by Pete Hautman
“I’m doin’ fine.” A loose smile crawled across Orlan Johnson’s wide face. A cigar with a plastic mouthpiece jutted from between his teeth. “You wanna play? Play a little stud?” He was drunk. A tall glass filled with ice cubes, carbonated fluid, and a lime rested at his elbow. That would be a vodka tonic, Crow recalled. Johnson never drank anything but vodka tonics, which he believed were less detectable on his breath.
“I’m looking for George,” Crow said.
“He just left. He’s all upset because his elk got sick.” Johnson laughed through his nose, blowing ashes on his uniform.
“You just missed him,” said the sandy-haired man to Johnson’s left.
Johnson said, “George likes to feed his beasts when he gets upset. You still play poker, don’t you, Crow?”
Crow ignored Johnson and addressed himself to the sandy-haired man. “Any idea where he went?”
Johnson said, “Jus’ a frien’ly game, Joe. Dollar limit.”
One of the other men, a nondescript but well-groomed fellow wearing a red chamois shirt and an expensive watch, stood up and introduced himself and the other two men. Crow shook their hands and instantly forgot their names. All three men, he noticed, were drinking Budweisers. Their identical grips were firm, dry, and practiced. Executives of some sort, probably worked for some corporation large enough to have sent them to handshaking school.
“You know,” one of the men said, “George didn’t walk out of here but a couple minutes ago. You might want to check out by the barns.”
Johnson said, “Why don’t you sit down, Crow? Four makes for a lousy card game. George’ll be back sometime. Might as well win some of our money while you’re waiting. You want a beer?”
Crow shook his head, staring at his former boss, imagining how it would feel to step around the table and grind the heel of his right hand into that bulbous nose. Rage swept through him, then was gone, leaving only a shaky nausea in its wake. The air in the lodge was stale and heavy and warm. The sweet smell of Johnson’s cigar combined with the yeasty, alcoholic aroma of the beer and settled low in Crow’s gut. He had to get out of there. “No, thanks,” he mumbled, heading for the door.
A large, pear-shaped man in a baby-blue snowmobile suit was standing beside Bellweather’s Jaguar, staring down at it. He turned his head and looked at Crow, blinking. Framed by the blue hood, his face had the rubbery, slack look of the mentally impaired. He pointed a mittened hand at the car and lifted reddish eyebrows over mud-brown eyes.
Crow smiled and nodded, half expecting the man to clap his hands together and giggle.
The man did not return his smile, but said, “Don’t you feel like a jerk, driving that thing?” There was no trace of arrested development in the clear, deep voice.
Crow made a rapid mental adjustment. “Are you George Murphy?” he asked.
The man pushed back his hood. His hair, red shot with gray, covered most of his protruding ears. He had a swollen red spot in the center of his forehead. “That’s right. Is Nelly Bell here?”
Nelly Bell? Crow repressed a smile. “If you mean Dr. Bellweather, no, he’s not here.”
George Murphy took three swift, fluid steps, bringing him to within arm’s reach of Crow, who had to strain to keep himself from backpedaling. The man could move, considering his size. At closer range, his eyes did not appear so much muddy as opaque. Murphy lowered his head, tipped it twenty degrees, and peered into Crow’s face like a curious gorilla looking into a camera.
“You are Officer Crow,” he said. Steamy breath crossed the space between them. It smelled of peppermint. “Ricky said you was working for that son-of-a-bitch. I thought we were rid of you.” He paused and pressed his lips together. “I see I was mistaken.”
Murphy’s face went through several mutations as he spoke, as if small animals were scurrying about just beneath his skin. The effect was both comic and alarming. His language also seemed inconsistent, like that of an intelligent but uneducated man trying to speak with unaccustomed formality.
Crow said, “It’s a small world.”
“Like hell it is. What do you want, Officer Crow?”
“I want to talk. You mind if we go inside? It’s cold out here.”
Murphy snorted and turned away, walking toward the barns. Crow hesitated. Was this a summons or a dismissal? He decided to take it as an invitation, pushed his hands into his coat pockets, and started after the lumbering Murphy. He looked up at the house as they passed and caught the old woman watching him through one of the upstairs windows. Crow waved, and once again she backed away from the glass. Murphy unlatched and opened the door leading into the first barn, stepped inside. The smell hit Crow hard; his nostrils clamped shut at the organic intensity of it.
The long metal building was illuminated by three bare, low wattage yellow light bulbs hanging from cords seven feet off the straw-matted floor. The left-hand side of the barn was divided into stalls. Breathing shallowly, he followed Murphy into the dimly lit interior. The first three stalls were vacant, but the fourth was occupied by an ugly, barrel-shaped creature that pushed its snout through the metal bars of the gate and snorted steam. It was a pig, but uglier and meaner looking than any pig Crow had ever seen—coarse speckled gray-and-black hair, long legs, and a hunched back. Murphy stopped, pried the top off a plastic garbage can, scooped out a handful of corn, and tossed it into the stall. The hog produced a hoarse squeal and proceeded to vacuum up the kernels. It paused in its feeding and raised its head, showing a pair of six-inch-long tusks jutting from its lower jaw. Crow met the tiny, glittering eyes, shuddered.
“A little treat,” Murphy said. He grabbed a small metal bucket from a nail on the wall, filled it with corn, moved on to the next stall, which contained a smaller, reddish version of the same species. He tossed out another scoop of corn, then looked back at Crow, a demented grin filling his face.
“I like to feed them.”
“I can see that,” Crow said. “What kind of pig is that?”
“Russian boar. We got twenty, thirty razorbacks running wild down on the bottoms, but I like to keep the Russians penned up here until we need them. Sometimes they don’t mix so good with the native stock.”
“They sure are ugly.”
“Eye of the beholder, Officer Crow. I hear you have climbed on the water wagon. I respect that. More people should try it.”
“Who’d you hear that from?” he asked.
Murphy laughed. “It’s a small world.”
The next few stalls were empty, but a larger stall at the far end of the barn held a mottled gray-and-white ram with horns corkscrewing out eighteen inches from the sides of its head. The ram stood chewing something, apparently oblivious to their presence. Murphy threw it some corn, but the animal showed no interest.
“He’s not happy,” Murphy said. “These exotics don’t last long in our climate, even if you keep them indoors.”
“Then why keep them?”
Murphy looked surprised. “Why, to hunt, Officer Crow. Aren’t you a hunter?”
“That depends on what you call hunting.”
“Do you shoot wild animals?”
“I’ve been duck hunting.”
“Then you’re a hunter. We hunt ducks here ten months a year. You should try us. We’ll fix you up in one of our deluxe blinds, guarantee you all the shooting you want.”
“I’m not sure I’d call what you do ‘hunting.’”
“Really?” Murphy smiled. “What would you call it?”
“What do you call it when chickens are killed at a slaughterhouse?”
“I would call that profit taking. You’ve never hunted on a preserve, have you? If you had, you wouldn’t compare it to killing chickens.”
“Slaughtering cattle, then. What I wouldn’t call it is hunting.”
Murphy regarded Crow mildly. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said. “You should keep your mouth shut, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Crow did n
ot want to debate the ethics of preserve hunting. “Let’s talk about Dr. Bellweather,” he said.
Murphy frowned and shook his head, refusing to be diverted from his topic. “We’ve got four thousand acres of some of the toughest terrain you ever saw, and some damn fine trophies on the hoof. And don’t you let anybody tell you a preserve-raised animal is any different from a wild one. Let me tell you. We got this one old elk, he’s gonna go in the Boone and Crockett record book, rack the size of a Volkswagen. I personally guided three hunts on him, and he’s survived every one. Smart as a damn cat. We got a hundred twenty miles of trails through woods, scrub, field, and bog. You could spend a month chasing after old Number One and never see the old bull. You hunt Talking Lake, you got yourself a real challenge. Maybe you get your game, maybe you don’t. And we can make it as hard as you want. You want a real challenge, you ought to try going after one of our Russians. You go after one with a handgun, you got yourself a real hunt.”
“How about I go after them with a machine gun?”
Murphy shrugged, looking disappointed. “You could do that if you wanted to,” he said. “We cater to all styles of hunting.”
“How about if I want to shoot myself a tiger?”
Murphy smiled, his lips tightening across his teeth, then curling back. “I doubt you can afford it. Now what was it you wanted to talk about?”
“Dr. Bellweather. I understand you’re trying to kill him.”
Murphy chuckled. It was a fine, chesty laugh that seemed at odds with his rubbery, mobile features. “The man is obviously paranoid. I’m in the business of hunting animals, not men. Why would I want to kill Nelly Bell?”
“I don’t know. Why did Ricky pay him a visit last night?”
“Did he? Well now that’s pretty strange, seeing as Ricky was here all night reading his Bible.” Murphy turned and started back down the row of stalls, stopping in front of the gray Russian boar. “Let me tell you. You maybe won’t believe this, but I respect you, Officer Crow. When you had your troubles with Ricky? Hell, I knew he was asking for it. Fact is, a couple hours cuffed to the Hummer actually seemed to improve his personality.” He paused, smiling with narrowed eyes. “A course, I had to ask Orlan to get rid of you, but you had my respect. I didn’t respect you, I’d pick you up right now and feed you to the goddamn hogs. And don’t think they wouldn’t eat you. They eat anything.”
Crow stared into the rubbery face, thankful for the Ruger in the waistband of his pants, the Taurus in his coat pocket. It could easily go down that way. Somebody getting shot. Or fed to the hogs. If Murphy thought of Joe Crow as a serious threat, he wouldn’t think twice about eliminating him. Crow had no doubt that George, like his brother Ricky, was capable of killing people as well as animals. His eyes kept returning to the red spot on Murphy’s forehead, glowing like a third eye. For too long, George Murphy had been a bugaboo of his mind. Now that he had met the man, the bugaboo was real. A shudder rolled up his spine. The moment passed.
“Somebody once told me I’d probably like you,” Crow said.
Murphy laughed loudly, throwing his head back. “Who told you that?”
“It doesn’t matter. He was wrong.”
“Of course he was.” Murphy frowned and bit his upper hp. His bottom teeth were short, white, and widely spaced. “It wasn’t Nelly Bell, was it? I didn’t think so. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“You haven’t answered my question.”
Murphy threw the rest of the corn into the gray hog’s stall, hung the bucket back on the wall.
“Let me tell you, Crow. You want to know what it is? It’s none of your goddamn business is what it is. It’s family business is what it is. It’s nothing to do with you. My advice to you: Next time you see Ricky? Leave him do what he has to do.”
“Just let him take out the doctor? I don’t think so.”
Murphy shrugged. “That’s too bad.”
“Ricky’s a good boy.”
Both men turned. Amanda Murphy had materialized a few feet behind them, still in her cream-and-pink cotton housedress, stark white legs planted in a pair of oversize green rubber Sorels, veiny arms crossed tightly over pendulous breasts.
George said, “Mandy, what are you—”
“Ricky does what he’s told.”
George moved to his mother, took her arm. “Mandy, let’s go back inside. You’ll catch cold out here.”
“The doctor has laid a taint on us.”
“A taint?” Crow asked. “What’s that?”
In the next barn, Shawn Murphy stood staring into a metal cage at a two-year-old black bear, a young sow. The bear was asleep at the far end of her cage. Shawn threw a few pieces of food at her but got no response beyond an irritated twitch of her heavy winter coat. Once, he had poked her in the ear with a long branch and she had charged at him, crashing into the side of her mesh cage, hot spit hitting him right in the face. That had been exciting. But today the old sow refused to be provoked. Bored, Shawn went to look in on the cougar cubs. The two cats were curled up in the corner of their cage, sleeping. All the animals seemed sluggish today.
Maybe Ricky and his dad wouldn’t find Number One. Maybe the elk would die in a boggy thicket and no one would ever know he had been shot. Or maybe he’d heal up and get better.
Shawn kicked the side of the cage. One of the cubs opened its eyes, glared at him dully.
His dad was going to kill him. They would find Number One, and they would know who had shot him. What would he do? It was too awful to think about. After the way Grandy and his dad had reacted when he’d told them about Doc Bellweather, Shawn was scared. He hadn’t thought it was any big deal. He wished he hadn’t said anything. Doc was his buddy, and a good customer for his dad. He’d thought if he’d said it was Doc’s idea, then his dad wouldn’t be mad anymore. Everything would be okay. But then Grandy had found out, and she’d flipped. Everybody started acting crazy. And now this thing with Number One. Shawn shivered. Who knew what was going to happen?
He could run away. The problem was, he had nowhere to run to. If it was summer, he could run away to become a woodsman, or a hobo, but it was winter and it was cold.
He was hungry. Maybe Grandy was napping. Maybe he could find something to eat. He could grab some cookies, or a loaf of bread, take it up to his room and keep it there. His mouth began to water. He left the barn and headed for the house. Suddenly the solution to his problems appeared before him.
“Doc,” he breathed, staring at the pink Jaguar parked in front of the lodge.
Amanda Murphy turned the full intensity of her gaze on Crow. “You are barren?” she said. “You have no children?”
Crow shook his head.
“There are evil men among us, who prey upon the children, who seek to soil their innocent souls, to lay a taint. The child is marked forever and must suffer mightily to regain his place at God’s table. What can one do? Revenge is thine, sayeth the Lord. The Hand of God is the Will of the Faithful.”
Crow said, “What are we talking about here?” He looked at Murphy, whose face had gone leaden and still.
“Suppose you had a kid,” Murphy said slowly. “Suppose you had a little boy. Suppose you found out some son-of-a-bitch had been playing doctor with him. Telling him things. What would you think about that?” Murphy’s voice had gone smooth and quiet. His eyes shone with excess moisture. “Think what you would do.”
Crow thought, Is he saying what I think he’s saying? He felt a sharp pain in his shin, realized the old lady had kicked him and was about to kick him again. He backed away. Amanda’s face was contorted into a tangle of folds and fissures. She lashed out with her right Sorel, grazing his kneecap. Crow reached into his coat, felt the big grip of the Ruger. He looked at George, hoping he would do something to stop the old woman. George let her take another kick at him, then cupped his hands around her narrow shoulders and held her in place.
“Mandy, we have to let the man go.”
“He is the scion o
f the doctor. Set the hounds on him.”
Murphy shook his head, his jaw clamped tight enough to crumble most men’s teeth. He indicated with a jerk of his head that Crow should leave.
It sounded like a reasonable suggestion to Crow. The old woman spat at him as he sidled past her.
“Can you smell the taint?” she hissed. “It hangs on him. Like stink on a wet dog.”
He pushed through the barn door and limped toward his car, anxious to make his departure. The dogs were barking at him again. He picked up his pace, imagining the trio of rangy hounds charging at him across the expanse of packed snow, red-eyed and slobbering. His shin throbbed where the old lady had kicked him. He wouldn’t feel safe until he was back on the highway, landscape flashing past. He reached the Jaguar, looked behind him. No charging pack of hounds; just George Murphy and his mother, standing in the doorway, staring at him with American Gothic intensity. Crow opened the door, climbed in, fitted the key into the ignition. The car started. He backed up, shifted into first gear, and headed up the long, slippery driveway.
A few inches behind Joe Crow, Shawn Murphy pushed his head up against the storage compartment lid and peeked out. He didn’t recognize the man driving, but this was definitely Doc’s car. Shawn concentrated on breathing silently. The guy must be a friend of Doc’s, otherwise he wouldn’t be using his car. If he was quiet, if the guy didn’t know he was there, everything would be all right. Sooner or later, they would get to Doc’s house. Shawn would live there with him in his big house in the city. He would go to a new school, where the kids didn’t know him. His dad would never find him. He thought about how mad his dad was gonna be, and how Grandy was gonna be even madder. But if he was gone, what would it matter? Doc would hide him. He would have to, because they were mad at Doc too. And besides, weren’t they friends? Didn’t they have fun together?
XI
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