Casper tilted his head in consideration. “I’ll keep that in mind. But you didn’t come all the way over here just to tell me that, did you?”
Dale smiled. “It was a good excuse to swing by and chat.”
“About what?”
“About the meat trucks that showed up at St. Francis.”
Casper sat back in his seat and cast a stony glance across the table. “You heard about that, huh?”
“Patrick has a terrible poker face and he can’t lie worth shit.” Dale placed his drink on the table and pushed it away as if it suddenly made him sick. “I thought I told you guys not to go poking around that place. It’s dangerous.”
“Patrick is a big boy. If he wants to hang out in the woods late at night, who am I to stop him?”
Dale pushed his jaw out. “You’re his friend, and the one that put this stupid idea in his head.”
“If you want to get technical, we’re all friends. And you’re the one that put the idea in my head first. So, this is kind of your fault.” Casper flashed him a smile that wasn’t completely genuine.
“You’ve got me there, but that’s still no excuse. We don’t know anything about the Pummels or what’s going on inside St. Francis.”
“That’s why Patrick was on the lookout.”
“This is serious, Casper. You’re not in the Marines anymore and the Pummels are not people you fuck around with.”
Casper pretended not to hear him. “Can you think of any reason why those delivery trucks took that long to unload? I wonder what they were moving.”
“Goddamit, you’re a stubborn shit.” Dale stood up. “You didn’t learn anything from the river, did you? You’ve got a family. Patrick saved your life. Pull your head out of your ass for a bit and think about someone other than yourself.”
Casper opened his mouth to throw his own sharp comment, but he found he was at a loss for words. The fierceness in Dale’s eyes dwindled, his face grew soft, and he sat back down in a guilty slump.
“I just don’t think it’s a good idea to go poking around there,” Dale said. He rolled his glass between his hands, wetting his palms with the condensation. “It’s obvious something strange is going on over there, but we’re in over our heads.”
“We don’t even know what we’re in, yet. Don’t worry. I’m a big boy, and Patrick is a huge boy. We’ll be alright.”
Dale shook his head. “Don’t let retirement and a broken leg make you do something you’ll regret. You need to stop trying to prove you’re not over the hill.”
“You worry too much. There probably isn’t even anything going on over there. Me and the family are going to St. Francis this weekend just for a casual visit. At least let me have a look around.”
Dale locked eyes with him for a long moment as if he were trying to read his mind. “It’s a free country. Not like I can stop you from visiting a public place. But do me a favor, will you?”
“Name it.”
“Just do the regular tour. No snooping. Even if the Pummels are benign eccentrics, that place is still full of cats big enough to take down a bull, let alone your gimpy ass.”
“Who’re you callin’ gimpy? Don’t let this cane fool you.” Casper pulled on the curved head of the cane and out of the shaft slid a thin, shiny bayonet.
Dale rolled his eyes. “You Marines are all alike. You probably have a bazooka stashed somewhere in this house, don’t you?”
Casper gave a peevish smile. “Well—”
“Don’t answer that. It’s better if I don’t know. I don’t want to have to arrest you.”
Casper re-sheathed his bayonet. “You’d never take me alive.”
“I’d never want to.” Dale downed his Coke in a big gulp then stood up. “Just be careful.”
Casper walked Dale outside to his cruiser. Dale opened the door, but stood for a moment watching the laughing children chase the dogs with the water hose. A small half-smile lit on his face, but his eyes watched deep, troubled thoughts. “Have the dogs ever taken down anything big?”
“Nothing bigger than a raccoon.” But Casper didn’t always have a dream or vision of every kill. He certainly hadn’t witnessed the dogs killing Rebecca Reid’s cat. “Not that I know of anyway. Why?” A knot rose into his throat.
“Most dogs can’t kill one skunk without being sprayed, let alone a bushel basket full of them.” He started to say more, but stopped.
“What?”
“It’s like they’re practicing.”
“Practicing for what?”
A shadow of fear passed through Dale’s eyes. “Something bigger.” He slipped into his seat and closed his door. As he pulled the cruiser around the circle drive he poked his head out the window. “Do me a favor. Get a pen for those dogs. I don’t want the old nut calling the office every damn day.”
Casper merely nodded. The look in Dale’s eyes had stunned him into silence. It was the look of a man that foresaw a terrible tragedy brewing on the horizon.
Spying on the Enemy
Art waved his ID badge in front of the scanner, when what he really wanted to do was smash the little black box on the wall into pieces. It had taken him three weeks of solid bitching to get a badge; meanwhile, that chimp Sly Felton had had one all along. Gordy told him the delay was due to technical problems, but he knew that was a bucket of bullshit. They didn’t trust him. They thought he was unstable. Nan had probably convinced his brother that he would get drunk and open one of the cat enclosures. Or maybe try to feed one of the customers to Penelope.
They were turning against him. Oh, sure, they played like everything was fine, but he could see the truth in their eyes. Especially Nan. She was plotting with him to take Gordy out. Did she really believe he didn’t know that she talked about him the same way with Gordy? They were both vipers and there was only one way to deal with snakes. But not yet. He’d play their game a bit longer. But the first one to fuck with him was getting a bleeding eye right in their forehead. That went for friend, family, or foe.
Art pushed open the door to the security center. Coining watched the video monitors. Wexxel sat at the table with Gordy and Nan. Sly and Bobby Bastion commiserated at a small table in the corner.
“Looks like the whole gang is here.” Art didn’t bother to mask his irritation. “Just like a goddamn town meeting.”
Gordy pretended not to notice his sardonic tone. “We were just going over the plans for the next event.”
“With them around?” Art pointed at Sly and Bobby. “I see where I rank.”
“Oh, stop pouting and come sit down.” Nan pulled out a chair. “Sly is just giving Bobby some exercise.”
Art went to the table, tossed a manila folder down then dropped into the chair.
Gordy picked up the folder. “What’s this?”
“Pictures.”
Nan sighed, feigning disinterest. “Of what?”
Art shook his head. “Not in front of those shitheads.”
Gordy’s eyes hardened a bit, but his tone remained even when he said, “Sly, why don’t you take Bobby for a tour around the park?” The two men stood up. “Coining will be keeping a strict eye on you, so nothing funny, Bobby.”
“Yeah, right.” Bobby followed Sly out the door.
When they were gone Gordy turned back to Art. “What have you got?” He flipped open the folder revealing a 5x7 photograph of a large black man.
Art leaned forward. “We’ve got trouble. We’re being tracked.”
Nan spread the photos out on the table. “And why would you think that?”
Art shot her a sour grin. “I know you think I’m paranoid. I know you think I’m a bit off in the head. Maybe I am, but I’m still right about this.” He slammed his hand down on the table and the pictures scattered.
“Calm down, little brother. No one thinks those things.” Gordy picked up a picture of a man in a policeman’s uniform. “Well, it’s obvious who this is. But who is this guy?” He held up a picture of the black guy.
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe FBI.”
Nan rolled her eyes, but Coining and Wexxel both became very interested.
“Look, I spotted this guy watching me the day that Asian girl went missing in the woods.”
“And it took us quite a bit of trouble to draw the blame away from you,” Nan added with spite.
Art tapped the pictures and she broke her stare. “I went back and checked the security tapes. The cop has been here once a week for the past five weeks. I got the black guy visiting here at least twelve times in the last month.”
Nan made a derisive puff. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
Art continued as if he didn’t hear her. “I’ve checked around. The cop is a local named Wicket. The black guy’s name is Patrick McTreaty and he is supposedly a biology student at Demaree. No one knows where he’s from.”
Nan threw her hands up. “The cop is just a hometown boy checking out the local haunts. This McTreaty guy is just a student interested in lions and tigers. That’s all.”
Art picked up another picture of Patrick and pointed it at Wexxel. “Tell me, does this big motherfucker look like a student? Or Irish?”
Wexxel considered it for a moment then shook his head. “No, not really. He could be a fed or a spook.”
Coining leaned over to look at the pictures. “Maybe he’s spying the operation for our competition. There’s a lot of money running through here. Other organizations would jump at a chance to bump us off.”
Art was nodding hard enough to unhinge his neck. “And this is what really bothers me.” He sifted through the photos, found the one he was looking for and dropped it on top of the pile. In the photo Patrick McTreaty was sitting at a restaurant table with Wicket and another white man.
Wexxel leaned in close. “Well, that connects those two, but who’s the third guy?”
Art smiled, pleased to now have everyone’s attention. “He is an ex-Marine, named Casper Brown.”
Coining laughed. “That’s gotta be a fake. No way would a Marine have a name like that.”
Gordy didn’t seem to think it as funny. He snatched up the picture and devoured it with his eyes. “What do you know about the Marine?”
“Not much. He’s new to town. Moved here with his family. I did some digging but his past is pretty sealed. I’m thinking special forces, black op missions, shit like that.”
“You’re thinking, but you don’t know.” Nan steepled her fingers, her doubt etched upon her face. “You’re trying to put together a puzzle with pieces that don’t fit.”
Art looked at Gordy. “What do you think?”
Gordy had always been smooth as a velvet cloud, but he seemed uneasy about being caught between his brother and wife. “I think you may be on to something, but it’s too early to tell.” To Wexxel and Coining he said, “If any of these three show up here then I want surveillance so far up their asses we’ll be able to see the backs of their teeth. Until then we lay low. Don’t go seeking these guys out.” He locked eyes with Art.
Art gave a small consenting shrug. “While I have your attention, I don’t think it’s a good idea to let Sly get all buddy-buddy with Bobby. We underestimated Bobby and it cost us a lot of money.”
None of them noticed Sly’s jacket hanging from a chair at the smaller table, or the open cell phone in his pocket.
* * *
Sly led Bobby through the narrow paths between the cat enclosures, doing his best to keep the Blue Tooth in his left ear hidden from any security cameras. Rivers of sweat rolled down his back and his hands trembled bad enough that he had to clench his fists. What if they noticed his jacket on the chair? What if they found the cell phone in his pocket?
Bobby pointed his head forward as if he were interested in a lioness named Bahli. “What are they saying?”
“Quiet, I can barely hear them.”
Sly wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist. He still couldn’t believe he let Bobby talk him into eavesdropping. Still, there was a bit of sinful pleasure in spying on your enemy. If only the phone could be closer or nestled somewhere other than his pocket. His hand itched with the urge to plug up his right ear to block out all the background noise, but Coining was watching the cameras and that would be too obvious.
The Pummels had intended for Bobby Bastion to die during the first event. They thought he was small, weak and a little bit suicidal after the death of his wife. With that in mind, they had decided to bet against their own horse, so to speak. Although they made plenty of money by taking a house percentage of the other wagers, they still didn’t like losing even a penny on what should have been a sure thing. With the event over, they couldn’t just let Bobby go free. So they put him right back in his cell and put Sly in charge of taking care of him.
Sly and Bobby had struck up a prison-cellmate-friendship, and their one and only topic of discussion was just how in the hell they were going to get out of here.
Sly listened through the Blue Tooth as the Pummels decided his and Bobby’s fate. It took all he had not to vomit. If things continued this way for much longer the Pummels wouldn’t have to take him out. He had lost twenty pounds since he realized his soul was no longer his property. His skin hung loose on his bones, dark clouds drifted below his eyes, and his gums were peeling back from his teeth. He looked like an anorexic or a cancer patient. Much more of this and a stiff wind would come and just blow him away.
After a while the conversation in the security room turned back to the three strange men. Sly disconnected the call then slipped the Blue Tooth into his pocket.
Bobby searched his eyes. “Well, I don’t need a psychic to tell me that it’s bad news. How long do we have?”
Sly tried to swallow but his mouth felt full of sand and his Adam’s apple seemed swollen. He opened his mouth to speak, couldn’t find the words, then turned and started up the path. Watching the majestic cats usually calmed his nerves, but even they couldn’t assuage the turmoil within him.
Bobby ran up beside him. “Well? Spit it out. I already know that we’re dead men walking. The question is when?”
Sly looked at Bobby all the while feeling as if he were in one of those slow motion nightmares. Bobby’s mouth was curled in a defiant grin and his wide eyes flickered with a recalcitrant fire. It gave this small man a fierce strength and Sly wished he had it too. But he felt gossamer and wispy; no more than a dirty cobweb stuck in the corner.
“You have until the next event.” The quiver in his voice shamed him. “They aren’t going to let you walk out of that one, though they didn’t say what they were planning to do.”
“And you?”
Sly shrugged. “It looks like I’ll be having a training accident with one of the cats. Less suspicious that way. I’m not sure when, but I got the feeling it won’t be too much longer.”
A wave of hatred passed over Bobby’s face, inflating the veins in his temples and flushing his face with clouds of red. “We have no choice then. We have to do it.”
Sly ran his hands through his hair then locked them behind his head. “Isn’t there any other way?”
“Not that I can see. We have to hit them hard and bull our way out. It’s our only chance. It doesn’t matter if we fail. We’re dead either way, right?”
Sly made a sheepish nod. Bobby was right. “When?”
Bobby thought for a moment. “This weekend. It’ll be plenty busy; lots of distractions.”
“No. There’ll be too many visitors.” Sly wiped away the sweat dripping from his nose. “I don’t care what happens to the Pummels or the guards. Or even what happens to us. But no innocent people need to get hurt.”
Bobbly looked at him with pity, but didn’t argue. “What if we hit them right after closing time? The visitors, trainers and tour guides will all be gone.”
“I can live with that.”
“Better hope you can.”
Knife to a Gunfight
The sun was bright and strong. It stood high in the sky warming the air, and th
ough it was still technically spring for another couple of weeks, summer was revving its engine and telling its milder sibling to get out of the way. Casper watched the children chase the dogs, trying to herd then into the pen that had been built just yesterday. But the dogs weren’t playing along. Just when the kids were about to get the third dog into the pen, one or both of the others would escape and the process would begin again.
Casper stood on the back deck. “Get the dogs into the pen. It’s time to leave.”
Tad looked up, his chest heaving. “We’re trying, but they don’t want to go in there.”
The pen was chain-link, about ten feet by ten feet, and nestled near a sycamore tree for shade. Normally Casper would have enjoyed building the pen, but with his bum leg he had been forced to turn it over to a local handyman. A doghouse large enough for the trio of dogs stood in the center, complete with food and water dishes. It was the Hilton for dogs, but when you’re used to being free-range, Casper thought that even a dog must view it as a prison.
“Fill the bowls with food then close the door when they go in to eat,” Casper told Tad. Tad did as he was told, but the dogs didn’t take the bait. Casper frowned. He knew one way to get the dogs into the pen, but he hated to try it. “King, Sky, Shadow.” The dogs stopped in place and looked toward him. Their eyes were savage and inhuman, but held a quiet intelligence that unnerved him. “Get in the pen.”
The three dogs turned without question and walked into the pen.
Tad gawked at his father. “Wow. How did you get them to do that?”
“An old Marine trick.” He turned his eyes away from the dogs. “Shut the gate so we can go.”
Maggie stepped outside. “Everyone ready?”
Lucy ran up and attached herself to her mother’s leg like a monkey climbing a tree. “Yeah, let’s go. I want to see lions, like on The Lion King. Will the mean hyenas be there?”
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