into the house, dragging Maureen away from her fax to show her the damage outside.

  "My God," she breathed. She looked around the property at the upturned vegetation and the dead cat. "Who do you think did this?"

  Barry shook his head, completely at a loss. They didn't know anyone here other than Ray and Liz and the other people they'd met at the Dysons' party, and his gut reaction was that it was probably an act of random vandalism perpetrated by bored teenagers looking for a thrill, but whether they were teenagers from town or the kids of parents who lived in Bonita Vista he had no idea.

  Pretty sick kids.

  "Do you think we should ... call the police?" he asked.

  "Hell yes," Maureen said angrily. "I want the assholes who did this prosecuted. We spent almost a hundred dollars on those new plants--not to mention all the work we put into clearing brush. And they can't get away with killing Barney. I mean, what kind of creep would poison a defenseless little animal like that?"

  He had no idea, but it made him furious as well. They hadn't had Barney long enough to feel real sadness at his loss, but they felt rage at what had been done, and he, too, wanted justice, his indignation fueled and amplified by Maureen's righteous anger, pushing aside his earlier uneasiness.

  There was no police station in Corban , but he called the sheriff's office to report the vandalism, and twenty minutes later a tan Dodge with the sheriff's insignia painted on the doors pulled into the driveway. The deputy who emerged from die vehicle was not the stereotypical redneck he'd been expecting but a skinny unassertive kid who looked as though he were still in high school.

  Barry and Maureen met him in the driveway.

  "I'm Wally Addison," the deputy said, nodding. He was trying to look authoritative but didn't have either the face or the years to pull it off. He withdrew a metal clipboard from the front seat of the car. "I

  understand you've had some vandalism on your property. You need this reported for your insurance?"

  "No," Maureen said. "We want whoever did this caught."

  "Caught?"

  Barry frowned. "Of course."

  "I'll be honest with you," the deputy said. "There's a lot of vandalism around these parts--people shooting up stop signs, tipping over cows, batting mailboxes, what have you--and unless there's an eyewitness, we hardly ever catch the people who do it."

  Maureen looked at him levelly. "What does that mean? You're not even going to try?"

  "No, no," he said nervously, trying to assure her. "We'll do our best to apprehend the culprit. I just wanted you to know that the odds of doing so are not in our favor."

  "Well, we don't care about your past track record," Maureen said. "We expect you to find out who killed our cat and tore up our yard, and we expect you to arrest him."

  "Of course, ma'am. Of course. Now if I can just get some information from you good people, we can get started..."

  Barry described how he'd looked for the cat, going through his discovery step-by-step. Maureen stated that the last time she'd seen Barney had been after dinner, when she'd fed him some leftover chicken on the top deck. Neither of them had had any run-ins with neighbors or had seen any mysterious individuals lurking about; neither was aware of any grudges held against them or any reason why they would be targeted.

  The deputy dutifully took everything down, and with an uncertain glance at Maureen stated that it sounded to him as though this was a random attack, probably carried out by trouble making teenage boys. But, he added hurriedly, the sheriff's department would do everything in its power to solve this case. He gave Barry a carbon of his report and a business card with his beeper number, promising to call as soon as there was any information to report.

  Ray showed up before the deputy left, and he remained silent, staying unobtrusively in the background until the tan car pulled out of the driveway and headed back down the road. Maureen headed back inside the house, and Barry walked over to where Ray stood waiting.

  "I saw the hubbub from my window," Ray said. "What's going on?"

  Barry gestured around. "Take a look for yourself. Someone poisoned our cat and tore up Mo's plants."

  "And you called the sheriff?"

  "Of course. What did you expect me to do?"

  "What I mean is: are you sure this was illegal? Did the sheriff or whoever that guy was give any indication that this wasn’t a crime?"

  "What are you talking about?"

  "The sheriff's office has been known to... assist the homeowners'

  association in disputes with individuals."

  "You think someone from the homeowners' association killed our cat?"

  Barry asked incredulously.

  Ray shrugged. "I'm not saying anything. I'm just pointing out that, under the bylaws, pets are prohibited in any residence within Bonita Vista." He was quiet for a moment, tilting his head. "Hear that? No dogs barking. I don't know if you've noticed, but there are no domestic animals of any kind within Bonita Vista. No dogs or cats, no hamsters, no goldfish." He met Barry's eyes. "No pets."

  "But--"

  "It's in the C, C, and Rs ."

  Barry thought of the dead cat in the mailbox and found that he could not dismiss the idea entirely.

  "What about the plants, though? This is vandalism. This isn't enforcement of regulations."

  "You're supposed to get approval from the architectural committee before any landscaping changes are made," Ray said quietly.

  He didn't believe it, not really, but the idea sent a quiet chill down his spine. Was it possible that someone from the homeowners'

  association had come to their house in the middle of the night and, while they were sleeping, poisoned their cat and dug up their garden?

  He recalled Neil Campbell, the man with the clipboard, and it didn't seem all that farfetched.

  "But... people wouldn't put up with this, would they? I mean..." He shook his head. "Even in someplace like Utah--especially in someplace like Utah--it seems like people would be more ... individualistic, like they wouldn't want to get involved in things like homeowners'

  associations."

  Ray snorted. "For people who are so antigovernment and anti regulation they're pretty well sold on this association crap. I mean, hell, most of them are NRA members who pitch a shit fit every time there's so much as a whisper of trigger-lock legislation. But they have no problem with making a homeowner come before one of their damn committees if he wants to trim a tree or plant a flower. On his own property!"

  "NRA members, huh?"

  Ray waved his hand. "Don't let that scare you. I kicked one of 'em off my lot just last month. They're tough when they're sending out memos or holding a meeting, but one on-one, they're pussy-boys. Pardon my French."

  "What happened? Why were they harassing you?
"

  "I put up a storage shed. It isn't even visible from the street, but apparently someone saw me unloading the materials from my truck and turned me in. It's like the goddamn Third Reich around here.

  Everyone's an informant."

  "Ray! Barry!" Barry looked toward the street, where Frank Hodges, one of the men he'd met the other night at Ray's house, was walking toward them, waving.

  "I saw the sheriff's car. What happened?"

  Barry went through it again, told how he'd been looking for the cat to feed it breakfast and had discovered the animal's dead body along with the uprooted plants.

  Frank shook his head sympathetically.

  "Ray says there's a prohibition against pets."

  Frank nodded. "Yeah. The association doesn't want--" He stopped, frowned. "Wait a minute. Are you--?"

  Barry gestured around at the damage. "We were wondering if this could be ... policy."

  "No." He shook his head. "They might be jerks and uptight assholes, but they wouldn't do this. Destruction of property is the last thing they would authorize. The problem with the association is that they're too strict about upkeep of property, about making sure everyone conforms to their standards. There's no way they would deliberately vandalize a lot in Bonita Vista. They might clean it up for you and send you the bill, but they wouldn't damage it."

  He had expected support from Ray, corroboration, but the old man was silent, and the expression on his face was one that Barry found unreadable.

  Everyone's an informant.

  Now he was just being paranoid.

  He looked over at Frank.

  Wasn't he?

  He'd been planning to confide in the other man, share his thoughts openly, attempt to forge an ally, but instead he nodded absently and said, "Yeah, you're probably right." He did not look at Ray again.

  He told the others that they were welcome to hang around and watch--or help, if they so desired--but he needed to get to work. There was a lot of cleaning up to do.

  "Take pictures first," Frank suggested. "This is all probably covered under your homeowners' insurance."

  "Good idea," Barry said. "Thanks."

  Ray and Frank walked away, waving, and he watched them for a moment before heading around the side of the house to find a shovel and bury Barney.

  The Bonita Vista Homeowners' Association Covenants, Conditions, and Restrictions Article III, Land Use Classifications, Permitted Uses and Restrictions, Section 3, Paragraph C:

  No animal, fish, or fowl shall be kept, permitted, or maintained on any Lot. No Owner shall remove, alter, or interfere in any way with any shrubs, trees, grass, or plants without the written consent of the Association having first been obtained. No improvements, alterations, or other work which in any way alters the exterior appearance of any Property shall be made or done without the prior approval of the Architectural Committee.

  The adjustment was easier than she'd expected.

  Maureen had worried that she'd go stir crazy working at home rather than in an office, dealing with her clients over the phone, through E-mail, and by fax, but in truth it was liberating. Her life had been pared down to its essentials, and she loved it. Now, she could take time off in the middle of the day to watch a movie or read a book. If work became too frustrating or overwhelming, she didn't have to take a sick day, she could just opt out for a few hours, go outside, and dig in her garden. True, it was a little hard to get used to the lack of human contact and interaction, but Barry was always around, and anytime she wanted, she could walk up to the Dysons' and visit with Liz.

  It was a good life, and despite the vandalism of their property, her initial reservations about Bonita Vista faded away with the passing of days.

  As expected, the sheriff had failed to find whoever had killed Barney and dug up their yard, but luckily it had not happened again. They'd bought new flowers and shrubs, replanted, and for the past two weeks everything had been fine. Barry still seemed half-convinced that it was part of some sinister plot on the part of the homeowners'

  association, but she had never put much stock in that theory and as the days and weeks passed, it began to seem more and more ludicrous.

  She'd taken to walking each morning, going on a brisk twenty- to forty-minute stroll through the neighborhood, getting to know the area, acclimatizing herself to the altitude and engaging in some much-needed exercise. The more she explored, the more she liked Bonita Vista, and the more sure she was that they had made the right decision by moving here. The houses, spaced far apart on large lots, were uniformly well-kept yet distinctively individual, and the view in every direction was spectacular. Although she enjoyed the scenery to the south, that breathtaking panorama in which forest segued to desert canyon land and the horizon was so far away that you could see the curve of the earth, in truth she preferred the view to the north, and it was when she was walking up the bill, facing the heavily wooded plateau directly behind Bonita Vista, that she felt most at home, that she felt a part of this place.

  Maureen strode purposefully down the sloping street that went around the back of their hill. Most of the houses here were vacant vacation homes, but even the residences that were obviously occupied year-round seemed empty, their owners either gone to work or off on errands. From somewhere in the muffled distance came the faint sound of pounding hammers, the noise of construction, and here and there in the brush random bird cries rang out in the still morning air. Other than that, the world was quiet.

  There were no dog barks or cat yowls. Barry was right about that--domestic animals were not allowed in Bonita Vista--and she thought of poor Barney, buried on the east side of the house. It had been nice to have a cat, even for a few weeks, and while she didn't believe that the homeowners' association had anything to do with the animal's death, she still resented the organization for disallowing pets.

  The houses grew farther apart as the road rounded the back side of the hill and dipped into a narrow area between the hill and the plateau. Many of the lots here remained unsold, and rusted real estate signs were posted next to the white lot-number stakes. She passed a small empty A-frame with a chain blocking the driveway, and a rustic log cabin with a three-car garage. The road turned again, heading into a copse of tall ponderosas. There were no homes on this section of road, only the uncleared forest pressing in, and though it was midmorning, the positioning of the hill and trees kept most of the route in shadow.

  Ahead, she thought she saw something, a still figure that was not a bush, not a tree, not a road sign.

  A man.

  He stood by the side of the road, unmoving, and Maureen was grateful that he was not close enough to hear her surprised intake of air.

  She halted for a moment and bent down, hands on her knees, pretending she'd been running and was only taking a small break from regimented exercise. She counted to ten, then broke into a jog, keeping to the side of the road opposite the unmoving figure, ready to bolt should he make any movement toward her.

  It was probably nothing, she told herself. Years of L.A. living had simply made her paranoid, fearful of strangers. He was probably just a fellow resident of Bonita Vista, one of her neighbors out for a stroll.

  There was no reason for her to assume that he was in any way a threat.

  But he was just standing there, not moving.

  Better safe than sorry. Following through on her "serious exercise"

  ruse, ready to ignore him completely or smile in a friendly manner, depending on his reaction to her, she jogged by.

  "Fuck you," the man said.

  His voice was deep and raspy, sickly sounding, and there was something menacing in not only the words but the tone in which they were spoken.

  She was afraid to look at the man's face, afraid of what she might see there, and she sprinted faster, her heart pumping with fear as well as exertion.

  There were houses ahead, and whether or not they were occupied, she was grateful to be once again in the vicinity of human habitation. The road headed
up the side of the hill, and though her muscles were starting to ache, and her mouth was painfully dry from breathing so hard and heavily, she ratcheted up the intensity a few notches and managed to maintain her speed as she ran toward the crest of the incline.

  She stopped at the top to catch her breath and casually turned around to look behind her.

  The man was striding purposefully up the road toward the spot where she stood.

  Panic flared within, and all Maureen could think was that she was being chased, that this man was after her. He seemed even more frightening in the full sunlight. She had not gotten a good look at him before, but she saw now that he was tall and hairy, with a wild mane and bushy beard. The weather was warm, but he wore a flannel overcoat, and even from this distance his heavy boots made a staccato slapping sound on the pavement, the noise absurdly loud in the stillness.

  "Fuck you!" the man yelled, his voice echoing.

  And he started to run.

  Crying out, Maureen sped forward as fast as her feet would carry her, ignoring the protestations of her leg muscles and lungs, wanting only to get away from this psycho and his irrationally dogged pursuit.

  She raced the rest of the way up the hill to Liz and Ray's house and fairly flew over the gravel of their driveway, pounding furiously on the door, praying to God that they were home. She glanced back over her shoulder to make sure the man was not coming onto their property after her, already planning how she would make her escape if he was.

  Liz opened the door almost immediately, and Maureen pushed breathlessly past her into the house, shutting the door and fumbling frantically for the lock.