The Analyst

by John Katzenbach

  He saw the floodlight click on outdoors and heard a door slamming.

  The kennel owner, he thought, finally roused by the racket, wondering what the hell has gotten into all the animals and not yet fully understanding that there might be a threat involved. Ricky counted to ten. Enough time for the man to approach Brutus’s pen. He heard a second noise, above the roused dogs: The man was trying to open the Rottweiler’s cage. A rattle of chain metal links and then a curse, as the man slowly grasped that the cage wasn’t about to open.

  It was at that moment that Ricky threw open the front door to the kennel office.

  “Okay, guys, you’re free,” he said, waving his arms. Nearly three dozen dogs bolted through the door, heading toward the warm New Jersey night, their voices raised in a confused song of joyous freedom.

  He heard the kennel owner swearing wildly, and then Ricky stepped out into the darkness himself, remaining in a shadow at the edge of the spotlight’s arc.

  The man had been bowled over by the rush of animals, knocked back and down to one knee by the wave of dogs. He scrambled up, partially regaining his feet, searching for his balance. He was trying to catch them at the same time that they were jumping all over him, knocking him about. A welter of mixed beastly emotions—some dogs afraid, some joyous, some confused, all uncertain what was going on, knowing only that it was far out of the ordinary routine of kennel life, and eager to take advantage of it, whatever it was. Ricky smiled wickedly. It was, Ricky surmised, a pretty effective distraction.

  When the kennel owner looked up, what he saw just behind the leaping, snuffling, tangled mass of animals was Ricky’s pistol leveled at his face. He gasped, rocking backward in surprise, as if the hole at the end of the barrel was as forceful as the flood of dogs.

  “Are you alone?” Ricky asked just loud enough to reach past the dogs’ barking.

  “Huh?”

  “Are you alone? Is there anyone else in the house?”

  The man caught on. He shook his head.

  “Is Brutus’s buddy in the house? His brother or mother or father?”

  “No. Just me.”

  Ricky thrust the pistol closer to the man, close enough so that the pungent odor of steel and oil and maybe death could fill his nostrils, without needing to own a dog’s sensitive nose to understand what the potential was. “Persuading me that you’re telling the truth is important to staying alive,” Ricky said. He was a little surprised at how easy it was to threaten someone, but he had no illusion that he would be able to call his own bluff.

  Behind the steel fencing, Brutus was in a paroxysm of fury. He continued to thrust himself at the metal, his teeth pressed up against the barrier. Foam streaked his jowls and his growl singed the air. Ricky eyed the dog warily. A hard thing, he thought, to be bred and raised for one single purpose, and then, when that moment came where all that training was supposed to coalesce, to be restrained by the frustration of a gate locked by a child’s bicycle chain. The dog seemed to be almost overwhelmed by impotence, and Ricky thought that it was a little bit of a microcosm for the lives of some of his ex-patients.

  “It’s just me. Nobody else.”

  “Good. Now we can have a conversation.”

  “Who are you?” the man asked. It took a second for Ricky to remember that he’d been wearing a disguise on his first visit to the kennel. He rubbed his hand across his cheek.

  I’m someone you’re going to wish you’d been more pleasant to on our first meeting, Ricky thought, but what he said was: “I’m someone you would probably rather not know,” simultaneously gesturing at the man’s face with his weapon.

  It took a few seconds for Ricky to get the kennel owner where he wanted him, which was seated on the ground, with his back up against the gate to Brutus’s pen, hands out on his knees where Ricky could see them. The other dogs were wary of getting too close to the furious Rottweiler. By now, some had disappeared into the darkness and the countryside, others had collected near the owner’s feet, and still others were jumping about, playing with one another, on the gravel driveway.

  “I still don’t know who you are,” the man said. He was squinting up at Ricky, trying to place him. The combination of the shadows, and the change in appearance worked to Ricky’s advantage. “What’s all this about? I don’t keep any cash here, and . . .”

  “This isn’t a robbery, unless you think of taking information as a theft, which I used to imagine was in some ways the same,” Ricky answered cryptically.

  The man shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said flatly. “What do you want?”

  “A while ago, a private detective came to see you with a few questions.”

  “Yeah. So what?”

  “I would like the same questions answered.”

  “Who are you?” the man asked again.

  “I told you. But right now, all you really need to know is that I’m a man with a gun, and you’re not. And the sole means you have of defending yourself is locked behind a fence and feeling pretty damn bad about it, too, from the looks of him.”

  The kennel owner nodded, but seemed, in those few moments, to gain a wary confidence and a good deal of composure. “You don’t sound much like the type who will use that thing. So maybe I won’t say a damn thing about whatever it is you’re so damn interested in. Screw you, whoever you are.”

  “I want to know about the couple that died and are buried down the road there. And how you acquired this place. And especially the three kids that they adopted, that you said they didn’t. And I would like to know about the phone call that you made after my friend Lazarus came to visit you the other day. Who did you call?”

  The man shook his head. “I’ll tell you this: I got paid to make that call. And it was also worth my business to try to keep that guy here, whoever the hell he was. Too bad he split. I woulda had a bonus.”

  “From who?”

  The man shook his head. “My business, mister tough guy. Like I said, screw you.”

  Ricky leveled the pistol at the man’s face. The kennel owner grinned. “I’ve seen guys who will use that thing, and fella, I’m betting you ain’t one of ’em.” There was a little bit of the nervous gambler in his voice. Ricky knew the man wasn’t completely certain one way or the other.

  The gun remained steady in Ricky’s hand. He sighted down to a spot between the kennel owner’s eyes. The longer he held his position, the more uncomfortable the man seemed, which, Ricky thought, wasn’t unreasonable. He could see sweat on the man’s forehead. But, in the same respect, Ricky thought, every second he delayed buttressed the man’s reading of him. He thought to himself that he might yet need to become a killer, but didn’t know if he could kill someone other than the primary target. Someone merely extraneous and ancillary, even if obnoxious. Ricky considered this for a second, then smiled coldly at the kennel owner. There’s a noticeable difference, Ricky thought, between shooting the man who ruined your life, and shooting some cog in that machine.

  “You know,” he said slowly, “you’re one hundred percent right. I haven’t really been in this position all that much. It’s pretty clear, to you, is it, that I don’t have a great deal of experience in this area?”

  “Yeah,” the man said. “It’s damn clear.” He shifted his position slightly, as if he was relaxing.

  “Maybe,” Ricky said with a singularly flat voice, “I should practice some.”

  “What?”

  “I said I should practice. I mean, how do I really know I will be able to use this thing on you, until I give it a bit of a workout on something a little less meaningful. Maybe significantly less meaningful.”

  “I still don’t follow,” the kennel owner said.

  “Sure you do,” Ricky answered. “You’re just not concentrating. What I’m telling you is that I’m not an animal lover.”

  As he said this, he lifted the pistol slightly, and keeping all the hours on the practice range up in New Hampshire in mind, Ricky slowly took in a deep breath, calmed himself
utterly, and squeezed the trigger a single time.

  The gun bucked harshly in his hand. A single report scoured the air. It whined into the darkness.

  Ricky guessed that the bullet struck a bit of the fencing and split apart. He could not tell if the Rottweiler was hit or not. The kennel owner looked astonished, almost as if he’d been slapped, and he covered one ear with a hand, checking to see whether the bullet had sliced him as it raced past.

  Dog bedlam returned to the yard, a siren of combined howling, barking, racing about. Brutus, the only animal confined, understood the threat he faced, and once again threw himself savagely at the chain links barring his path.

  “Musta missed,” Ricky said nonchalantly. “Damn. And to think I’m such a good shot.”

  He sighted down the pistol at the frantic, furious dog.

  “Jesus Christ!” the kennel owner finally spat out.

  Ricky smiled again. “Not here. Not now. Why, I daresay, this has nothing to do with religion. The more important issue is: Do you love your dog, there?”

  “Christ! Hang on!” The kennel owner was nearly as frantic as the other animals tearing around the driveway. He held up his hand, as if to make Ricky pause.

  Ricky eyed him with the same curiosity one might have if an insect started begging for its life before being subjected to a slap from the palm of one’s hand. Interested, but insignificant.

  “Just hang on for a second!” the man insisted.

  “You have something to say?” Ricky asked.

  “Yes, damn it! Just hang on.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “That dog is worth thousands,” the kennel owner said. “He’s the alpha male, and I’ve spent hours, Christ, half my fucking life training him. He’s a goddamn champion and you’re gonna shoot him?”

  “Don’t see that you give me much alternative. I could shoot you, but then, I wouldn’t find out what I need to know, and if, by some immense accident of police work, the cops ever managed to find me, why, I’d be facing significant charges—although you, of course, would find little satisfaction in that, being dead. On the other hand, well, as I told you, I’m not much of an animal lover. And Brutus there, well, to you he might be a paycheck, and maybe more, he might represent hours of time, and maybe even you might have some affection for him—but to me, why he’s just an angry, slobbering mutt eager to chew my throat out, and the world will be far better off without him. So, given the choice, I’m thinking that maybe it’s time for Brutus to head to that great old kennel in the sky.”

  Ricky’s voice was filled with mocking amusement. He wanted the man to think he was as cruel as he sounded, which wasn’t hard.

  “Just hold it for a second,” the kennel owner said.

  “You see,” Ricky replied, “now you’ve got something to think about. Is withholding information worth the dog’s life? Your call, asshole. But make your mind up right away, because I’m losing my patience. I mean, ask yourself the question: Where are my loyalties? To the dog, who has been my companion and my meal ticket for so many years . . . or to some strangers who pay me for silence? Make a choice.”

  “I don’t know who they are . . . ,” the man started, causing Ricky to take aim at the dog. This time he held up both hands. “Okay . . . I’ll tell you what I know.”

  “That would be wise. And Brutus will probably repay your generosity with devotion and by siring many litters of equally dumb and wondrously savage beasts.”

  “I don’t know much . . . ,” the kennel owner said.

  “Bad start,” Ricky said. “Making an excuse before you’ve even said anything.”

  He immediately fired a second shot in the direction of the furious beast. This shot cracked into the dog’s wooden hut in the rear of the pen. Brutus howled in insult and rage.

  “Damn it! Stop! I’ll tell you.”

  “Then begin, please. This session has gone on long enough.”

  The man paused, considering. “It goes back a ways,” he began.

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “You’re right about the old couple that owned this place. I don’t know exactly how the scam was run, but they adopted those three kids on paper only. The kids were never here. I don’t know exactly who they fronted for, because I came in after the couple was killed. Both of them in a car accident. I’d tried to buy this place from them a year before they died, and after they smashed up that car, I got a call from a man who said he was the executor of their estate, asking me if I wanted the place and the business. The price, too, was unbelievable . . .”

  “Low or high.”

  “I’m here, ain’t I? Low. It was bargain basement, especially with all the property thrown in. A helluva good deal. We signed papers right quick.”

  “Who did you deal with? Some lawyer?”

  “Yeah. As soon as I said yes, a local guy took over. An idiot. Just does real estate closings and traffic offenses. And he was plenty miffed, too, because all he could say was I was getting a steal. But he kept his mouth shut, because I figure he was being overpaid, too.”

  “Do you know who sold the property?”

  “I saw the name only once. I think I recall the lawyer saying it was the old couple’s next of kin. A cousin. Pretty distant. I don’t remember the name, except that it was a doctor something or another.”

  “A doctor?”

  “That’s right. And I was told one thing, absolutely clear, too.”

  “What was that?”

  “If anyone ever, anytime that day or years ahead, ever came asking about the deal or the old couple or the three children that nobody ever saw, I was supposed to call a number.”

  “Did they give you a name?”

  “No, just a number in Manhattan. And then about six, seven years later, a man calls me one day, out of the blue, and tells me that the number has changed. Gives me another New York City number. Then, maybe a few years after that, same guy, calls up, gives me another number, only this time it’s in upstate New York. He asks me if anyone has ever come visiting. I tell him no. He says great. Reminds me of the arrangement, and says there will be a bonus if anyone ever does. But it never happens until the other day when this guy Lazarus shows up. Asks his questions, and I run him out. Then I call the number. Man picks up the phone. Old man, now, you can hear it in his voice. Real old. Says thank you for the information. Maybe two minutes later, I get another call. This time it’s some young woman. She says she’s sending me some cash, like a grand, and that if I can find Lazarus and keep him there, there’s another grand. I tell her he’s probably staying at one of maybe three or four motels. And that’s it, until you show up. And I still don’t know who the hell you are, mister.”

  “Lazarus is my brother,” Ricky said quietly.

  He hesitated, thinking, adding years to an equation that reverberated deep within him. Finally he asked, “The number you called, what is it?”

  The man rattled off all ten numbers rapidly.

  “Thank you,” Ricky said coldly. He didn’t need to write it down. It was a number he knew.

  He gestured with the pistol for the man to roll over.

  “Place your hands behind your back,” Ricky instructed.

  “Oh, come on, man. I told you everything. Whatever this is all about, hell, I ain’t important.”

  “That’s for certain.”

  “So, just let me go.”

  “I just need to restrict your activity for a few minutes. Like long enough to depart, before you can get up, find some bolt cutters, and let Brutus there loose. I’m thinking that perhaps he’d like to have a moment or two alone with me in the dark.”

  This made the kennel owner grin. “He’s the only dog I ever known that carries a grudge. Okay. Do what you got to.”

  Ricky secured the man’s hands with duct tape. Then he stood up.

  “You’ll call them, won’t you?”

  The man nodded. “If I said I wouldn’t you’d just get pissed because you’d know I was lying.”

  Ricky s
miled. “A bit of insight. Quite correct.”

  He paused, considering precisely what he wanted the kennel owner to say. Rhymes leaped into his imagination. “All right, here’s what you need to tell them:

  Lazarus rises, he’s closer still.

  No longer pushing up the hill.

  He’s here. He’s there.

  He could be anywhere.

  The game’s afoot, and closing in.

  Lazarus believes he’s going to win.

  It may no longer be your choice,

  But better check this week’s Voice.”

  “That sounds like a poem,” the man said, as he lay on his stomach on the gravel, trying to turn his head to see Ricky.

  “A kind of poem. Now we’re going to have a lesson. Repeat it for me.”

  It took several efforts for the kennel owner to get it more or less straight.

  “I don’t get it,” the man said, after mastering the poem. “What’s going on?”

  “Do you play chess?” Ricky asked.

  The man nodded. “Not too good, though.”

  “Well,” Ricky said, “be thankful that you are just a pawn. And you don’t need to know any more than a pawn needs to know. Because what’s the object of chess?”

  “Capture the queen and kill the king.”

  Ricky smiled. “Close enough. Nice speaking to you and Brutus there. Can I give you one piece of advice?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Make the call. Recite the poem. Go out and try to collect all the dogs that have run away. That should take you some time. Then tomorrow wake up and forget any of this ever happened. Go back to the life you have for yourself, and don’t think about all this ever again.”