by Peter Prasad
Sonoma’s farmers, fields and large agricultural units (as the farm board called dairy animals) would live with morning fog and thick, slick dew for another month or so. The sun tried to burn through the gray clouds over the hilltops. When the mist lifted, they would shimmer under a forever-blue sky. Until mid-November, the gray mornings would tease a promise of rain but rarely deliver. Thanksgiving often began the season of long, drenching downpours.
When mellow, Jake drank his coffee with a healthy tot of Sonoma Jersey cream, a reminder of his roots. When stressed, he gulped his black coffee. He favored rich, nutty Kenya beans from Mt. Elgon. He wanted to visit Africa. The coffee reminded him to keep dreaming his dreams.
He missed the taste of raw milk. He was five years old when he first grabbed a cow’s teat and squeezed with Jerry’s hand over his. Now he bought organic whole milk from St. Benoit in Two Rock Valley, when he could get it, and from Straus Dairy. He stuck to his bottle-a-day habit. He had muscle-knowledge of the trouble involved to get it into the bottle. He used a finger to test the bullet-wound in his thigh, still tender but no longer painful.
He heard Wally snoring in his bedroom; he was sleeping in by Jake’s standards. Roosters crowed in the distance. It was going to be another hot, dry day. Jake looked north where a spiral of black dots caught his eye, a flock of circling buzzards.
Jake rubbed the stubble on his chin. He set his Kenya coffee, spiced with three cardamom pods, on the veranda railing. He wasn’t ready to register excitement yet—but he would investigate.
Just down the road from the dairy, two buzzards fought over entrails splashed across the asphalt county road. It looked like the flies found the carcass first and the buzzards followed. They’d been at their meal for a few hours, long enough to pull out large chunks of the animal’s intestines. They hopped in a pool of dried blood that leaked from the carcass.
Jake rolled toward the bloody mess and felt his fury rise. The buzzards’ beaks tore mercilessly into the gut of the corpse. Like undertakers, they each sought their own advantage, tearing the meat from the bone. He blasted his horn. The buzzards rose in a panic but landed on a nearby section of fence. They did not intend to be chased from their meal.
Death is never pretty and he’d seen his share in the dirt of Wardak province and elsewhere.
Jake knew how to turn off his nose at a time like this. He breathed through his mouth. He had left his gag reflex in Afghanistan.
He heard himself say ‘road kill’—to calm himself. But this didn’t look like a hit-and-run. The body was too close to the side of the road and too intact. It looked more like the carcass had been dumped there. Maybe the animal rolled off the back of a truck?
As he got out of the truck and stood over the scene, the flies rose in a single swarm and he swatted them away. Marco would be furious if he’d lost a sheep. The carcass was about the size of a ewe but the head was wrong. This creature had horns and patches of hair, not wool. The buzzards had plucked out its eyes.
It looked like a goat, judging by the shape of its horns. Its throat had been slit and a hind haunch removed. The blood pattern suggested it had been butchered on the spot. Jake assumed this was the work of the goat-ripper that Audra had mentioned.
The animal did not look diseased. He saw no infected patches of skin. He picked up a stick and examined the slit-open belly—a clean cut with a sharp knife. A Gordian knot of blue-white gut leaked from the cut. The liver had been removed. What kind of school prank could this be? No one paid a bounty on goat livers.
It was an ugly piece of work, a waste of meat and a waste of life. If a man needed to kill, then he ate what he killed, properly butchered, barbecued, and shared with the tribe or family. The hunter ate last. And dead goats in the road were bad advertising for a farmstead fresh-dairy product. If the flies alone followed him home, Sandy would have fits.
Jake pulled his cell phone from his pocket and called 911. The operator connected him to animal control. He gave his name and location and said he’d wait for a control officer to collect the carcass. He walked around the site for clues. The side of the road was too dry for tire tracks. He threw rocks at buzzards until they flew away. The animal-control truck arrived within 20 minutes. He remembered the officer inside the county vehicle: Tim Stoddard. Tim and Jake had played football together a decade earlier.
“So you the guy that called this in? Or did you hit it?”
“Nope, just found it here. I’m Jake Knight. We played for Cardinal back in the day.” Tim pulled forward and parked by the carcass. He climbed out of his truck and examined the front of Jake’s truck, looking for signs of a collision. Finding none, he walked toward Jake and they shook hands.
“Just checking, ya know,” Tim mumbled. He studied Jake. “Sure I remember you, Jake Knight. You’re back from the ‘stans and doing sheep. Is this one of yours?”
“No. The buzzards spotted it for me. It’s a goat. Maybe dumped here.”
Tim stooped down to examine the carcass. He slipped his hands into thick black rubber gloves and used the same stick to poke into the open belly cavity. “Yep, goat. Someone opened it up and took the liver.”
“Audra at the service station said you’ve had others.”
“This makes number six. Dang if I can make it out. It started last month. One a week for a while and three by Audra’s fence. Whoever’s doing it, we call him the goat-ripper.”
Tim stood, walked to his truck and returned with a canvas tarp. “Help me wrap it up and load it in?” Together they chased away the flies and wrapped the canvas around the carcass. “Poison control wants to see this. They think maybe it’s a poisoned well. The stupids shoulda just buried it. Six dead is no accident. And no reason to take the liver unless you’re doing a tox screen.”
“What the hell?”
“Beats me. I just do removals and write a collection report. The sheriff knows about it. It’s hard to solve unless you see someone dumping.”
“All six missing their livers?”
“Not the first one but after that yes. We found arsenic. Maybe from a poisoned well. Hard to tell.”
“Never heard of arsenic in wells out here. This section of valley is great for dairy. Good grass and good water. Who’d poison a well? If you want to build McMansions you don’t piss in the water.”
Tim removed his gloves and scratched his head. “Frick if I know. The odd kill is showing up about one a week. If it was a poisoned well, we’d see an entire herd dead.” He paused. “The Goat-Ripper isn’t worried about us finding the carcasses. Now the County is involved. If it was me, I’d bury ‘em or burn ‘em.”
Jake and Tim chatted about old times. They swapped phone numbers and agreed to have a beer at Sonya’s Tavern, a spot Jake remembered. Tim said he’d let Jake know when he had more information. Jake was local; he had a vested interest as a dairy man. Cardinal forever. Jake spent ten minutes raking dirt over the pool of blood by the road. It didn’t cover his anger.
He reviewed what he knew about the market for goats in Sonoma. They were little weed-eaters to him. A live goat might cost $20.00. Years back, he’d watched Jerry butcher a goat for barbecue. Done right, it was good eating. A farmer might buy a few goats and fatten them all summer to be butchered in the fall. A quality dairy sheep, however, could cost $250. That was not throw-away money.
As land manager, he felt responsible for protecting Marco’s sheep. Audra had warned him. Now he had proof of a problem down to the offal on the road.
He turned right at the next dirt road. He had a big job today: cleaning a spring and fencing it off. He had rolls of portable fencing in the back of the truck.
He stopped at the gate on the dirt track that led to the spring. He’d cut the rusted chain earlier and replaced it with a new combination lock
Jake knew just where to go. The south face of the hill ended in a rocky cliff with a 15-foot drop. The spring flowed out of the bottom of the rock face and fed into a muddy pool the size of a shallow swimming pool. Roaming sh
eep would be drawn to the water and the lush green grass that surrounded it. Jake wanted to keep them out of the mud to keep their teats clean.
He skirted the spring with two lines of fencing, and waded into the pool to carve a drainage channel. He sweated through his work shirt. The labor took his mind off the dead goat. When finished, he ran a hand through his shaggy brown hair. It hung over his collar now, the longest it’d been in five years. He guessed a drunk kid on a dirt buggy could knock the fence down but he’d probably get stuck in the mud. Marco said the sheep would respect a fence.
This meadow would thrive until the rainy season, Jake knew. He dropped his shovel, flopped down onto his back and stretched out in the tall grass. He plucked a shoot of straw and chewed it. Accompanied by the buzz of a few bees, he stared into the cloudless pale-blue sky. Not a buzzard in sight. He felt better. He soaked up the moment of earth, soil and sunlight. He closed his eyes and heard himself say to no one in particular, “Thank you.” Then he laughed. He was a long way from the ‘stans and beginning to stand taller.
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CHAPTER SIX
Wild Bill pulled his van into the gravel parking lot of the tavern. He had completed a delivery of twenty cases of Dr. Semper’s wine to a warehouse in the City. He hated driving in that hell-hole of weirdness. Too many one-way streets and the parking meters ate coins like a starving hobo. The only upside: occasionally he found a fresh dead cat.
He didn’t have much cash today, but he looked for a big-rig and a nice pair of red lips anyway. Nothing. Maybe it wasn’t his kind of truck stop but he felt a headache coming on and maybe with a heavy meal, the headache wouldn’t hammer so much behind his eyes.
Half a dozen farm workers sat on stools at the bar and watched the big panel TV. He sat at the bar as far from the TV as possible. The noise and excitement irritated him. It looked like a baseball game. He’d never understood those rules. He liked seeing the camera pan over women in the stands. Some wore weird orange wigs.
A sweet-looking young woman worked behind the bar. She said, “Hey.”
On closer inspection, she had an exotic row of tattoos across her shoulder and upper arm that ran down to her elbow. She wore a sleeveless T-shirt and a bra—too bad. No lipstick. Nothing for him here. She handed him a menu. “Beer? IPA? Sierra Nevada?”
Wild Bill did not take the menu. He did not want to look into her eyes. Instead, he focused on a row of bottles across the back bar. “Okay. A Sierra beer. Double cheeseburger. Extra pickles, really a lot. Extra barbecue sauce. And extra fries.”
The tattooed lady nodded, repeating his order, and smiled. Bill turned his head sideways and peered at her from under his dark eyebrows. She had a pretty mouth. He watched her walk toward the kitchen with his order. Bill missed his red lips and sipped the foam off his pint of beer. He was raging hungry.
Bill finished his pint of beer and the tattooed lady returned with his burger. She set the steaming plate in front of him. The scent of cooked meat began to ease his headache slightly. The bar maid set salt and pepper, a fork and several paper napkins next to his plate. “Ready for another Sierra?”
“Okay.” Bill grunted and did not lift his eyes from the plate.
“I’ll get that. Enjoy your meal.” She drifted toward the other end of the bar to serve the guys watching the ball game. Bill decided to eat all the burger and then eat all the fries. The volume ratcheted up and banged into his head. He tried hard to ignore it.
He scooped up the burger and crammed a big bite into his mouth. His eyes rolled upward as he bit down, again savoring the sensation of fresh cooked meat. In three giant bites he finished half the burger.
The tattooed woman returned with his pint. She set it down on a Sonya’s Tavern, Circa 1913, Sonoma oval coaster. He noticed the beads of sweat on the chilled glass and felt himself cool off as he chewed. Maybe he could beat this damned headache. He chewed faster and licked barbecue sauce off his lips.
The bar maid watched him eat. She made a sound in her throat and handed him a napkin. He looked at her hand. She had pretty turquoise finger nails. He wanted her to put down the napkin and go away. She stood there and watched him chew. He swallowed his massive bite of burger. Damn, he had to put his burger down and take the napkin. This bar lady was a bitch.
Without looking at her, he took the napkin and wiped at his mouth. He wiped and wiped until she turned and went away. As soon as she moved, Bill dropped the soiled napkin and crammed that burger back to his mouth.
Okay. A smaller bite this time. He finished the burger in six more bites and tackled the crispy fries. He fed fries into his mouth with both hands and ran his mouth like a buzz saw.
With the plate empty, Bill paused and burped and gulped down half of his beer. He took a napkin from the bar and wiped his mouth several times. The bar maid gave him a kind eye, smiling. Bill looked away but kept watching her under his eyebrows. He began shaking his legs on the bar stool and felt the last of his headache crawl back into a dark recess.
He waved at the bar lady for another beer. She brought it but did not speak. She went back to watching the ball game at the other end of the bar. Bill didn’t mind; he preferred to be left alone. Bill ordered another pint of Sierra. All the guys at the other end of the bar roared. Their team had won the game. Someone bought him a free shot of tequila and another shot. So Wild Bill ordered a round of tequila for the guys and another round. Two guys came over to thank him and pounded on his back and bought more tequila. They called him friend, slobbering in his face. He didn’t mind a little spit. He had adiosed his headache and began motor-mouthing with his new comrades. Someone ordered more shots.
With the game over, soon the guys left the tavern. The bitch behind the bar put Bill’s tab in an empty glass and slid it toward him. He pointed to his empty beer glass and snapped his fingers. She shook her head. Bill was too drunk to care. He squinted at her, cocked his head to the side, and struggled to read the amount on the slip of white paper. “What?” he yelled.
The tattooed lady walked toward him and looked into his bloodshot eyes. “Time to pay up and head home, cowboy.” But she smiled and did not try to shame him. Lucky for her, too. She acted like she had bounced a few drunks before.
He squinted at his tab. Oh hell, he needed $56.00 and he only had $10.00. He looked down the bar; the other drunks had already left, though the bar was still full. He shook his head, wanting fresh air. Damn those city prices for gas and the bridge toll. How the hell was he going to get out of this hole? He had no credit cards.
He waved the bar maid over. “So… I drank too much. You let me.” She studied him. “Okay, what say I pay you in wine? I drive deliveries… Sonoma’s finest” Bill slurred the words. He wanted to sell the offer like Dr. Semper did. He tried a crooked grin. ‘Sonoma’s finest’ was what Dr. Semper said. He struggled to get his tongue engaged.
“I got a case in my van outside. I got it today, for me. I bought it,” he lied. “You can have it and we’re square?” Bill did not look at her. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. He waited for the bar lady to decide. If she refused, he’d just run out the door.
He hated waiting. Then he had a flash.
“I came in for a burger. I only got ten bucks. But the wine is good. It cost me sixty. You come out ahead.” He ran out of words.
The tattooed lady studied him. He was lean and muscled with an ugly broken nose and dents in his skull covered by greasy black hair. He needed a shave and a shower but she’d seen worse. Weirdness had a way of rolling into her tavern. At $4.66 a bottle, this was not a bad barter and she’d be helping the guy out. Her mother had done trade-outs for food and beverage for years. “Okay, cowboy, just this once. Bring it in.” She walked away with Wild Bill’s bar tab.
Frickin’ deal, Will Bill grinned; he had skated again. He tumbled off the stool and rolled toward the door. Outside, he paused to gulp fresh air and clear his head. He had a good buzz going. He steadied himself, walked to the van, unlocked th
e rear door and shouldered a case of Fransec.
It was a freebie for him. Dr. Semper gave him free wine. More than once, Wild Bill had drunk an entire case over a long, boring weekend at his campsite.
He marched the case to the rear door of the bar, let himself in, and placed the case on the stainless steel counter top. Two of the cooks watched him and nodded. Bill stood there until the tattooed lady came in, opened the case, examined a bottle in the light, counted the bottles and nodded her head. “Just this once, cowboy. Don’t make a habit of drinking here and paying this way.”
All in a night, he thought. His head was throbbing a little, but just a little. He was in the parking lot when something red caught his eye. A gal was putting red lipstick on her mouth in the light of her visor mirror. Wild Bill licked his lips. He tapped his knuckles on her side window.
The chubby young woman inside rolled down her window and smiled, “Yes?”
“I’ll give you money. You got a pretty mouth.” Bill leered at her and spoke in his nicest voice. He placed his left hand on the window frame so she could not raise the window on him and shut him out. With the other hand he began to open her side door.
Vanessa froze; nothing this weird had ever happened to her before. She had stopped for a drink and a chat and maybe brag about her new job in the wine industry to her friend inside who ran the bar for her mother. Now this dirty, scarred hand with black, broken fingernails rested on the open window of her car.
She felt herself begin to blush. A sudden urge to pee came on. The dirty man had her door open and was waving a ten in her face. He reached in and began stroking the top of her head. She shivered and cringed and squeezed her eyes shut, too scared to shout.
The bright high-beam headlights of the red rust bucket saved her. Neither she nor Wild Bill expected the flood of light than engulfed and temporarily blinded them. They heard the rumble of a farm engine behind the bright lights and felt the vehicle roll toward them as it crunched the gravel.