Barking Dogs

by R. R. Irvine

  “We’ll close at the lake,” Manwaring said as soon as Holland stopped taping.

  “That’s not in the script.” Vicki averted her eyes from the flies, who’d somehow managed to find morsels even after the dead had been removed.

  “I’ve decided to improvise.”

  “What about the arson angle?”

  “If Reisner wants it so badly, Aaron can mention it in his lead-in to your report.”

  “Reisner’s not going to like it.”

  “Trust me,” he said and headed for Lake Brigham.

  “Trust me, the producer said,” Holland echoed, laughing, and followed in Manwaring’s footstep. Wilcox fell in behind. Sooner or later, Vicki thought as she joined the parade, Manwaring would go too far, would break one too many of Reisner’s rules. When that time came, part of her wanted to be well out of the blast area; another part wanted to see Manwaring win the confrontation.

  At the water’s edge, Manwaring recited his script changes. She memorized his words quickly and then repeated them for the camera. “The safety of Lake Brigham was less than a hundred yards away, yet the people of Defiance failed to reach it. Maybe they died in their sleep, overcome by smoke and unaware of what was happening to them. Maybe fear paralyzed them. Maybe they became disoriented. Whatever happened”—Vicki turned, a calculated move, to point at the island in Lake Brigham, where green foliage was still to be seen—“a nearby sanctuary escaped them.”

  It wasn’t until the tape had stopped that she noticed ripples on the lake. Even as she stared at them, they grew into shallow waves that began lapping at the shore. A cold wind had begun blowing off the Bitterroots, fed by the thunderheads that were now heading toward Defiance.

  “Let’s get out of here before it rains.”

  By the time they got back to the Ford, the Bitterroots had disappeared behind a squall line. Holland was about to load his gear inside when Manwaring asked for a tape playback in case of equipment malfunction.

  They closed themselves inside the wagon and watched as Wilcox set up the portable monitor. The first time through the tape, everything seemed fine. On the second playback, Manwaring closed his eyes, listening to the sound only.

  “There’s something else on the track besides Icky,” he said when the tape ran out.

  “A low whine,” Holland said. “Not steady. Up and down for a while, then nothing. Some kind of animal, maybe. A long way off or echoing.”

  Manwaring opened the car door and listened. There were no sounds of life, no birds, only the wind.

  “You stay here,” He got out and walked down to the lake again.

  Vicki checked her watch. They still had time to make their flight out of Idaho Falls.

  “He’s the best I’ve ever worked with,” Holland said when it began to rain. “When it comes to a story, he’s got great instincts.”

  Manwaring was soaked by the time he returned to the Ford. “What do you think, Icky? Shall we go with the tape as is, or do it again?”

  She stared out at the rain and shivered. “It must have been the wind you heard.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Whatever it is, it adds mood to my piece.” She tapped her watch. “If we hustle, we’ll have time to feed it from the up-link truck on the way out of town. You never know. Reisner might want me live on the Evening News.”

  16

  THE RAIN drumming on the motel roof made Manwaring wonder what it was like back in Defiance. He pictured a sooty quagmire. The weather, especially if it got worse, might give him an excuse to stick with the story a while longer.

  He shivered. The temperature had dropped to somewhere in the sixties. His injured hand, throbbing with each beat of his heart, felt like it was on fire.

  He eased onto one of the twin beds, peeled away the Velcro, and removed the nylon cast. There were no red streaks running up his arm, no sign of blood poisoning. Even the puncture marks caused by Jarvis’s teeth looked like they were healing. Still, it might be prudent to have the hand examined again before leaving town.

  Holland, who was lying on the adjoining bed, must have read his mind. “Tell Reisner you’ve got to stay over to see the doctor. Tell him to give the Vice President to someone else.”

  “He’ll want to see a written medical report as proof.”

  Wilcox spoke up from the comfort of his cot. “Let’s hit the road while it’s still light. The people around here drive pickup trucks with gun racks in the back window. God know what they use for target practice on stormy nights, probably Californians like us.”

  Manwaring blew on his swollen fingers. “We can’t leave yet. Vicki wants her dinner first.”

  Wilcox groaned.

  Holland sat up. “We’d better check in with Eccles and warn him it’s going to be a close call with the Veep.”

  Manwaring had been thinking the same thing. Cradling his throbbing hand, he dialed with the other. Joyce Cody answered on Ross Eccles’s direct line.

  “How do you like sharing a room with Vicki?” she asked immediately, venom in her voice.

  “You know damned well I’m sandwiched in with Lew and Frank.”

  “I made very specific reservations. A double for you and Vicki, twins for your crew.”

  “Would you like it better if I told you I was sleeping with her?”

  “Are you?”

  “Let me speak to Eccles before I get myself into real trouble.”

  “He took his wife out to dinner and left his pager behind. That makes me acting bureau chief.”

  Manwaring hesitated. Eccles, even under the best of circumstances, seldom challenged Reisner when it came to crew assignment. To ask someone as junior as Joyce to go up against Reisner wouldn’t be fair.

  “I don’t want you getting in the middle on this, Joyce, but I need more time on location. Get in touch with Eccles as soon as you can and ask him to back me on this.”

  “I have instructions covering such an eventuality.”

  Which meant Reisner had already spoken to Eccles.

  “Request denied,” she said coldly.

  “I heard something on our tape. There’s something alive where everything should be dead.”

  “What does Holland say?”

  “It’s not a malfunction, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Good,” Joyce said. “We wouldn’t want you to screw up the Vice President’s audio.”

  “For Christ’s sake. Nobody gives a shit about interviewing another politician.”

  “Since I can’t reach Mr. Eccles for the moment, would you like me to pass that on to New York?”

  Manwaring closed his eyes. “I’m ordering my crew to stay put.

  “Kevin.” Her voice softened. “I can’t report that.”

  “I’m on the scene. You aren’t.”

  “Please, Kevin.”

  “Just tell Reisner I’m staying the night . . . and not with Vicki in case you were wondering.”

  “I know that. Vicki called here the first night to complain about the accommodations. She said her room wasn’t big enough to share with a cat.”

  17

  THE RAIN had slacked off twenty minutes later when Manwaring and his crew started up Main Street toward the Teton Inn. The air was cold enough to make their breath show.

  Manwaring switched off his beeper and urged Vicki to do the same. “Otherwise, we’ll hear from Reisner or Eccles in the middle of dinner.”

  Vicki refused, saying, “You know me. I love interruptions during my meals.”

  When they reached the restaurant a hand-printed sign had been taped to the door: ATTENDING PRAYER DINNER, OPEN TOMORROW USUAL TIME.

  They backtracked down Main Street. The Big I Cafe was also closed, as was the Dairy Queen.

  “My blood sugar’s giving out,” Vicki complained.

  “I’m willing to pray for my supper,” Holland said, “if that’s what it takes.”

  There was no traffic on the street and no sign of life. By unspoken agreement, everyone turned back to
ward the motel.

  “I hope they’ve refilled the candy machine,” Vicki said.

  When they reached the Big I, a station wagon was waiting for them in front of the office. The car door opened and Stacie Wagstaff got out wearing a fleece-lined bomber jacket over a party dress and high heels.

  “I called the motel and they told me you were the only TV crew left in town. So I figured you’d need rescuing. Come on, I’ll drive you to the prayer dinner.”

  They piled into her car without protest, Manwaring next to Stacie up front, Vicki sandwiched between Holland and Wilcox in the back.

  “I hope it’s not too far,” Vicki said.

  “A couple of blocks. The old American Legion hall over on McClellan and Grant. It’s the mayor’s idea really. He feels the town has to come together and heal itself. Food and prayer, he says, is the best way to do that.”

  Stacie glanced at Manwaring. “How’s the hand?”

  “The animals in this town are lucky to have you.”

  She shook her head but seemed pleased.

  The American Legion hall looked like a relic from the last century, two stories of grim brick decorated with horizontal bands of sandstone. Two Roman-arched windows, one on either side of the elaborate stone entry, reminded Manwaring of startled eyes. He had the feeling the building originally had been designed for some other use, maybe for the Masons or Odd Fellows.

  Inside, it was like a church, with a vaulted ceiling covering a large central meeting hall. Half the town was there already, most of them seated at card tables covered with red, white, and blue paper cloths. A few latecomers congregated at the back of the hall where long buffet tables had been set up. On stage, at the front of the hall, two accordionists were playing “America the Beautiful.”

  Mayor Kearns met them personally at the door and printed name tags for each of them.

  “They’re the only TV people left in town,” Stacie told him.

  “This is how we want you to remember the people of Ellsworth.” He clasped Manwaring’s hand. “We’ve got barbecued ribs, baked potatoes, cole slaw, beer and soft drinks. It’s on us.”

  Stacie led the way to the buffet, supervised the filling of their plates, including her own, and found a table for them, one with a Reserved sign on it.

  Seated at the next table were Sheriff Nichols, Fire Chief Romney, and Grady O’Dell, who saluted Manwaring with a can of root beer.

  “Grady’s on the wagon,” Stacie said once she was seated next to Manwaring. “The sheriff caught him wandering around in the middle of the night shouting poetry about dogs or some damned thing. Instead of arresting him, the sheriff said he’d have to stay sober and donate some of his time to help clean up the town.”

  The mayor joined the neighboring table, sitting between O’Dell and the sheriff.

  “Is there a restroom?” Vicki asked.

  “Don’t mind Vicki,” Holland said immediately. “The sight of food does strange things to her metabolism.”

  “It’s something to do with her sense of timing,” Wilcox added. “For all we know, it’s in her union contract.”

  Vicki smiled wickedly. “Come to think of it, I’m fine . . . for the moment. But I’ll join the mayor for a while. The rest of you keep an eye on my food till I get back.”

  She slid her chair to the adjoining table and began talking to the mayor. The conversation looked animated immediately, with Vicki smiling broadly, though Manwaring couldn’t hear a word since the musicians had moved into high gear with a rendition of “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

  “We’ll be here all night,” Holland complained.

  “It’s a game we play,” Manwaring said for Stacie’s benefit. “The last one through eating makes the others wait.”

  “What’s the point?” she asked.

  “We don’t know yet. It’s Vicki’s rules and she hasn’t told us.”

  “That’s why I’m a veterinarian. My patients don’t talk back.”

  “They bite, though,” Manwaring said, thinking how nice it would be to nibble her tanned neck. Or was it Vicki’s neck he really wanted? He smiled at Stacie. The look in her eye said he had a better chance with her than he ever had with Vicki.

  “If you’re staying in town for a while, you ought to have Dr. Thrun take a look at that hand.”

  “We’re due back in Los Angeles to cover the Vice President.”

  She smiled, wistfully, he thought.

  “Maybe you could take a look at it for me?” he said.

  “I’m here as your guide, as per the mayor’s request. From now on, I’ll stick to paws and hoofs, if you don’t mind.”

  So much for his understanding of women, Manwaring thought, and concentrated on his food for a while. As soon as he put down his fork, Vicki rejoined the table.

  “My turn,” Manwaring said and moved into the position Vicki had vacated.

  He was congratulating himself on outmaneuvering Vicki when O’Dell said, “Do you remember my poetry?”

  “It was about dogs,” Manwaring said.

  “For God’s sake, man, can you quote it?”

  Manwaring shook his head.

  “I’m going for a drink,” O’Dell said.

  “What about our deal?” the sheriff asked him.

  “I thought this was a celebration.”

  The sheriff looked at Mayor Kearns, who shrugged. O’Dell left before the mayor could change his mind.

  Manwaring changed the subject. “We picked up some strange sounds on our videotape when we were out in Defiance today.”

  “Why tell us?”

  “I thought you might want to double-check the area.”

  Kearns shook his head. “The only thing out there is ghosts and memories of what’s gone forever. We lost loved ones out there, Mr. Manwaring, not stories for your TV show. I hope you understand that.”

  “My wife among them,” the fire chief said. “My Ida.”

  “Tell me about Bonneville Industries, then,” Manwaring said.

  “They’re the answer to our prayers,” Kearns said. “You see, Ellsworth is like most small towns in this country. It’s been dying for years. They’re going to bring it back by moving their assembly plant here from California.”

  “When does that happen?”

  “Soon, if we ever get through the damned red tape. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to relax and enjoy myself.”

  Manwaring was about to leave the table when Grady O’Dell returned suddenly. With him was Blaine Larsen, editor and stringer, carrying a bottle-shaped brown paper bag. O’Dell put an arm around Larsen, steadying both of them.

  “I thought I’d forgotten my poem.” O’Dell tapped the side of his head. “But a couple of quick shots of Blaine’s eighty proof started the wheels turning again.”

  Sheriff Nichols poked a finger against the poet’s chest. “I told you before, I won’t tolerate any more trouble.”

  O’Dell raised his free hand like a man taking an oath. “I gave you my word. No more escapades in the middle of the night, but I didn’t say anything about reciting my poetry among friends. A little more lubricant, if you please, Blaine.”

  The moment Larsen handed over the paper bag, O’Dell glanced around as if expecting to be restrained. When no one made a move against him, he took a long swallow. “Jack Daniel’s, I’d guess.”

  “You have a connoisseur’s palate.” Larsen took back the bottle and saluted Manwaring with it. “Here’s to you and your network. Without your financial aid for my services, Jack would have remained a stranger.”

  Chief Romney, squinting as if the light hurt his eyes, rose to his feet. “I’ve done my duty, Mr. Mayor. I’ve put in an appearance.” He headed for the front of the hall, wending his way through the maze of card tables as the accordions segued to “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.”

  As soon as the chief left the Legion hall, the mayor grabbed O’Dell by the arm and pulled him into one of the vacant chairs.

  “A poet ought to be on his feet wh
en he recites,” O’Dell complained. “It gives him room to breathe.”

  A look passed between the sheriff and the mayor. They both grabbed hold and held on to him.

  Grinning, O’Dell took a deep breath and began speaking in a voice loud enough to compete with the music.

  “Beside the sea a dog barks

  At the glint of dawn on the horizon’s blade.

  Another dog, miles away

  Wakes to challenge dog and day.

  Across the ridges, through the passes

  Voices of wakened dogs

  Light brush fires of expectation

  Tonguing up town and sleeping nation.”

  O’Dell’s unblinking eyes focused on Manwaring, who suspected the man wasn’t as drunk as he pretended to be.

  “I heard them, you know,” O’Dell said. “They think I’m nothing but a crazy Irishman who drinks rather than face the truth about himself. Maybe they’re right. But I’m right about the dogs.”

  Manwaring nodded with dawning recognition. “I heard them, too. That’s what’s on my videotape.”

  The sheriff jerked his hand away from O’Dell as if the man had caught fire. “We’ve searched the area. There’s nothing out there alive.”

  “He’s not the only one who heard noises,” Vicki said, joining them from the next table. “Of course, our Kevin has a thing about dogs.”

  Jesus, Manwaring thought. He should never have told her about Buttons, his spaniel.

  “I know what I heard,” he said.

  “Goddamn you,” the sheriff said. “To hell with dogs, yours and O’Dell’s. To hell with Defiance too. I was born and raised there, me and my sister, Connie, both. As soon as we were old enough to think, we hated the place. We left the first chance we got.”

  “I married Connie not long after that,” the mayor put in.

  The sheriff said, “Every time I went back my parents made me feel like I’d committed a crime. So I stopped going. Over the years, Connie mellowed more than I did. „Let bygones be bygones,’ she said and started visiting again. She was visiting out there when she died. After that, I . . .”

  “What my brother-in-law is trying to say,” the mayor picked up, “is that my Connie was expecting when she went visiting. She thought she had a week to go, but her labor started early. The Defiance women decided to deliver the baby themselves. When they ran into trouble, they prayed over my wife instead of sending for the doctor.”